Both Mum and Dad love music. Dad likes to fluff around on the piano, and spent most of his teenage years surrounded by synths, drum-machines and sequencers, and then in Luxembourg (where he met Mum) he became a DJ, playing some music called “Trance”; mum played the tuba and balalajka (I don’t even want to start thinking about that combination), and has a broad taste in music, as well as very musical parents (unlike Dad’s, who have problems knowing the difference between the piano and pea-soup).

So it isn’t surprising that I’m subjected to an overwhelming amount of music. I can recognise a number of instruments within individual songs, which seems to impress Mum and Dad, though, if truth be told, that isn’t a difficult task: going to the toilet on the toilet sends them into raptures (and earns me a multi-coloured dragonfly sticker to put on my cupboard).

Dad has been teaching me to descry the guitar sound in one of his favourite songs from a band known as Depeche Mode. The song is from their latest CD, and is called Precious, and he thinks it’s their best release for quite some time. I like it too, but I don’t know whether it’s because I actually like the track, because Dad likes it (and I get caught up in his euphoria), or whether it’s because I’m guarenteed a dance in his arms whenever it’s played.

I love, of course, Dr Bombay and Dr MacDoo, and Dad’s trance stuff (which I call “boom, boom, boom”) is both relaxing ( I got to hear a fair bit when I was inside Mum’s tummy) and great fun (I get to dance with both Mum and Dad).

I know they are going to continue this musical education, but there seems to be a ban on someone who I believe to be “Bruce Springsteen”, whoever the fuck he is.