Hollywood Walk of Fame ( Shame)

As Catch up with a Mate month 2017 come to an end – a nostalgic post.

Picture this: a 23-year-old Austinmer girl catches a plane from her temporary home in London, bound for the US, to reunite with a best friend, studying at San Diego University.

After much socialising and sight-seeing, best friend encourages solo travel to L.A, and proposes a nights stay at the Venice Beach Cotel ( Hostel). Girl from Austinmer, via London takes advice to heart and catches a grey hound bus L.A bound.

Girl from Austinmer is lost for words, over come by the sights, sounds, smells and size of the concrete monstrosity that is L.A. Venice Beach is her refuge, along with countless vodka and oranges downed at the hostel bar. Venturing out into the night with new-found friends, she is refused entry at a Santa Monica Bar. Aussie charm open’s doors, but no sooner had she entered the club, that the urge to be sick is overwhelming.

Sitting the gutter, feeling somewhat better, being comforted by ….someone….she is escorted back to the hostel.

‘ Girl do you want a tatoo?’ is the last thing she remembers being asked, before vomiting, into her hostel room bath tub.

Girl from Austinmer, sits feeling so sorry for herself the next morning on a bus tour of Hollywood. Jumbo sized lemonade from 7- Eleven in hand, as the tour weaves and winds its way across the city. She is sick countless times.

At midday, the bus tour sees her alight at the Hollywood Walk of Fame. It is underwhelming, it is dirty, it smells. The glitz and glamour of the movie industry is nowhere to be seen.

She walks up and down the boulevard, glancing over names in pavement,  Michael Jackson, Shirley Temple, but the heat of the day forces her to take shelter under the cover of a shop awning.

Then a voice: smooth, velvety, deep, croons in her direction:

‘ Girrll, you qualified!!’

The effects of her hangover takes hold, muddled head, slow comprehension – did he mean her?

The voice comes at her again ‘ Oooo Girrrlllll, yes, you, You qualified!!’

The girl from Austinmner realises the man’s comments are intended for her. He points at her lower back, smiling broadly, revealing a sea of white teeth.

She swivels at pace, turning her back towards the reflective glass of the shop front, pulls up her t-shirt.

Bunnies, two humping bunnies, making sweet sweet love have been drawn in thick black texture at the base of her spine.

Face red, she pulls down her t-shirt, hikes up her pants, holds head high, composes self and heads to towards tour bus.

Bestie greets girls from Austinmer at San Diego Grey Hound Bus terminal. The ‘ tatoo’ and the story surrounding its origins are retold.  Camera lights flash – paparazzi. Laughter, plenty of laughter.

Yet all I could hear was that  deep velvety voice ‘ Girl, you qualified’

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

High School Horror

This tale, repressed for many years, finally surfaces.

It is a true story. Every school teachers nightmare, to the student, incomprehensible.

I am dropped off by my Mother, on her way to work at Holy Cross Primary School Helensburgh, at the Hindu Temple situation on the outskirts of town.

It was 7.26am, the morning mist heavy, parts of the temple and surrounding bushland were cloaked in soft white. At the entrance to the holy site, were numerous pairs of shoes, neatly lined up.

Alone, on the outskirts of town, mist and fog, pairs of shoes without owners, at a temple in Helensburgh, a place so ungodly it was considered ‘ Other’, not part of the South Coast or Sydney. As a Catholic student I was out of my depth. I knew very little about Hinduism and rarely left my beachside residence for a suburb 200 metres above sea level.

Just as my craving for company that morning reached fever pitch, the two buses, containing the entire contents of Year 11 arrived.

The group of 80 plus 16 and 17 year olds entered the temple on mass, lead by Head Teachers and coordinators of Religion. We were here to learn first hand about diversity and devotional practice.

I don’t know about the rest of my class but all I could think about was the paired shoes at the entrance. Who owned them? Why were they left unaccompanied?

I remember sounds from the surrounding shrubbery, the birds songs, the trickle of water from nearby streams, the crunch of the sand beneath feet as we walked around the temple, with its unsealed surface.

I remember a small crowd of students circling a ‘ statue’ which lay face down, seemingly having fallen from its base the night before. Could wind really be that strong to uproot concrete fixtures? Had the temple been vandalised over night?

Students that had been busying themselves at the far corners of the shrine, ogling over points of interests began to flock back to the scene of the fallen ‘ statue’.

