#Once upon a time - Alchemy. Part Two.

Once upon a time .....

I followed him up the stairs. He didn't smell too good, smelt of fags and ash; over his top lip, strands from his moustache - a fat wiry brush - hung, curling, tinted in a colour swatch of nicotine yellow. A long term smoker. Forty a day probably. Every other step, a cough and a wheeze, an asthmatic rattle all the way to the top. I remember only counting twelve steps.

'So this is it, ' he said, clearing his throat in the ball of his fist, 'take a look around.'

First a bed room, strange angles. Then the bath room, nice size, loving the position of the window. Another bedroom, this will be the master. And through a final door into a vacuum of space and light. That's when I knew, decided right there on the spot. Why wasn't Younger Partner with me?  The roof had been scooped out like a pumpkin; wooden beams crossed the ceiling and where suitcases and roof racks and boxes of bric-a-brac would once have been stored was a mezzanine kitchen. An eat-in kitchen in the roof? Now I loved that idea...  

A first property bought together. The first night; glasses of champagne, fish and chips out of the paper, a gift of chocolate cake from the neighbours downstairs. The joy of discovering a new area; Chiswick, Shepherds Bush, Turnham Green. The best Thai restaurant on Askew Road.

We lived here for seven years.

This wasn't any ordinary flat, this was a crucible made of magical stuff; where gold was fashioned from waste basket junk, where sapphires poured from the bathroom tap, where dreams bubbled in fairy wisps of kettle steam...

I shed my skin a dozen times. I ditched the DJ'ing, spent five years retraining as a psychotherapist. I never worked so hard; the late nights at college, weekend workshops, seminars, clients, personal therapy, essays, case studies; all juggled with full time jobs, those soul sucking rent payers. I found myself under proposition one warm July evening. A Friday. 'Would you marry me?' Younger Partner asked, propped on the edge of the chair opposite; his expression earnest, puppy dog eyed, a tad nervous. 'Pardon?' I replied, 'could you say that again?' 'Will you marry me?' he repeated, this time his cheeks burning lanterns, 'Er... er... yes, yes of course I will marry you.' I exchanged Ms for Mrs. Under the living room beams, early March gliding through the panes, my best lady and I were plucked, pruned, kneaded and painted; two wedding dollies immaculately sculptured for a big big day. I grew a bump, solid with fluctuation and hard movement. The day I carried her over the threshold, into the living room, it was if she'd always been with us; right from the very beginning. I battled the closing walls of post natal illness; our home a muted sunken place; my life pre-baby, a flaky shadow, alien, a distant memory. I began writing. This. A blog. A new existence; words, words, words... and I bade farewell to my thirties; hello to middledom and swathes of silver hair. (and cake).

There were parties; Younger Dad's infamous thirtieth. The beer stains. The bass. A five course New Years bash. A first birthday, a second...

And almost a year ago, after the sign said sold and the paperwork cleared, we moved.

So much change, different people.

If you like my writing, you could do two wonderful things for me (pretty please);
1. Vote for me in the MADS (best writer). 2. Preorder my anthology, Seasons Of Motherhood (published in March). Thank you.

#Once upon a time - Alchemy. Part One.

Once upon a time .....

I held a one way ticket in my hand. Destination unknown. I was thirty years old - a watershed age, still in the hangover of my twenties, not too old, or so I thought, to consider the grown-up decisions - marriage, mortgage, kids - of my thirties. I was still playing at life, gambling with choices, motherhood nowhere on the radar.

A question mark over the DJ'ing, a recent redundancy in my pocket, I was headed south with no job, no five year plan, no sense of my next move. Surely I should be established by now? Should know myself like the blue and red veins on an ordinance survey map? Who was I now? What shape would I become?

I nearly bottled it, an inch from grabbing my bag and running like a hounded rabbit down the platform, back to familiarity, to comfort, to fish and chips on a Tuesday evenings with Grandma. But there was a shudder, a jolt, as the train quietly eased - the rhythmical clack and a clack on the track - out of the station.

Decision made I guess.

