I was a small child and had only a vague awareness of who Elvis was (primarily as a sweaty, oversized man with a voice that made my mother swoon). We were on a family caravan holiday on a farm in Cornwall. I was lying on the bed reading a book about a Snow Queen. My mother was cooking. The radio was on. Then the music stopped playing. Soon after, my mother stopped cooking and started crying. Elvis' death made no impression on me at the time, but my mother's crying did.