Most weekend mornings, you’ll find me ferrying one or the other of my two children to their various sporting activities. From football to cheerleading, rugby to swimming, I’m busily driving around my home city of Winchester being taxi mum. And there’s one constant. In the background, loud enough to sing along to but not so loud it becomes yet another irritating noise in an already hectic small space, BBC Radio 1 is playing. My daughter Nell, six, particularly loves belting out her favourite songs (she’s a big Lizzo fan) while busting out some moves, as Zak, nine, looks on with a withering slant that only big brothers can bestow.
And in between the tracks are the gorgeous, comforting, lilting northern tones of DJ Adele Roberts. She has a knack for making you feel like she’s talking directly to you or that she’s old pals with the people who send in shout-outs. I’m generally more of a Radio 2 gal these days, but Adele is my go-to weekend listen and, after following her on Instagram and seeing how gorgeous, funny, kind and devoted to her equally gorgeous girlfriend Kate Holderness she is, I loved her even more.
So I was knocked sideways when during one of my IG scrolls last autumn I came across a post by Adele saying she was in hospital after being diagnosed with bowel cancer. It felt like a close friend was sharing their bad news.
I watched with concern but immense awe as she updated her audience about her various treatments, which culminated in having to wear a stoma (now and forever better known as Audrey) and undergo endless rounds of chemotherapy, with s
