Last week marked 27 years since Michael Hutchence died. He was 37. The 22nd of November holds its place for me as the day when things changed. When someone who seemed bigger than life, almost super human, lost his. It was tragic and destabilising. It was unbelievable. We retold his story over and over, always hoping for a different ending. But no matter how many times we told it, it ended the same. He was gone. And we missed the clues, that perhaps things weren’t shiny and bright. We missed the pain.