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.

In a daze, I drifted through lessons and through the everyday routines of life. At home, we didn’t really talk about what had happened and didn’t express our feelings. There was no therapy or counselling, no hint of understanding.

My grandmother had a way with words that whenever she said your name, it would sound like music. It was something I really adored about her.

When my dad was 18 he walked past the army recruitment office in Wakefield and decided that was the way to avoid a life ‘down’t pit’ at Sharlston.  A young man with optimism and a hope that his life might be different.

… this wonderful song always reminded Mum of my Dad when he was working and after he passed away.

In those heady early days of being together, Ringo Starr’s ‘You’re Sixteen’ became our song. We were young and in love, he thought I was beautiful, he was the guy for me, and we were everything to each other.

My piece of music came to me a few months after Jenny died. It was given to me by a rockstar called Kevin, the frontman for a band called the Biscuit Brothers, who are world famous in Woodbridge, Suffolk.

He was a dairy farmer and loved his cows and before it was fashionable he played the radio whilst milking.