When Will and I arrive at Kate’s house in East Dulwich, her eyes are puffy from crying. I’ve become quick to gage the situation with Kate ever since the death of her brother six months ago. My face tightens slightly; I try and become receptive while still giving her space to breathe. She’s told me about the people who offer their commiserations with a thick film of pity across their eyes. She’s fine, she says, just some bad news about her DJ gig at a bar in Soho where she plays every Thursday. It isn’t as busy as it needs to be and they’ve pulled the plug. It wouldn’t be so bad – but for the loss of money. Like almost everyone I know, Kate has two jobs. She works as a DJ in the evenings - a midnight world where dance is language - and as a teacher at a Further Education School in the days; helping UK’s new citizens to learn the lingo. The second is a perfectly good, well paid job. But Kate wants to be a DJ. She works the minimum hours she can as a teacher. After dinner she asks us, is it wrong to want something? Not wrong, I say, just harder. We talk about her becoming a full time teacher. She will earn much more money than she’s ever made before, but will she lose her dream? Never, I tell her confidently. Her smile cuts through the pomp & authority in my voice, and stays with me the whole journey home.