I looked at the rectangular card between my fingers. I could always return if this adventure fell on its fat face. I knew these streets so well, the junctions of my child hood, my teenage years, my twenties. Yes, I thought, I could always swim up stream, back up the M1, a tried-it-but-didn't-work-out salmon returning to fertile ground. But I never did. I knew even then, months and months before, slumped on the top deck of the 96 grumbling up Otley Road, autumn rain drops crying on the windows, the inner voice asserting 'time to move on, get out, do something new', that I wouldn't be returning to my birth town.

London was a like a giant spread of tapas - the olives, the calamares, the chorizo al vino, the patatas bravas. An endless selection of choices and ideas and inspiration. I discovered tai-chi and yoga and street art and new friends and just how rude commuters can be. There were windy walks on Hampstead Heath and picnics in Regents Park. Proper sushi. The finest vanilla ice-cream in candlelit restaurants on Upper Street. Watching gigs on sticky July evenings at Somerset House. Admiring installations in the Turbine Hall of  the Tate Modern.

I temped in grey offices, over views of the city - the monolithic pillars of Canary Wharf, the overbearing slabs of concrete caging Liverpool Street. I watched as tiny workers on ropes filled in the missing pieces of the The Gherkin, sometimes their limbs completely lost in fine, spectral mist. Then one day two towers crumbled - the fire, the bodies, the blood - and I smelt the death and sadness in the empty tube carriage, images of grief and horror on forgotten pages scattered on the floor.

I didn't get along with finance, with the starch uniforms, and the bare, bored walls. I was formally told off - a bad, bad school girl - for not ironing my shirt, for not combing my hair, for not making enough cups of tea for the team. A manager who clearly resented me. And the feeling was mutual. What was I doing working as admin in a risk department in Aldgate? How had I managed to swap my decks for a flat screen and the in-and-out tray and a hole puncher? The rent.      

The first home was a shared house in East Finchley, messy and cramped. The second, a flat on The Holloway Road - day and night the traffic never stopped, a constant noise of engines and sirens and horns. It  was broken into, DVD's and books strewn about, both my beloved Technics stolen. Then a flat I loved, large square rooms, a separate kitchen and lounge, opposite the Geffrye Museum on the Kingsland Road - a hop and a skip away from flowers and fresh coffee on Columbia Road or the vivid colours and curry houses of Brick Lane.  

Kingsland Road - Image Courtesy of Google

Columbia Road Flower Market - Image Courtesy of Google

Brick Lane - Image Courtesy of Google

The DJ'ing still continued, infrequently, in dusty warehouses and clubs under railway bridges and on boats moored on the Thames. I attempted at promoting my own night, 'No Fishes For Missy', the first foray a success - I paid the guest DJ, I broke even on the door, just didn't have the energy for another, couldn't muster the patience to spend evenings dropping flyers around every bar in Shoreditch. Something inside was deliberating, changing. I began tiring of late nights and vinyl shopping. Clubbing lost its shine - the days of waiting in queues, head-over-heels excited at the night's line-up, felt like a drag - so many nights over so many years, it was like going to work, like the nine to five. I always thought I would DJ forever and forever, until arthritis froze my wrists, the very last record cued aged seventy-eight.

When I reached my thirty-third birthday, I'd had enough.

One cold January afternoon the flat on the Kingsland Road was broken into, record decks snatched again. Faced with bent bars on the security grill, the front door wide open - 'come, come in - take anything you want' - I simply sighed with defeat, a resigned shrug of the shoulders, knowing what I would discover on the other side. The mixer and a box of best-ever records had also disappeared, and strangely a bottle of perfume. On the laminate floor, a pair of audio cables lay coiled, smothered in exhumed dust on the spot where my equipment should have been. At least the three thousand records lining the living room walls remained, stoical  amidst trauma.

And then I knew, truly knew - life waving its large, bright red flag - that over a decade of DJ'ing had taken its final bow.

A week later I met Younger Dad.


So once upon a time, what did you enjoy (or dislike) doing, seeing or creating? It could be anything. What were you like many moons ago? Do you have a once upon a time story to tell or picture to share? It could be a happy, sad or humorous tale. The skies the limit. So do link up below and grab the badge code ... and don't forget to tweet #onceuponatime. This is a monthly meme.

You can read my other once upon a time stories here.

Grab the badge code ...

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#Once upon a time - When Fog Struck

Once upon a time .....

