Yesterday we took the kids to see Grace Petrie at the Greystones. She’s a firm favourite in our house – I’ve seen her a few times now and you don’t just get a singer songwriter when you go to one of her gigs. You get a heartfelt musician singing personal and political songs. You get an incredible voice and passionate musicality. You get comedy. You get the chance to sing along. You get a lot of Grace. And a fair bit of swearing.

Yesterday was a matinee show, full to the rafters, at the Greystones. The first time I ever saw her she got the audience to practice the singalong sections. This time we sang the parts without her needing to get to the instructions. That’s a firm and well deserved fan base. I’m chuffed for her.

She sang a selection of new and older music, even playing requests. During the gig our kids seemed fairly oblivious to the odd swear word, apart from when I had to explain what a bellend is but then, hey, she’s at secondary school now so hears worse on the bus.

T has been in awe of her for a while, having been writing her own songs for a few years, and let’s be honest, being presented with a role model like Grace makes us feel pretty lucky. No dressing like Little Mix in our house. We met her and of course she is just lovely and the girls are even more inspired than ever.

I have been thinking about the impact of this. I got to finally meet my favourite artist at the grand age of 34. I gibbered like an idiot. If I met Billy again I’d tell him that he not only made a huge impact on my life, but he then introduced me to the musician that would mean the same to my kids. Then I’d say something idiotic probably.

Oh and now my eldest is eyeing up a harmonica. Oh boy.