Camera flashed, chatter escalated, tears formed, nervous laughter.

The ‘statue’ was a person, a real person, a young women, not much older than my school comrades.

In that moment, lives changed. Our innocence ( if there was any left) shattered, we had witnessed the brutality of life, the hardship, sorrow and levels of desperation and despair.

Teachers ushered us back onto the bus, doing their best to dispel rumours that has begun to circulate ‘ I think I know her?’ , ‘ Did you see her face?’. They made the collective decision to proceed with the itinerary of the day, cathedrals and synagogues. We drove of in the direction of Sydney.

As for me and no doubt others, my mind stayed well and truly in Helensburgh, that day. 22 years later, the imagery of shoes, countless pairs of shoes still haunts me. And the overwhelming sense that morning, as an early drop off excursion goer, of being horribly alone.

Afterward

The story made the Illawarra Mercury the following day – but in an age before digital print, one must ask themselves, Did the really happen at all?

I kept the letter that my School distributed to our parents / guardians the following day – it makes for an interesting read and some what supports my memories of events ; February 23rd 1995

32 hour Party People

Having returned home for the Queen’s Birthday Long Weekend, over a red wine at Headlands Hotel, Austinmner with the parentals, the subject for another nostalgic post took hold.

The discussion was around music, and my extensive collection of ticket stubs from late 90’s, early 2000’s concerts. I think I made the comment that ‘It wasn’t always fun and games back then’….

It was December 98. Main characters assembled : Kate S, Jess, C- Ron and movie extra Chris Hopkins. We were attending UK electronic music act ‘The Prodigy” at Selina’s, Coogee Bay Hotel. We were overly excited, ill-equipped, naive, from Wollongong.

The gig was EPIC. Like nothing we had ever experienced. The gig was a mosh pit from start to finish and I feared for my life on many occasions. The big beat music exhausted everyone, sweat dripped from the roof, body heat reached fever pitched. It was a life affirming.

The next morning we awoke from our temporary resting place at the YHA Sydney city , and rallied the strength to do it all again. Our next musical adventure was to be Homebake, an all Australian outdoor music concert in Hyde Park.

We were overly excited, ill-equipped, naive, from Wollongong. Having underestimated the energy zapping nature of the gig the night before, we had little in reserves for an all day outdoor festival.

And it rained. Homebake became Mudbake. I recall very little of the festival other than Jess had a plastic water bottle, filled with vodka, that she had offered to C- R0n who was thirsty? He took a large gulp, eyes widening as he did – and not one to waste, the alcohol was swallowed – followed by anger, silent treatment and Jess’s laughter.

We packed it in early – the rain, the mud, our depleted energy levels, the Prodigy drum and bass from the night before outclassing the more conservative Aussie music scene that day.

We boarded a city rail train at Central and accepted our fate – the long train ride South.

Some 20 minutes into the journey, in our carriage full of festival misfits, coming down from chemical highs, the train came to a sudden halt.

Jolted out of my slumber, I recall thinking the train had run over a bike, collided with a metal object on the tracks.

Time passes and we de not move. We look out the window of our carriage to see men in forensic uniforms walking up and down the train tracks.

I am not longer sure who forms part of this movie of memories – Kate S, Jess are surely with me, C- Ron and Chris Hopkins, are they in the other carriage?I remember seeing the men in what appeared to be white space suits thinking – is this really happening, has our train really collided with a human being on Saturday night at Allawah Train station?

It was 1am before us Gong girls and boys get home.

The next morning, or was it a few days later, I read in the paper that our train had indeed hit a person, and that he remained unidentified, the John Doe of Allawah train station.

Fast forward to last night and it is some 19 years after Kate S, Jess, C-Ron and Chris Hopkins had been 32 hour party people. I did on online search to see if the John Doe Allawah case had ever solved.

The search revealed nothing.

Sometime when I think of all the adventures I had in my youth I almost have to pinch myself and ask ‘Did that really happen’?’

When an internet search does not verify my version of the truth I am left wondering….

But I will always have the music….

 

 

 

 

 

Run DMC – It’s Like That

Over conversation in Camperdown Memorial Park with my favourite Brazilian Australian family, I took a trip down memory lane.

My friend was eating a late lunch, fueling himself for an evening concert at the Sydney Opera House, part of Vivid 2017 Musical line up. This friend, possessing a vinyl collection so extensive it suggests he was born in the wrong musical decade, was attending the Avalanches concert. Aussie Hip Hop Royalty – the Australian ‘ Beastie Boys’.