On a somber morning, I watched from the warming comfort of a cushion plumped sofa (and with a seasonal mug of cocoa in hand) as rolls of ghost-leaden mist descended beyond the dusty pane of the living room window, thickening the bitter Winter chill. Outside, the atmospheric omens didn't look promising. The fog curdled, unmovable, hanging densely in the air, choking giraffe-necked street lamps, stroking frost bitten windows, and muffling the click-clack of heels straining direction on icy flagstones.

Today was the 31st of December, '95 on the cusp of giving sway to '96, the old year dying into a more urgent version of itself. My record box, a green flight case gilded with 'fragile' stickers, was tightly packed with analogue rushing trance, bass heavy techno, tech house, deep house, acid house, house... Each record sleeve compressed against the other like slices of prepacked ham.

I was set to play a New Years Eve DJ tour of France - one night, four gigs - that began in Paris, took in Lyons, and ended in Montpellier. And as it was New Year, I was to receive double payment for each performance - definitely an auspicious start to '96! AND, my French agent threw in a free flight for a friend. So, H - entourage, supporter, best friend - was to accompany me on this whistle stop Gallic adventure.

Then, a phone call from my English agent with bad tidings. The fog that currently, and without invitation, inhabited my street held greater ambitions, swathing ground level opaque cloud over the rest of Leeds, West Yorkshire, England, (the Universe), the English Channel and most of France. Heathrow was closed. Gatwick was closed. Charles De Gaulle was closed. Disheartened, dismayed, I was set to give up, when my French agent later phoned to offer, with hopeful spin, that Montpellier airport was still open, that although three of my gigs were now cancelled, the final one in the South of France was still on. Weather pending, New Year was partially salvageable after all. So the flight was re-directed from Gatwick (in the faith it reopened its runways) to Montpellier airport, and with that, H and I decided to risk the pre booked National Express voyage down South.  

There was not much to view from the coach window. Only the hard shoulder was distinctly visible, the one solid indicator we were moving forwards. The fog distorted all that was rounded, friendly, and familiar. Out of the cloaking gloom, architecture and nature poised to attack; sharp angles protruded, branches clawed, groping for clearer air, indicator lights cast eerie pools of dampened red and orange.

It was early evening by the time we arrived at Gatwick. The terminal was very, very empty. A select handful of flights were now operating including, with great relief, ours. Calls were made to agents, "we're coming!" Arrangements were made for the pick up at the other end. H and I ate in a very empty Burger King. We sat in a very desolate check in hall, the hours rapidly counting down to midnight. Waiting for the flight desk to open, we overheard the echoing conversation of the only other tourists, an ageing American couple, who stood protectively glued to their luggage...

"Honey, make sure you keep your bag closed."

"Why?"

"We're in a third world county. Something might get stolen."

I tried to spot a camouflaged thief in the surrounding wilderness. H and I, both taken aback, looked at each other, eyebrows quizzically raised, telepathically communicating the same thought. Were they referring to us? Do we look like criminals? We were wearing woolly hats, not balaclavas. And besides, we were flying business class, with hand luggage, not shot guns.

We must have been the first to check-in as our flight was surprisingly full. New Year chimed at 35,000 feet.  Our plastic flutes, bubbling with warm champagne, joined in a celebratory toast, to H and I, to new beginnings, on wards and up wards. It wasn't long before my bladder was frothing with fizz. Dragging my merry legs to the mile high lavatory, I spotted techno God Father, DJ Juan Atkins, sitting in economy looking rather po-faced. I sheepishly said hello, but didn't bother properly introducing myself. I mean, who was I? Just a humble minion, bottom (almost) of the techno DJ family tree.

Our feet touched French soil, well tarmac, a little beyond the witching hour. Luggage reclaimed, I greeted my record box like a long lost friend. I could handle missing knickers (I think). Not records. But poor Juan (see above), his box of 12" tricks had escaped onto a different flight. He looked drained of any humour. He wasn't going to be spinning any records that night...  

At the arrivals lounge H and I stumbled upon a scene that resembled a military base. The space was occupied by a small testosterone sea of berets, boots and guns. What was the army doing here at this ungodly time in the morning? H wisely suggested we shouldn't bother enquiring. We waited nervously, inconspicuously. Almost two hours later, our chauffeur, a dopey bloke in khakis - probably a mate of the promoters - finally appeared to chaperon H and I, at treacherously high speed, to the gig.

