At Wembley Arena last night, the incomparable Billy Bragg and the frankly thrilling Frank Turner performed to a packed and ecstatic crowd.  Yes, reader, I was there.   Being female, and at least twice the average age, put me definitely in the minority, but it was fantastic to be part of this welcoming, enthusiastic, egalitarian, full-throated, huge-hearted crowd celebrating our Wessex Boy’s success.

I had heard Frank Turner because there are teenagers in my house – my children – whose taste in music, tv, films and apps surrounds me.  And although I look forward to the time when the house won’t always be messy, noisy, and look as if a plague of locusts and a hurricane have just passed through, I will miss this stimulation and the chance to come into contact with a young world.  It wasn’t meant to be like this.  I thought teenagers were meant to be grunty, argumentative rebels who would be ashamed to acknowledge me – I never knew that they would encourage me to share their passions (and tweet to the world that “looks like @fthc is turning into a family outing with @AlresfordReader coming as well.  Ride the train back with me and my drink (sic) friends?”).

I never went to rock concerts or pop concerts when I was young.   I poured over reviews of plays, not music, keeping scrapbooks of RSC performances and queuing for standing tickets at Stratford.  So I acutely value and appreciate this chance now to have new experiences and be introduced to exciting new things.  It was thrilling to be at Wembley last night; but it is secretly even more thrilling when one of the children comes in (carelessly interrupting my reading of Henry James or other suitable middle-class-very-nearly-fifty-English-graduate-activity)  and says “I thought you might like this”.  Whether I like it or not doesn’t really matter;  their willingness to share is beyond price.