I’d taken violin lessons when I was at primary school. I’d passed the musical ear test you had to take to be allowed to sign up and my parents had bought me a violin.

I sucked at it!

The sound I made was painful and I hated it. At every available opportunity I held it like a guitar and played Rolling Stones songs on it.

When I moved on to secondary school I gave it up and thanks to encouragement from a friend I decided I’d join the brass band.

Now, they could have given me a trombone (never trust anyone whose instrument changes shape while they play it) or worse, a tuba; but they gave me a cornet, an aging and slightly battered Besson in a black hard case with a red velvet lining.

Once I’d been shown the basics, I discovered I could instantly get a pleasing sound out of it, and the love affair began.

There was something about the way it looked. Those curves and swells, the way it felt in my hands - sensuous and willing. The soft red lining of the case was like a deep, sumptuous bed. And the smell, oh my God the smell. A heady mixture of aging, slightly musty velvet, valve oil and Brasso. I was hooked. I played it at school, I played it at home. Whenever any relatives came around, I played it to them, I took it back to my old primary school teacher and played it to him, I went around to friends’ houses and stood outside the (firmly locked, bolted and barred) back doors and played it to them. When I wasn’t playing it, I was taking it apart and cleaning it, gently applying oil and grease to lubricate it, softly buffing and polishing the silver plate until it gleamed and sparkled. Sometimes I just sat and stared at it.

Over the subsequent six decades I’ve moved on to better and more expensive horns (nothing comes close to either of my Taylor trumpets I can assure you). I’ve added numerous trumpets, flugel horns and piccolo trumpets to my collection, played on TV, at incredible venues all around the world and featured on countless records, but I’ll never forget my first true love.