I can't recall much of the club night or the set I played. But...There was more champagne. A lot more. There was pulsing bass, and hip throwing rhythms (the French love their techno). There was a blanket of dry ice, an indoor continuum of the day's thwarting fog. There was a strobe light that cast the limbs of whistling, cheering clubbers in time stopping slow motion. There were my stifled yawns as I chose vinyl to spin at 4.30 am.

And then it was over. Happy New Year.

Back at the hotel room, H and I laid in bed gathering the duvet around us. We couldn't sleep. So we talked. And talked. And talked. About our lives, our loves, our pasts. We panned golden nuggets from our shared histories, discovering things in common, things that intertwined our bond, things we might not have shared had we not found ourselves in a double bed in Montpellier.

January 1st was clear, balmy, almost Spring-like. H and I dunked fresh croissants in mugs of gloopy hot chocolate, our sisterhood strengthened, on new fertile ground. We had fought the fog of yesterday, and here we were, today, on New Years Day, in the South of France, talking, smiling, about our mist banishing clarity, our deepened understanding, of ourselves, our friendship, and of our familial affection for each other...

As the moving walkway conveyed us to the baggage reclaim area at Gatwick, our attention was caught by a tall, glamorous woman stood several feet in front of us. She was wearing an ankle length coat, thick with pelt and fur, that she'd protectively, and maybe politically, turned in side out. Squeezed under her right arm was the tiniest of toy dogs...

...H and I, both taken aback, looked at each other, eyebrows quizzically raised, telepathically communicating the same thought.


So once upon a time, what did you enjoy (or dislike) doing, seeing or creating? It could be anything. What were you like many moons ago? Do you have a once upon a time story to tell or picture to share? It could be a happy, sad or humorous tale. The skies the limit. So do link up below and grab the badge code ... and don't forget to tweet #onceuponatime. This is a monthly meme.

You can read my other once upon a time stories here.

Grab the badge code ...

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A Bus Strike and a Clubbing Experience

Typical. There was a bus strike. I was completely unaware of this until a helpful passer-by politely pointed at the electronic sign above my head. In red neon it shouted the words all commuters dread, INDUSTRIAL ACTION. Why the heck hadn't I noticed this before? Oh no. Not today. Not at the start of Britmums Live. I'm going to have to walk the long walk to the tube. And fast. Until the moment that stranger had redirected my attention, I'd been sitting absent mindedly on the unyielding plastic bench of the bus shelter for nearly twenty minutes, my faith in London transport still intact.

It was on my hurried half-run to the station that I finally became aware of the distinct lack of public transport snarling Uxbridge Road, and the unusual throng of frustrated looking pedestrians busying like ants in the same direction as me. How had I not noticed these glaring clues earlier? Then providence gracefully stepped in. I glanced intuitively over my shoulder and spotted something heavenly. A lone double decker. And it was rumbling towards me. I was luckily within an ear shot of a bus stop and flagged the renegade vehicle. A gasp of calming relief escaped my mouth as the bus indicated and pulled to the curb. It was packed but I squeezed on between stiff Summer raincoats and bullying shoulder bags. I'd made it ...

... And I was on time for the pre conference meet up at the coffee shop. But a large chai latte couldn't assuage my nerves. Britmums Live was my first blogging conference and it seemed like one giant blind date. Only this date had a narrative twist. I don't think I've been in a situation where I'm meeting someone in the flesh for the first time and they already know many intimate details about my life. What would my cyber friends think of me? Was there a believable and fluid congruency between my written word and the real life me? Would I lose some of my on line mystique? I needn't have worried though as this weekend I found myself standing shoulder to shoulder with a group of welcoming, genuine, warm, and thoroughly supportive women.

And the conference? Well I spent the first hour overwhelmed and rooted to the spot like a stunned rabbit caught in head lights. I don't remember drinking the peppermint tea or eating the lemon cake I held in each clammy hand. I do remember intently gazing at many chest lines trying to decipher names and blog titles on conference badges. I remember uttering "Oh I know you" and "I really like your blog" an awful lot. I also remember a lively conversation about the merits of True Blood and Twilight. Vampires are useful ice breakers. Adrenaline though can have a very over powering and surreal effect on the senses. So much so that the entire two days often felt like a nostalgic throw back to my DJ'ing days. The excitement of meeting so many new people and absorbing the collective positive energy of the 500 bloggers present had more in common with a clubbing experience. I found myself riding an ecstatic high.

