Being Andrea Bocelli

I had several dreams the other night. One stayed with me.

I walk into a huge hall. It is empty, but your voice fills the room. I can’t believe it – first I meet Aiden Turner and now you! You don’t see me, of course. You never will.

‘Mum,’ I say. ‘Look!’

Andrea Bocelli.

Mum follows me in. Her face falls into a frown, and she waves at him.

Without thinking, he meets her gaze and raises his hand. And then he remembers.

A fraud.

Now I see that he’s too young to be the famous singer – too young, and his hair is too short. His singing falters and he stops. A pitiful face.

My anger is replaced with disappointment; my disappointment is replaced with compassion. I walk up to him and touch his arm.

‘You have a beautiful voice,’ I say. ‘You could be great in your own right; why pretend to be someone else?’

Good question.