It is a cloudy Saturday evening in Edinburgh in early June and I am in a rugby stadium surrounded by young women who are wearing glitter and homemade friendship bracelets. Pink stetsons and shiny bodysuits abound, middle-aged men in TK Maxx less so. This is not my tribe – I am here with my 12-year-old daughter, Laila, to see Taylor Swift in concert. She has been looking forward to this night for months, having seen the Eras tour countless times online. Every night since the tour began, Laila would watch live streams, but nothing could have prepared her for the moment Swift appears on stage and the stadium screams along to Cruel Summer. Laila sings the lyrics with passion and delight. I can tell by her expression that today is the greatest day of her life.
Trying to recall a time when Laila was not a Swiftie is like trying to remember a time before I had children. It must have existed, but it is hard to believe. It feels like Taylor has been an unofficial part of our family for years. She pops up in almost every conversation with my daughter, particularly in recent weeks, albeit in sombre tones, following the tragic events in Southport, with the death of three children, all Swift fans, and the riots that followed – such a far cry from the inclusiveness and joy Taylor Swift embodies.
