It was perpetual summer, richly fragrant with potent mary jane and pungent patchouli.
I was sixteen.
She was two years older – so far out of my league that she should never have even noticed me. And yet somehow I was there, amazed at my good fortune, hopelessly in love with her, and in complete awe of her friends. They were ultra hip, achingly cool and comfortably rich.
Whereas I owned the Levi’s I stood up in, a couple of faded shirts, a borrowed guitar, and my notebook of spidery poems.
There was a gentle candle-lit dinner party in one of daddy’s spare houses. The room was beamed and flagged and full of style and music. I was a pretty boy – an amusing novelty to wear like a trinket on her arm. Although I never realised that at the time.
The conversation turned to views of what a perfect…