Those who know me know my questionable taste in music, but at the mention of the Avalanches, for a brief millisecond, I was able to draw from my lapsed appreciation of true talent.

‘ Oh, I saw the Avalanches back in 1997, at Woonona Bulli RSL club. They had just released the hit ‘ Since I left you’

‘ Wow!!’ remarks my friend ‘ That would have been the perfect time to see them!!’

I have not checked in with my friend to enquire how the band, some 20 years later, were received by fans old and new. Rather, I have spent time reminiscing about my late teens and early 20’s, when attending music concerts consumed entire pay cheques.

Today I looked over ticket stubs from the late 90’s and early 2000’s – Blur, Portishead, Moby, Faithless, Ben Folds Five, Veruca Salt, Pulp, Alanis ( x 3),Smashing Pumpkins, Green Day to name a few.

And then the questionable – Ricky Martin, Human Nature, Enrique Iglesias.

Oh, and don’t get me started on Australian bands – The Whitlams, Crowded House ( adopted from New Zealand) Powderfinger, Silverchair, Regurgitator…..

But the search was undertaken with a particular ticket stub in mind – Run DMC,  the American Hip Hop group that hailed from Queens, NYC, had played at Waves NightClub Towradgi Beach. I was certain of it – I had been there, but some 19 years after the event – it seems implausible.

Ticket stub found, Run DMC played in Towradgi, greater Wollongong City, June 12th, 1998. I was 19 years old and wearing a woollen jumper and high heals. To say I was ill prepared an understatement. In need of a musical education and about to witness a live concert by the globes most influential hip-hop act. In Wollongong.

Next time I see my Brazilian Australian friend, I want to ask how the Avalanche concert was. I want to chat to him about that night in June, 1997, when I wore a woollen jumper and high heals to the Run DMC concert. I know we can both have a good laugh about that…and then some!!

 

 

 

 

 

Surprise

With a keen interest in the recent birth a primary school friend’s third baby this story surfaces.

I was 11, turning 12 the very next day ( oh the elation!!) and an all girls Friday night sleep over had been organised. Everyone was invited, all 8 of us Year Six girls.

There was to be popcorn, a horror movie, ghost stories and very little sleep. Our excitement was palpable. The school day could not finish quick enough, and when the school bell tolled, heralding in the weekend, I recall party invites squealing.

But not me….for some reason I was not walking with my girl pals to the party venue – it was to be a pack of 7 not 8. I first had to go on a shopping expedition with my parents, which was to include a long stint in the local bank.

Then I could join my friends.  The host knew this in advance but neither of us knew how long it would eat in to party time.

This was the era before mobile phones- 1990. If I had been carrying a medium-sized brick in my back pack, it would have been ringing off the hook as I stood side my side my parents in the bank queue : ‘ Where are you?’ ‘ How much longer are you going to be? ‘

But there were no phones and the bank teller explained that it would that 48 hours to get currency for our impending Fijian family holiday. It was an explanation that felt like it took 48 hours – ‘ I had a slumber party to get too’ I wanted to scream, instead I opted to slump in complimentary waiting chair , head in my hands, nervous energy surging through my body.

‘ Where have you been? It doesn’t matter!! Surprise!! Happy Birthday!!’

The host closed the front door behind me and I was swept up into a celebration just for me.

A sea of friendly faces all looking in my direction, a birthday cake, complete with candles, beckoning me to make a wish.

I am overwhelmed, taken aback, that my friend had gone to so much effort to make me, humble, unassuming me, feel special, centre of attention special.

My mind could not compute- but this is YOUR party I wanted to say, please don’t shine a light on me, I just want to be a wall-flower. Just being part of this social occasion elevating me to levels of social anxiety never previously experienced. And now this…..

‘ Make a wish Kate! Happy 12th Birthday’

I have never forgotten this brief moment in time. This person made me feel special, signalled me out for some undivided attention with only the best of intentions. The fact that is made me feel a nervous wreck, second guessing my self-worth, a cascading downward spiral of emotions she could never have known.

This young girl has gone on the be an inspiration to many, successful on oh so many fronts. None more so than as a Mother, to three beautiful, most cherished children.

This story is written to thank that person for noticing the beauty within, long before I became aware, let alone comfortable with it.