The stuff that stole my interest included call to action keynotes from Ruby Wax and Sarah Brown, serenely dozing babes in arms that invited broody yearnings, workshops on the Path to Getting Published and How to Create and Market Your Own eBooks which appealed to my writing aspirations, copious glasses of prosecco and canapes proferred during the BIBs Awards party, and the Bloggers Keynote ...

The Bloggers Keynote was a truly powerful, and empathic experience. It was a joy to listen to each chosen Blogger's selected post. Their spoken renditions breathed life and electricity into their written words. Hayley from Downs Side Up received a standing ovation for reading this moving post about her beautiful daughter, Natty, who has downs syndrome. There wasn't a dry eye in the room.

And now its all over and I'm genuinely sad. I find myself in a melancholic haze. I think I'm having a post clubbing come down. For the first time my humble blog and I felt a part of something much bigger; a blogging community that is making a difference.

Life is about relationship, and it doesn't matter if this takes place on line. Because behind that computer screen resides a real person with history, worries, triumphs and losses, aspirations, hope, tragedy and illness, and love. And the energy of that human experience pulsates through the written word. And in that there is always connection ...

See you at Britmums 2013.

#Once upon a time - Don't Touch That Dial

Once upon a time .....

DJ Tantra's velvet tones were heard on the FM frequencies of West Yorkshire. I was a radio DJ. A pirate radio DJ which made it all the more cooler. I played on Dream FM from the early nineties until around '96.

It was the Summer of '92. My graduation Summer. A time of lounging, partying and occasional consideration of my career options. Dream FM was holding a club night. I got talking to one of the the DJ's who invited me along to his show. From there I blagged my own spot. It helped that I was an aspiring female DJ. A rare commodity back in the day. But I was good. Talented.

I grew up on Dream FM. It was my first residency. I discovered my niche experimenting with mixes that blended together contrasting genres of house music. I really indulged my tastes. It was the spring board to my true desire; to spin deep house and techno to clubbers all over Europe. Dream FM was the crooked fairy godmother that granted my wish.

Every week H, a heavy box of twelve inches, and I made the pilgrimage to the station. We parked the rusty maroon VW, braved the stench of the public lifts, before finally arriving at the summit of the tower block. Dream FM was situated in the foisty living room of a flat that I guessed belonged to someone associated with the darker shades of grey. An ex criminal probably. The radio equipment and record decks were set up on a sturdy trestle table in front of a large rectangular window. From this portal, the urban sprawl of Leeds stretched before me as I spun my show for two hours. H manned the phones while I played my records, coordinated adverts, and spouted shout outs, and mostly nonsensical nonsense over the microphone. I preferred to let the music do the talking.

Because Dream FM was a pirate station it periodically moved location but the police never really interfered turning a blind eye to the illegality. The station became so popular that it often featured in the local press. One year it applied for a legal license but lost out to competition over the Pennines. This outcome sadly meant the abrupt sinking of Dream Fm's ship. I moved onto another pirate station, Frequency FM, based in the South.

Dream FM was a blast. I made friends, propitious connections and even became the voice over for many of the station's adverts. My voice was thankfully dripping in reverb so I was rendered virtually unidentifiable. I even had a fan base. Most of the fan mail I received came courtesy of the inmates from Armley jail. These were not serious criminals but petty offenders, young adults who I presumed had started out on the disadvantaged side of life. Rereading some of the letters made me think about what set these characters on their paths. Poverty? Lack of opportunity? Exclusion? Who knows ... And now after all this time I like to imagine they got out and got on with their lives. I hope they became wiser, discovered insight, found new purpose, retrained, had families .....

"I mean when you put that top tune on and said "this ones for you" I couldn't stop myself jumping up and giving the door a good old bang. Thanks very much as it was. Totally appreciated." 

"Nice one for the Shouts and Toons. Keep me going and many alike. So once again keep it coming fast .... I used to go to the After Dark at Morley. I'm sure you know the place. Kicking ant it?.  That's how come I ended up in this predicament. Just a sound geezer trying to keep the smiling faces around."

