As a teen punk with a Whitney-obsessed mum, belting out the greatest hits in the car converted me to her delicious melodrama – and comforted me in a time of grief
In her early 20s, my mum’s reputation as a Whitney Houston fan – and an unstoppable dancer – preceded her. It was the mid-80s, and she was a newly qualified physiotherapist living in Acton. After work, her khaki-coloured Fiat 127 became a karaoke spot for her friends, hosting warbled singalongs, windows rolled down, to the vocalist’s early classics.
I remember her belting out Whitney (often with wildly incorrect lyrics) around our house growing up. Mum’s enthusiastic singing was a permanent fixture, like the kitchen table. Even now, when I return to the house I grew up in, I still hear her cackling away and butchering the high notes of I Will Always Love You.
Related: ‘Our friendship was intimate on all levels’: Robyn Crawford on her love for Whitney Houston