You have an amazing capacity to bring out the very best in others.

Thank you. I am lucky to have crossed paths with you all those years ago.

To Be With You – Mr Big

Down South yesterday for the quarterly hair cut and colour, the drive from Austinmer to Shellharbour, the perfect amount of time for a nostalgic post to take shape.

The South Coast, or ‘ Coal Coast’ as it is now referred to by the bearded and the hip, was in fine form yesterday, the sun shone, the ocean glistened blue and the Illawarra escarpment, bursting with an autumnal glow.

I was listening to the Coal Coasts band of choice , ‘Shinging Bird – Black Opal’ . I had down right refused to take the 45 minute drive without there cd and song six and seven were on repeat. But in between the repetition, my mind drifted to a moment in time, some seven years earlier when I received an out of the blue phone call.

It was the beginning of 2010. I was not in a particularly happy place. When consumed by sadness, such was the tendency to shut people out, decline invitations in favour of my own company.

That was how I came to decline the invitation of my life long friend, one of my most supportive allies – Mim – and her Hen’s weekend. I just could not face it. I was an anomaly in guest list – 6 years older than most of the girls and not part of her close-knit group of school mates. But like all on the guest list, I loved and admired the hen. Reason enough to go?

The invitation was declined and I busied myself with the blues.

The phone rang.

Was it Friday or Saturday night?

The fact that I answered it took even me by surprise as often when faced an inner battle with black, the phone rings out, goes to voice mail.

‘ Hello’

Laughter, lots of it can be heard down the phone.

‘ Kate, I had to call you’

It is Mim.

‘ We are playing the first pop song YOU introduced me to – I had to call you’

Coming down the phone line is the tune ‘ To Be With You ‘ by Mr Big – a sure-fire hit from the mid 1990’s.

‘ Kate, are you there?’

I am in shock, had I know idea I had this kind of influence in Mim’s musical education – if I had known, perhaps I would have introduced her to David Bowie, a Whitney Houston classic, Michael Jackson – Mr Big???

‘ I love this song because it makes me think of you’

I don’t remember what I said to Mim, I just recall the joy in her voice,  the laughter of the group of girls in the background, singing at the top of their lungs ‘ I’m the one who wants to be – with – you’

Mim’s call induces intense feelings of guilt – I should be there, celebrating in person instead of home alone on the couch with Flora. It was as if the call snapped my out of my sadness, if only temporarily, to remind me that I did matter to people, people like Mim.

The phone conversation ended – a champagne bottle had popped in the background and I had encouraged Mim, who does not drink, to go and at least have a sip for me.

That conversation was 7 years ago, I have never forgotten it. That bolt from the blue, totally unexpected, shaking me out of my head, and piercing my heart. Whilst it did induce guilt, the overarching feeling it left me with was one of connection. It has never left.

I have no idea why this story surfaced yesterday, it took even me by surprise. The Coal Coast has a way of doing that I guess, the more time I spend South of Sydney, the more I find myself reflecting on my past in order to make sense of it all. Write it down, get it out there, move forward.

Note this Coal Coast chick is currently answering the phone, accepting social invitations and being much more careful on my musical influence on the young.

10 years ago….

Catch Up With A Mate

10 years ago I wrote a short story titled ‘ The Gift’

It is a story that still resonates. And today is a good as any day to repost it on Catch up with a Mate.

And Five years ago I posted in on my blog

I wrote it about a person I knew at the time, who I have since lost contact with, writing a fictional story about the situation was my way of coping…. a way of expressing my anger, sadness, helplessness and disbelief that someone could live such a constricted and constrained manner.

I was merely a bystander, looking on, I could not say or do anything as this person would not have taken too kindly to any suggestion that they might want to stop for a minute,  slow down and take a few deep breaths…simple steps which would have provided the opportunity to ponder whether this…

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Anne of Green Gables

Yesterday when I was having lunch it dawned on me that I am what you call a passionate person.

I asked the question of the group who w dining at a local Ultimo Cafe, what movie defined their childhood. Given that one of the lunch guests was mid seventies, his answer was a book….but it took much prompting to get that from him.

Others had delayed responses, little excitement in their voice and even fewer hand gestures. Another factor might have been jet lag, two of the party having taken international flights a couple of weeks back…..

But really, when it boiled down to it….in my opinion, this kind of question allows a passionate person to go to town, to reminisce and indulge in a time gone by, and recount how said movie changed the course of ones life.

