In Adelaide last month, I jumped up on stage to sing an encore with The Grates. The singer, flustered and radiant, fluffed her intro - and in desperation yelled, “Does anyone in Adelaide know who Everett True is?” To my astonishment, about a dozen people cheered. Who are these strange souls?

In Melbourne, I exchanged anedcdotes about Angus from the ‘dirty, stinking’ Liars with the dapper singer of The Devastations. Conrad’s shirt was open to the third button, but he was charming. I booked myself a support slot with his band in Northcote but sadly had to cancel when the news of my dad filtered through.

Back in England - Chelmsford, to be precise - I felt proud, and extremely humble, when a piece of music that I’d written with Verity Susman a few weeks earlier was played as the coffin departed behind the crematorium’s curtain.