Listening to the radio with my dad. Every Sunday morning he’d tune into BFM radio while we potter round the house, listening to the kids show, then the BFM comedy show (having Stephen Wrights mono tonal one-liners and Bill Hicks whiny scathing sarcasm deeply ingrained into my psyche from a young age), and then into the BFM jazz show.

I fondly remember driving around with my dad from the city into the country at nights falling asleep to the purring of the engine, listening to him cast sleepy spells on me with stories of dinosaurs and magic vegetables. Then there was the ecstatic joy obtained from running up and down screaming my lungs out in the high ceiling, wooden floored hallway of echoes.