Dame Nellie Melba frequented Ikea. Or its equivalent, back when Burnley Street was her turf, her laugh, her woop from rooftops. Bricks were thick and chimney smoke backdrop on July nights. Sing them trash was the rule for her countless comebacks, a dying cadence, a comic turn. Home, sweet home was the photographer’s studio, the portraitist’s salon, the density of rehearsal, plunge of crimson curtains. Home was blue pencil marking moves in the score, the deft control when the tenor looked tipsy, first night aplomb, last night signings, the plaudits falling from the gods like confetti. No place like home.