ANDY: I would wait for hours after school, standing on Woolworths' steps, for Nan to come out of the post office where she worked. I was always getting beaten up by a gang of boys, but I wouldn't tell her. I just wanted to go home with her and be safe.

She was my sanctuary then, but she's so elderly now it's my turn to make her safe. I've noticed she's getting quite fragile, she can't see any more and she has trouble getting up the stairs. I can't imagine how I'm going to feel when she goes.

Nan lost her mum when she was 14, so being a mum has been very important to her. It's everything you need to know about her, really. The image I carry in my head is of Nan standing in her kitchen, cooking the tea, chatting away. Nothing fazed her. There was total acceptance of who I was. She never judged and she was never shocked by anything I did.

My mum had a baby a year for six years. She seemed to keep on disappearing and coming through the back gate, looking gorgeous, with a new baby in her arms. She grew all her own vegetables, and I'm sure that's what kept us going - there couldn't have been much money. A treat was one packet of Angel Delight between the six of us. We'd have Christmas presents on rotation - once every six years you'd get a big present.

I lived in a fantasy world most of the time, making an old tea chest into a witch's cauldron, and fish and chips out of pegs and newspaper. I was always really proud of my voice and I still am. I just think it's a nice thing to have, and it gives me great comfort. I'd lie in bed at night singing my head off, feeling the vibrations through the blankets. Next door, my four sisters were sharing one bed and they'd all be shouting: 'Andy, shut up!'

I was quite a selfish child. I'd steal packets of chocolate biscuits, which I knew were to be kept as a treat, and not own up. Then I'd go running off to my nan. I think I wanted attention. I was also quite effeminate. My mum and my sister Diane were tough, and I couldn't stick up for myself. Even at home, I was too scared. To be honest, I didn't really fit in anywhere. I got into the grammar school, which was very posh, but we couldn't afford the uniform, so where the others had wool blazers, I had a horrible shiny nylon one. I was also in trouble because I fancied the boys rather than the girls. Nan's house was the only place where I felt totally comfortable.

Nan was my rock and I suspect that I was her favourite, because she let me do anything I wanted. When I was little that meant filling up the sink with water and playing with the knives and forks. Later, it was playing my music all the time. She'd buy me sweets and give me money. My parents used to complain she spoilt me. I don't think they were that bothered, though; they were still very young themselves and pretty carefree. Mum and Dad were very sociable and glamorous. While Nan baby-sat, they'd get dressed up to the nines and go off and play in darts tournaments in working men's clubs. Afterwards, Mum would come back with carrier bags of sausage rolls and chicken.

Nan not only brought up all her own children and looked after us, but she also worked way past retirement age, giving every penny she earned to my grandad, who put it on the horses. She washed and cleaned and cooked every night for whoever was in the house, and I don't remember her ever complaining.

As I got older I got to know her more as a person. She used to talk about what life was like when she was a little girl and I'd tell her all my problems. I didn't talk to her about sexual things - she wouldn't have liked that - but I knew anything I did was cool by Nan. My parents pretended to be okay about it, but it probably took about 10 years for them to totally accept that I was gay.

I don't see Nan as much as I used to, and I really miss her. It's 20 years since I left home and my connection with the place gets weaker and weaker. Moving down to London was like walking into a different life, and I still feel I cross two worlds. It's as though I'm stepping into a vacuum when I go home. I can't stay too long or I feel as though I'm suffocating.

When I first made some money I made the big mistake of buying my parents a house. My accountant said it wasn't a very good idea - they'd just saved up £1,000 to get their first mortgage, then I came along and said: 'Here's a house.' I wanted to help, but it took their pride away. I think it led to my mum drinking. Nobody in our family has ever had anything, not ever, and they didn't know what to say. But with my nan, everything is simple. She's never questioned me. She's just trusted me to do the right thing, and mostly I think I have.

My family really didn't know about my life when Erasure was at its height. We were doing so many drugs, all kinds of excesses, and I kept it separate from them. The thing I'm most proud of is my relationship with Paul. I was 21 when we met and he was 36, so my parents thought he'd cradle-snatched me. Nan loves him unconditionally. She always asks about him, while for a long time everyone else pretended he wasn't there. Paul is so precious. He reminds me of my nan, actually. There's no question in my mind: we're together for ever. Like Nan, he's looked after me and he's taught me about love.