It’s 1999 and there I am, 7 years old lying across the round floral rug that adorns the floor of my Grandads living room. I slowly trace it’s intricate pattern with my fingertips and I nestle my cheek into the pink shag. Grandad is sat behind me quietly slurping his tea and thumbing through his newspaper. We are both enjoying listening to Roberta Flacks rendition of ‘killing me softly’. Grandads records are one of the few things on Earth that can stop my seven year old self from running all over the place. I found records fascinating and I could’ve spent an age admiring their sleeves, but I am not to touch them as a boisterous child, my hands are perpetually grubby. This is one of the most vivid memories I have from my childhood. Late 2014 I somehow convinced my Dad to let me pillage his record collection I took most of his Bowie, Rolling Stones and even convinced him to let me have The Beatles White Album. Most importantly I got to take a handful of my late Grandads records home with me including Roberta Flack.