“On a rainy Sunday afternoon, sitting with my grandmother Beattie, I watched A Song to Remember, the film about Chopin. That was the moment I fell in love with piano music. We didn’t have much money, so lessons weren’t an option. I learned by watching and listening, picking up what I could from a cousin who did have lessons. I begged my parents for a piano and, eventually, they gave in. It was a big old upright with candle holders and cracked, yellowing keys, but to me, it was perfect.
“As a teenager, other things took over: beer, girls, and the expectation that I should find a sensible career. At sixteen, I drifted away from music. I went to university to study law, passed my exams, and realised I hated it.
“Years later, everything changed. Within six months, both my parents died. At the same time, my wife Winifred was diagnosed with terminal cancer. In the middle of all that, at the age of 48, I went back to university to study music. It wasn’t about ambition. It was about survival.
“Winifred died four years later, just before I graduated. Without the piano, I’m not sure how I would have coped. Music did what words and good intentions couldn’t, it gave me somewhere to put the grief, the anger, and the love.
“Since then, I’ve tried to make sure that children growing up with limited means, as I did, get the chance to experience music. Ability is everywhere. Opportunity isn’t.
“If there’s a point to my story, it’s simple: the arts aren’t extras. They can be a lifeline.
“And sometimes a life changes because of something as ordinary as a rainy afternoon, a film, and a grandmother who let you sit close and listen.”