The Tom Jones factor I can't remember liking Tom Jones when I was a child. My mum did with a passion. I have vivid memories of her nearly swooning as she watched him on our black and white television. There he was: the man himself. Dressed in an over-frilly shirt, he gyrated and sweated in front of a female audience. Occasionally, he'd stop and mop his brow with a pair of undies thrown by an over-zealous fan. So it was that I was brought up on a diet of his songs, which meant that somewhere along the line I subconsciously absorbed the lyrics to all his hits. The consequence is I can belt out Delia with the best, sing What's New Pussycat backwards and vocalise a particularly impressive, yet slightly out-of-tune rendition of Green, Green Grass Of Home. It's not something I boasted about in my early adult years but needless to say it has come in handy at the occasional night-out at a karaoke bar. And somewhere over the years that familiarity has grown to respect and even admiration, so that today I can stand up and say loud and proud: 'It's true. I actually like Tom Jones.' The strangest thing about all this is that now as parent, I can see the same process happening in my own household: my children already subconsciously absorbing my musical tastes. It's great. It means I can play the soundtrack from Grease, the best of Adam Ant and Duran Duran, and other 1970s and 80s icons in the car and get no complaints. On the contrary, they actually request them. My two daughters, aged six and four, love What's New Pussycat while my three-year-old son knows most of the lyrics to Queen's Bohemian Rhapsody and Meat Loaf's Bat Out Of Hell - some other family member's taste not mine. We sing along and dance together, a family united in abysmal musical taste. I know this is something to cherish because as certain as musical notes rise and fall so too will my hits fall from their personal Top Tens. It won't be long before peer pressure topples my faves from the number one spot and they'll be replaced with something else, something new. Songs that I don't know - which they'll play far too loud in their rooms with the door firmly shut behind them and on me. No doubt, I'll shout at them to turn it down, complain it has no beat and bemoan, 'It's like punk never happened', to my middle-aged friends.