Every so often, my prankster friend Barney says that he gets hit, by what he euphemistically calls ‘The Invasion’. His wife’s cousin comes to visit, bringing her brood of chicks along, six children aged between 10 and 18.

Barney is on his second large cup of Campos and swears he’s going to order a third, to steady his nerves now that the, “jing bang lot of them have gone,” to use his words. “Ever tried being taken prisoner in your own home, Kev?” he asks.

“Yes,” I reply, “every time I open up a blank page to write it’s like gazing upon the face of tyranny from which there’s no escape except to place some offerings, some hopefully useful words, on the page, give the blankness a pattern.”

He looks at me a bit tetchily, shakes his head and says: “That was a rhetorical question, Kev. In any case, I was meaning it in the physical sense.”

It’s evident that I have inadvertently taken a little of the shine off what Barney’s been building up to, so I apologise and say: “Yes, carry on. There’s nothing remotely physical about writing. It’s all in the head.”

The sarcasm is completely ignored, if it’s spotted in the first place. When Barney wants the spotlight, he’ll have it at all costs, nothing as mundane as the ordeal of the everyday writer is going to derail his attempts.

Anyhow, apparently Mrs Barney lays out a very discreet domestic rule — that, if disobeyed, could have serious consequences after the visitors have left. The rule being that Barney refrain from playing his music in the sitting room loud — a habit he’s been fixated in since the era of the Glorious Seventies when he himself was a newlywed and Grateful Dead’s Scarlet Begonias, Deep Purple’s Highway Star and Led Zeppelin’s Rock & Roll, had their neighbours, the demure pacifist spinsters Smith & Smith, dashing off to Woolworths in search of ear plugs.

“You mustn’t impose your musical taste on everyone else, Barney.” That’s what Mrs Barney said the other day, in a voice that was gentle but underlined with instruction. Mrs Barney was too timid in the Seventies to issue such orders. One can tell though that over the years, she has risen in rank from humble deckhand to captain of the ship while Barney through some process of inverse proportionality has floundered in the other direction.

“Truth is, I’ve become a pacifist. I just let the fat lady sing,” he’d like to say by way of humorous explanation, whenever he is teased by our mutual teacher friend, Ryan.

Anyhow, in true spirit of conciliation, Barney, according to him, locked away his collectible vinyl records of Grand Funk Railroad, Rainbow, White Snake and Judas Priest, even Osibisa. These were substituted with three J’s – Joan Baez, Joni Mitchell and Jewel — and a handful of others soft on the ears and inclined to lull one into a soporific sense, especially if reclined in a nice deep easy chair.

Which, allegedly, is what happened at some point between the start and finish of one of the tunes — Barney is reluctant to point a finger at the singer for fear of inviting retribution. “Joan Baez couldn’t care less,” I point out, “artists are aware they’ll have critics.”

Anyway, half way through his doze through a couple of folksy tunes, he felt a tap on his shoulder. The youngest soldier of ‘the invasion’ stood there. “Uncle Barney, could you change the music please?”

“Whatever happened to suffering in silence?” Barney retorted, “This music is for you children. Nice, soft, innocent.”

“Play something else, please. Grandpa plays these songs all the time.”

‘Grandpa’s music’ immediately gave way to Aerosmith and Pearl Jam. And then Mrs Barney walked in, face set and stern.

“I’ll have that third coffee, Kev, before going home,” Barney confirms. Sometimes there are pieces to be picked up after visitors come and depart.