The power of algorithms. Inevitable. Scientific. Yet still a bit spooky. And as he lay there, the ‘elephant in the room’, ever present, of his impending death, we played the most poignant, relevant, achingly appropriate lyrics.

Gaynor's "I Will Survive" rocked the church as we filed out, and every time I hear the song now I think of him, of his friends sobbing without restraint in the aisle that day, and the loss of so much intelligence, kindness and talent.

We have/had a tabby cat, ate café snacks and romanced by candlelight

So, when I sing this song, or listen to the multitude of songs that we enjoyed together, it’s like a string connecting us through time and space. His memory is only ever a song away.

I got my first tattoo aged 55. A line of music that runs along the inside of my left arm. The things you do for your kids.

We’d stand arm in arm in a large circle around the living room, all doing our best to remember the ‘weird’ words.

The three hour drive back and forth to visit him was filled with the Mt. Hood National Forest, Warm Springs Indian Reservation, wild horses and music.

We loved to dance and spent many a night dancing in our kitchen.

That song helped me step into Alan’s shoes, to feel how much his mum meant to him—and how blessed I was to know her and be loved by her. I still get goosebumps when I hear it.

In 1984, as a 20 year old working in a local bar, I saw her. Beverley. Younger than me, breathtakingly beautiful, and everything stopped apart from my heartbeat. I instantly fell in love, the only time in my life that this really happened to me.

My dad was a man who always played by the rules, but on warm summer nights, with all the windows and doors open, he would turn it up so loud that the whole neighbourhood could hear.

The summer that followed was a blur, as all early grief tends to be. I had several songs rolling around in my brain during that time and the main one that comes to me is this one - just playing on repeat.

She was kindness held together by bones and skin. We lost her to suicide on July 15th, 2018. "This world was never meant for one as beautiful as you."

Last night I listened to Gareth Malone conducting the Messiah. He inspired people who had never sung the Oratorio but what an inspiration he was!

My husband would travel in his little pale blue mini car from Saxmundham to Clacton in Essex most weekends to see me. We loved pop music and would sit in his mini car on the cliff top at Frinton On Sea listening to Radio Caroline which was moored nearby.

I’ve been buying vinyl for my son since before his birth, writing Post-it notes for each one explaining why it matters. ‘Ghosteen’ is in that pile now. Maybe one day, when he’s older, we’ll listen to it together. And in that moment, three generations will be there, held together by music.

Our PlayStations were practically extensions of ourselves, where Aaron didn't have muscular dystrophy and I wasn't a type 1 diabetic. They allowed us to connect with each other to share and experience moments with our huge friend group.

Whenever George is on the radio I know she is with me and I play it loud and sing or even dance.

I remember when Jim was dying in the 90’s and Gram asked if she should go to London. And I said absolutely. She did and spent time with him and then he passed the day after she left to return back to NY.

Growing up far from my birthplace, I believed I would eventually lose my connection to Croatia and the roots my family has there. Only in recent years did I realise how wrong I was.