. . . step out from behind the curtain, after such a long absence?
Of all the events that might have caused me to scurry back to the laptop, the one that I would not have predicted was the reappearance of someone else - Kate Bush, to be precise.
The Dear Daughter had tried to get tickets for Kate's re-emergence. I tried to get tickets. No joy; sold out in just 15 minutes. We had to settle for the Guardian live-tweeting throughout the opening night and watching old video clips on YouTube.
And then, a couple of days ago, the DD sent me a link to an eBay page, where someone was selling a poster advertising Kate's first tour in 1979.
'Remember this?' said the DD.
'Would you like it for your birthday?' I asked, in a moment of madness.
'I've already got it,' she replied. And so she had. It had once adorned a wall of her bedroom.
'I think I've got one of these too.' Attached was a copy of a 1978 Christmas card, courtesy of the Kate Bush Fan Club.
In the 1970s, Kate was a significant presence in our house; well, her voice was, along with various Kate-related stuff. The DD was a HUGE fan; I was pretty much of a fan too. So we could not possibly miss going to see Kate on that first tour and we did see her - at the London Palladium. No frustrating hours spent endlessly reloading internet pages in those days; it was all very civilised: a phone call or a trip to the box office. And affordable tickets.
We loved every minute and, 35 years later, I was amazed at just how much I could remember of that concert. It was one of the high points of a year during which other things in our world were beginning to unravel.
'I think I've still got my ticket,' said the DD. 'I just have to find my Kate Bush memorabilia . . .'
I spent the rest of the day playing four of Kate's early albums (vinyl, of course). They belong to the DD but live here because I am the only member of the family who still possesses an ancient hifi with a turntable, so that I can play my substantial and much-cherished collection of LPs and 45s, not to mention EPs. I was transported back to our flat in Marylebone, still young(ish) at 31 - which seems very young when one is nearer 70 than 60 - and the mother of a daughter on the cusp of her teenage years. As Sandy Denny once sang, 'Who knows where the time goes?'
But I couldn't find Hounds of Love. I searched everywhere. I could see the cover. I emailed the DD.
'I think I had it on cassette,' she answered. 'What year was it?'
'Oh yes, I already had a Walkman by then.'
Ah, the refuse heap of technology.
But the disappointment of not bagging any tickets this time round in no way detracts from the wonder of being there the first time and seeing my daughter's face light up when Kate appeared. It was, almost, unbelievable . . .
There was one final email from the DD, normally a very private woman. 'You can blog about this, if you like.' So I did.