“My mother was a rockstar. None of that commercial bullshit they have these days, either. Honest-to-goodness, fuck-the-man punk rock. Chances are you’ve heard her play. Maybe the more vinylly-obsessive of you would even recognise the name. But I’m not going to tell you her name. I only mention her by way of showing that I had an education.”

“My father is an engineer. I don’t know what he does to put food on the table – I don’t have ‘clearance’ for that – but while he’s at home he tinkers. And you can bet I got an education there, too.”

“At a certain age it becomes cool to not like what your parents like, but mine weren’t just passionate, they were obsessive, and that kind of thing rubs off. Besides, rebelling against punk rock is just stupid.”

“Mom left eight years ago, leaving Dad with a 10-year-old girl to raise and a bemused expression on his face. It’s not like she was a bad mother. She was a great mother. I guess the sacred institution of marriage just doesn’t gel with punk sensibilities. And it’s not like she would have just never called again, only her plane went down on the way back from some ‘Free Tibet’ gig, and the afterlife doesn’t have visitation. So that leaves me and Dad. Dad and I. He’s a bit of a flake, and hardly the best-equipped single parent of a teenage daughter, but Mom’s punk streak saw me through the worst of the horror that is highschool. Maybe you’d say it was Mom’s cynicism. Fuck you. Besides, my Dad is my Dad, and that’s always been enough for me.”