The movie I offered up was ‘ Anne of Green Gables’

The title alone should send shivers down a passionate person’s spine, could very well cause water to well in eyes, bring on contagious smiling, bouts of blushing,girlish giggles.

How many times did I watch this film at a 10 year old? Countless.

Why did I love Anne, the red-haired beauty from Prince Edward Island, Canada? Because she was bold, brave, lived in her head and loved with her whole heart.

This movie shaped me as a young girl, it was the very first film I recall sobbing uncontrollably to when kind-hearted Matthew, Anne’s adoptive Father, passed away. I think I hid my tears well, as no one in my family came near me, but I cried and cried – to the point where I could not even understand my sadness.

Today, I have come to understand why this on screen death deeply affected me – Matthew was a quiet, unassuming man, second fiddle to Marilla,  Anne’s formidable adoptive Mother. Marilla was the disciplinary and Matthew was advised ‘ not to put his oar in’ when it came to child rearing.

So he stayed in the background, but that was where he was most comfortable and could do the most good. He loved Anne, it shone through all his actions, was evident in the very few words he spoke.

Besotted by her, whole heartedly captivated by her spirit and energy, it brought out the best in him too – he adored her, spoilt her, mostly with the gift any child most wants – love, but with the occasional material possessions too – a beautiful blue ball gown with ‘ puffed sleeves’ (20 pounds of brown sugar accompanied this dress purchase- having struggled to articulate the real reason behind his shopping expedition, sugar preceeded dress sale)

In many ways Matthew was, and very much is, a version of my own Father.

My Father’s actions have always spoken louder than words – and his love for me is on display in everything he has ever done and continues to do, hopefully for many years to come.

This is but one reason I identify with this movie so strongly, so passionately, with tear filled eyes and runny nose. I saw myself and those I hold dear to me in the characters so beautifully acted out in the 1985 Canadian telemovie.

Oh, there is so much more I could say….this movie prompted a road trip to Prince Edward Island when I found myself in Canada is 2002, on the search for my own personal Gilbert with childhood friend Leonie and her P.E.I beau, Darin. The bouts of melancholy the film induced if watched on repeat in my teens….My love for the country Canada that runs oh so deep…..

But as a passionate person you have to learn to tell stories in short burst.

Sensing my enthusiasm for Anne of Green Gables was a little too much for my lunch guests I keep the account to under 2 minutes and then new that the rest of the tale was for my blog post.

Lucky readers….

To Be Continued.

Confessions of a Chronic Over Thinker

I’m quite enjoying the theme I have adopted for my 2017 blog posts – nostalgia.

It can be jarring to think just how many years have passed since I left high school, travelled overseas and lived independently for the first time, since I first I lost my first tooth, buried my first pet ( RIP Bruce the Budgie, 1988)

And yes, as the title suggests I have been a long-suffering over thinker. I suspect it first took hold in early primary school and crippled me way into my mid thirties. But to those in the grips of a will I or won’t I crisis – there is hope…I am living proof. Chronic over thinking can take a back seat and you can sit out days, months even years, experiencing life in the here and now, not some repetitive version of a story from the past, or  future.

But, and this is where it gets interesting, the life of a Chronic over thinker makes for good stories, good blog posts, good nostalgic writing – but do take note – I do not pine for version of myself that is evident in the tale I am about to tell.

It was 2002 and I was living in Edinburgh Scotland. I was working at a Pub on the Royal Mile, living in the staff quarters of a hostel ( ?) and surviving on a diet of cider, hot chips and backed potatoes. I was plump, I was happy.

On the rare occasion that I was not rostered on the weekend shift at the pub, I took it upon myself to book an overnight trip to the Scottish Highlands – visiting the towns of Aberdeen, Inverness, the famous Loch and hairy cow spotting.

I was travelling alone and don’t recall the nationality of the other tourists on the bus….it was not fully booked but I do recall one bus patron – Frank from Germany. Tall, good-looking and apparently, taken by me.

It so happened that the feeling was mutual. We paired up pretty quickly as bus buddies, took turns of taking solo tourist photos at all the hots spots and shared a pint or three that night.

Our connection was just plain sweet and at the conclusion of the two-day escapade, Frank asked me to join him on a day trip to St Andrews the following Monday.

We swapped mobile numbers and parted ways.

And then it started – the over thinking.