"So just like to set one thing straight, if it wasn't for your set Armley jail just wouldn't be the same at the weekend. So keep doing what you do best and keep those kicking vibes coming our way. So from all the inmates and especially myself. Max respect."

"Dearest Tantra ... Well I'm listening and kicking and its down to you. You can imagine it would be a downer in jail but know there's always hope and mine is your set so do your best and put my shouts over the air." (female)

"The show is excellent as ever so keep them sounds coming. As long as you're playing them. I'm smiling."

I even dare to think that my radio show - the emotive power of the music I played - gave these inmates hope to start afresh, or at least to imagine new possibilities. Was it conceited of me to think that? I hope not.

Thanks for tuning in .....

So once upon a time, what did you enjoy (or dislike) doing, seeing or creating? It could be anything. What were you like many moons ago? Do you have a once upon a time story to tell or picture to share? It could be a happy, sad or humorous tale. The skies the limit. So do Link up below and grab the badge code ... and don't forget to tweet #onceuponatime. This is a monthly meme.

Grab the badge code ...

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#Once upon a time - I Was A DJ.

Once upon a time .....

I stood in a DJ booth weaving a musical story to hundreds and sometimes thousands of punters on a pair of technics 1210's. Sometimes I went to work at 10.00 pm, sometimes at 2.00 am or sometimes even at 4.00 am. My office was a dark subterranean chamber impregnated with hypnotic rhythms, pounding bass and punctuated by a kaleidoscope of swirling illuminations, and the camera flashing winks of a dazzling strobe. Before me a swarming throng of misshapen silhouettes hugging, dancing, whooping, gyrating.  Arms swaying like seaweed at high tide or fists joyously punching the air as if a favourite team had scored a hat trick. Hands transformed into angular fish like shapes that carved out intertwining forms in the energetic pulse of the club atmosphere. A flowing togetherness. A community of loved up glowing clubbers sharing the same experience; MUSIC.

This was acid house. A nation of post indie rockers had finally learnt to dance.

It was no accident I became a DJ. I'd always loved music and made mix tapes for friends. I'd gravitated to boyfriends in bands. The arrival of acid house in '88 prised me away from my indie rock credentials and opened my eyes to unadulterated rhythm. And I was a 'keen member' of the, wait for it, Rave Society at University. It goes without saying that I didn't study very much in my third year.

Then I turned 21 and threw my savings and birthday money on a pair of technics record decks which in '92 didn't come cheap. It took me a while to master blending the beats of two records together. The moment I finally accomplished this nimble fingered skill sent a fated lightening bolt down my spine. Intuitively, I knew in the depths of my bones that DJ'ing was my life calling. Destiny.

My DJ moniker was Tantra.

And so it began. My singular vision to become a professional DJ sent a synchronistic wheel in motion attracting a belly full of opportunity; I met other DJ's, played at numerous house parties, and then I landed my first residency on a local pirate radio station. Tantra's dulcet tones transmitted on the airwaves of West Yorkshire but I wisely let the grooves do the talking. Mix tapes went out, club promoters bugged and DJ agencies joined. My first club gig was a night in Liverpool - I rocked it.

I was in the right place at the right time. I was in a minority; a talented female DJ, and I milked this for all its worth. My career snowballed as I played in clubs across the UK and Europe. My music of choice was deep house and techno; everything from Kraftwerk inspired European trance to the disco influenced, funk infused minimalism of Detroit electronica. I built a solid reputation for long, seamless mixes and emotive sets which undulated in musical style, tone and pace.

I spent my weeks making hallowed pilgrimages to record shops. My favourite was Eastern Bloc Records in Manchester. The boys there were great. An assorted pile of 12"s always greeted me when I eagerly rushed through the doors every Wednesday morning. I ate vinyl. I was what was affectionately termed as an anorak. I had a record collection of 1000's organised meticulously into different genres, labels and artists.

The memories are myriad ...

The comforting aromas wafting from Parisian bakeries at 6.00 am as weary street sweepers cleared the detritus from the night before. Racing precariously through a pot holed field on a bear hunt for the location of a very secret party. Bottle green dragon flies on a Southern French hill top hovering unnoticed over bobbing heads, and brightly painted faces in the soft light of dawn.

