I spent much of my childhood fantasising that I was adopted. While other kids were pretending to be princesses and superheroes, I was using my stuffed toys to play out a scenario where I found out there had been a mix-up at the hospital when I was born. It was the only way I could make sense of how I came to be a member of my family.

Now, at thirty years old, I no longer played with my toys, of course.

But I was still searching for an explanation for my progeny.

My parents exuded an unbridled magnetism that made people want to be around them. Mum – an artist – had recently been commissioned to paint a mural on a toilet block in a park near their place. So many people stopped by to see her while she was working on it that the council received traffic complaints.

They rigged up lights so she could paint at night, but then traffic issues became after-dark noise infringements when her friends and contacts descended for a party in the park. For Dad – a musician – a trip to the local shops to run even the most banal errand usually turned into a roaming street party, which, more often than not, involved an impromptu jam session.

Our surname – Dwyer – was used more as a descriptive noun than a proper one…

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