Whilst it was ALWAYS present on the Highland Tour,I had done my best to relax in his company, to lose myself in the crisp air and stunning natural beauty that surrounded me.

But apart I tortured myself at EVERY possible opportunity.

The story I told myself went along these lines –

  • What does he see in me? In a tour setting he was not able to see the real me, the flawed version, the true version.
  • A day trip to St Andrew –  a solo trip, just me and him, the real me with be revealed, he will hate me, I can’t ruin his day!!
  • What will we talk about?
  • What if he tries to kiss me, I am prone to recoil from intimacy in ALL forms….I’m a nutcase, I cannot let him see the real me.

Over and over and over and over….In the 48 hours till Monday, I embarked on this relentless campaign of self-critical chatter.

Monday came and I was right mess. I was panic-stricken, I had not slept, I was on edge and I could not be reasoned with. I felt it was unfair to send Frank a text, lying by saying I was sick and unable to attend the day trip.

So in my wisdom,  I decided to tell him person I was not coming…… I bolted across the Royal Mile, down to Princes Street and to the Bus Depot in my pyjamas and all-weather jacket. My bed hair was pulled back in a pony tail.

I guess I thought if I looked unprepared and unpresentable, Frank would understand why I was not getting on the bus.

I was wrong. Perhaps the language barrier was to blame – actually no, he spoke perfect English…..he just did not understand where the person, whose company he had truly enjoyed only a few days prior, had gone.

I was powerless to explain that either – for at that time in my life, I really had no coping mechanisms to manage my chronic, crippling over thinking ways.

And that my friends, is the end of that story.

I did not see Frank the German again.

He was a tall, handsome man who came into my life for but the briefest of moments in 2003.

And now in 2017, can I look back upon that time in my life and fully understand how I came to find myself in situations like that often. My tendency to over think absolutely EVERYTHING robbed me of so many opportunities to revel in the beauty of the here and now.

Not going to waste anymore time worrying about that!!!

The Bangles – Everything

Sunday afternoon is perfect for some nostalgic writing.

And music was the trigger that inspired the story that follows.

Home alone on a balmy autumn afternoon, summer having left Sydney 12 days ago, and in her wake a mixture of heavy rain set in. But not this weekend, the sun has soaked Sydney and smiles abound.

To celebrate I placed one of my most treasured albums on – The UK all girl group – The Bangles- Everything.

Released in 1988, when I was just 10 years old, it was if my memory serves me correctly, the 2nd cassette I ever owned – Whitney Houston beating the girl to top honours.

This cassette was EVERYTHING to me , pun intended. I loved EVERYTHING about it – EVERY song – EVERY WORD was learnt off by heart and sung off-key at EVERY opportunity.

The cassette was a gift from a women who was EVERYTHING to me – my Dad’s Mother, my beautiful Nana Boyle. I loved her whole heartedly, still do, and back then loved her more for the fact that at a women in her late 70’s would have brave a record store to get me this gift. Who was Nan served by in the record store? A late 80’s raver coming down from a night out in Kings Cross, a Jimmy Barnes flannelette wearing pub rocker?

Whoever it was, they were super helpful to my Nan, and it was mission accomplished and bridge built across the great musical generational divide.

So I’m sitting here in my lounge room, bopping along to ‘ Glitter Years ‘,  tearing up to the song ‘ Something to Believe In’ and ‘ Make a Play for Her now’, feeling like a love-sick teenager when ‘ In your Room’ and ‘ Waiting for You’ come through the speakers. Yes 29 years may have passed, but these beautifully crafted songs still tug at the heart strings and get the old feet tapping!

I’m instantly transported back to the concerts I gave to my Care Bears and Cabbage Patch Kids in my bedroom, when, without a care in the world, and with no one really watching, I would sing and sing and sing.

And I’m feeling a sense of sadness for all the time that has passed between listening to this music, the people I have loved and lost, my personal journey, the good, bad and EVERYTHING in between.

And whilst I might feel sad, this music also empowers. I think of the super strong woman who gifted me the album and all the memories it now inspires- time spent with loved ones, pets, friends, all with Bangles tunes as the musical backdrop.

It was by chance that I took this trip down musical memory lane today. The Bangles – Everything – turns the big 30 next year. For me the music is timeless and colours my childhood, teenage year , twenties and thirties. It has stood the test of time, an’ Eternal Flame’ in the story of my life.

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