‘Did you know that Oscar Wilde might never have even said those famous words about being yourself?’ I later hear my father say to my mother, who has thankfully changed her wine to water, having realized how much the Merlot was messing with her lipstick.

‘Where on earth do you find these facts, Paddy?’ Mam replies, rolling her eyes. ‘You must have more time on your hands than I think you do.’

‘The one about how it’s good to be yourself since everyone else is already taken,’ Dad tells her. ‘Turns out he might never have even said that at all, you know! See, I’m not all just about manure and silage. I do have a brain. Now, put that in your pipe and smoke it!’

I ignore the banter between my parents, instead choosing to think of the famous quote and how much it always resonates with me. Every time I look out onto that statue I question if I’m really being myself, or if I’m putting on a mask and being an easier version of myself – a version that my parents love, my brother loves, that Jack loves, but that I sometimes don’t even recognize. It’s a strange feeling and one I mostly try to ignore when it creeps up on me. I keep telling myself it won’t last forever.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ I hear Martin announce on Jack’s instruction, with the polite tap of a glass. He has put so much effort into this and he catches my eye, letting me know that this is the big moment. ‘We’ve a very special treat in store for you now, but mostly for the bride-to-be.’

The noise in the room drops to a hush and I feel all eyes and smiles on me before attention shifts back to Martin and Matthew who sit on the sofa, each with guitars on their laps. Even though I knew this was coming, I’m so not prepared.

‘Please put your hands together for Matthew Taylor, former lead singer in the band once tipped to be even bigger than Bono’s ego, Dublin’s finest, Déjà Vu!’ says Martin, as proud as a peacock of my brother’s ‘semi-famous’ status.

A sea of ‘wows’ filters through our audience, with excited whispers and stories quickly circulating as to how they remember the band on the local circuit when, according to Hot Press magazine, they were destined to be ‘the most exciting Irish export since Guinness’. The media had been crawling over them at the time, with Matthew’s face almost becoming recognizable on the streets amongst women of a certain age.

‘No way! I can’t believe your brother was the lead singer of Déjà Vu!’ says Caroline into my ear. ‘Don’t tell my husband, but I’d have eloped with their drummer in a heartbeat, given the chance! He was something else!’