I will be the pattern of all patience; I will say nothing.

My dad went through his full blown audiophile phase in the early eighties, when I guess he could afford a little indulgence. I’d wake up on weekend mornings to a variety of music, depending on his mood – anything from Pavoratti to South Pacific to ABBA – blaring from downstairs.

When I got downstairs, the windows and the sliding door would be open, my dad would either be in the garden trimming his bouganvillea or if I was late, he’d already be taking his break – leaning back on his canvas director’s chair, eyes closed, feet on a coffee table, facing his speakers.

As I grew a little older, I got to put the vinyls onto the record player and set the needle to play. Soon after I got to pick what I wanted to listen to, and on weekdays when he was out working (and after I learnt not to randomly set the knobs all the way up) I got to listen to what I wanted on my own. By then we’d moved on to CDs and it was easier.

All that just to tell you that after so many years, I’m still amazed at the stuff Billy Joel writes. The earlier stuff, not the whole River of Dreams, We Didn’t Start the Fire rubbish. And that I wish I wrote like Billy Joel.

And that the other day I thought I saw Neil Gaiman on the overhead bridge connecting People’s Park to Chinatown Point. But it wasn’t.