The opening bars of a DNCE song, and all of a sudden, I'm thirteen, and I am in the small, grey Mini Cooper of my childhood summers with my grandmother, still alive. For once, her excitable poodle mix – and my self-proclaimed best friend – Hendrix is not next to me in the back of the car. Instead, my grandmother, my parents, and I are all dressed in black from head-to-toe as we head towards the funeral of my grandfather, and I am trying to pretend like this is not the first death I have experienced.

I'll keep on hoping, sings DNCE. Cake by the ocean.

I'm thirteen, and I don't know the word euphemism yet. Neither, as it seems, does my grandmother, as she laughs and says, Your grandfather loved cake and the seaside. It's almost as if the radio knew where we were heading.

It's the only time I'll laugh all evening, but it makes me smile, even now, one radio host bringing a car full of sad people a minute of happiness by playing – as I would only realise much later, I've never been much good at recognising euphemisms, even in adulthood – a song about having sex on the beach. A moment of absurdity. A real-life fantasy.