One time I held hands with Amy Winehouse. I never knew her but I felt like I did. She was everybody’s cousin’s cousin, old family friend. At a gig in the back room of the Dublin Castle, I elbowed my way to the front. She’d just got engaged and was shouting about her ring, already kind of shambolic.

Amy held out her hand and I held out mine. I like your bag, she said. It was orange and plastic, a faux 1970s aviation carry-on, so probably she didn’t mean it. When she died, I was babysitting two sad little girls down the road from where she’d lived. The girls kept asking to see the house and the flowers. I didn’t take them.