There she sits, toes tapping, quietly mouthing the words of the songs, while he belts his way through Kiss the bride, Dancing in the dark and other assorted rock classics.

The flashing lights turn the night red, yellow, blue and green, as the young and not so young strut their stuff and work up a healthy thirst. The dama de noche perfumes the air, mixing with the smoke from cigarettes, the assorted smells of warm bodies, beer and the occasional waft of wacky baccy.

This is the enjoyable filling in the pitufo of carrying speaker stands, amplifiers, extension leads, guitars, mic stands and miscellaneous rock paraphernalia to the venue hours before the crowd arrive, and packing up the same speaker stands, mics, cables and rock detritus after they have all gone home.

Too old to be a groupie, but lacking the tattoos and piercings of the professional roadie, she is always there. Her Heath Robinson methods of attaching the lights to the speaker stands become more exotic with each passing gig. She leaps to her feet from time to time to fetch another beer to lubricate his vocal chords, or to replace the gaffer tape that fixes a cable safely out of danger above a doorway. But for the most part, she knits.

More Madame Defarge than Marianne Faithfull, in a corner, a dog curled by her feet, she knits and purls and purls and knits. The needles click, but nobody hears. They just wonder in passing at this woman, lost in her own little world, occasionally smiling at the singer, seldom losing a stitch in the semi-darkness, her lips moving in time to the music…