I played in a bunker in East Germany. I played on a moving float at the Zurich Love Parade; the streets overflowing with dancing, cheering, empty beer cans. I once played a gig in Germany on Christmas day - I can recall the eerie desertion of Manchester airport, the festive dish of rare beef and sauerkraut with the club promoter and her father. The strangest gig was an outdoor rave at 8.00 am. Can you imagine having breakfast and then spinning your best vinyl to, by that time of day, a hoard of messy, unappreciative clubbers? My biggest event was spinning a nerve wracking opening set to 20,000 ravers in Germany. That was a buzz on every level. But my favourite gigs were the homegrown ones, the smaller clubs, and playing to my friends.

And then one year it all crumbled. I met HIM. Not Younger Dad. But a rotten apple. An apocalyptic messenger of heartbreaking change. When I resurfaced a year or so later I found myself at the back end of my twenties with a withering career. Like parched paper evaporating in a flame, the European gigs shrivelled up. I was past my shelf life.

I moved to London. I worked in a grey office somewhere in Aldgate. I tried to revive my career and continued playing at a few select clubs here and there. I even promoted my own night. Then one day, somewhere in my mid thirties, I decided that enough was enough. I'd lost interest in late nights, parties and the must have release. It was time for something new. So I settled back and let life's compass point me in a fresh direction.

I treasure the fun times I had, the friends I met and the cultures I tasted. But I still live with a small handful of sadness. Where would I have been if I hadn't met HIM? But then life seems to have a mysterious trajectory for all of us. Its only when we look back that we can clearly see the road map that led us to this particular point. One thing I can confidently say is that if I'd carried on DJ'ing I wouldn't have met Younger Dad or held Little A in my arms. This is how it was meant to be ..... in the end I was intended for motherhood.

One day I will be able to regale Little A with all my turntable adventures.

Once upon a time her mummy was a cool DJ.

So once upon a time, what did you enjoy (or dislike) doing, seeing or creating? It could be anything. What were you like many moons ago? Do you have a once upon a time story to tell or picture to share? It could be a happy, sad or humorous tale. The skies the limit. I've decided to turn this into a monthly meme blog hop thing. So do Link up below and grab the badge code ... and don't forget to tweet #onceuponatime.

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#Art I Heart - Friendship

H is my closest and dearest friend. Our friendship presently spans 22 years. We met through a mutual acquaintance at university. If you met us you might think we were chalk and cheese but our chemistry works. There are similarities in our personal histories and we are both independent and creative women. To this day I don't think we have ever missed each others birthdays. H isn't just a friend though, she is family and my most trusted confidant.

Amongst her many qualities H is dependable, down to earth, a great listener, a skilled thinker, empathic, warm hearted, cultured and particularly well read.  She is also a very talented visual artist. I am very proud to say that I own three of her original artworks that each mark an important moment in my life.

I think H gave me this piece when I was either 21 or 22. I love the earthy textures and colours, and the way the paint has been manipulated and scratched away. We were both post graduates at this point. H escaped the desolation of a ramshackle Lancashire farmhouse to come and live with me and a bunch of other twenty somethings in an even more run down terraced house in the post graduate and burglar friendly enclave of Hyde Park, Leeds.

These were very happy and creative times.

H found an art studio and networked with other local artists. I was a burgeoning DJ. H always accompanied me to my weekly radio show on Dream FM; a pirate station which was particularly popular with the petty inmates of Armley jail as my fan mail will testify.

Anyway we had far too much time on our hands. It was an era of leisurely ease, late nights and large vats of vegetable pasta. Our home became ground zero for many a riotous house party. A lot of fun and buffoonery was had.

This was my 30th birthday present from H. Its a small pencil sketch based on one of her larger pieces. By our third decade H had become an established artist and had moved to London with her long term partner to participate in a three year art residency scholarship based in the East End. I moved to the big smoke during my thirty first year. I still DJ'ed occasionally but was now in the throes of reinventing myself as a tai chi floating, yoga bending, corporate clad 'jobs to pay the rent' woman. 

Our early thirties was a period when H and I spent many a Sunday afternoon engrossed in conversation on Hampstead Heath or encased in the inviting darkness of a North London cinema. I've lost count the number of movies we've seen together. I don't want to picture the mountainous heap of sweet pop corn that got scoffed. Actually H never really ate pop corn, she always used to smuggle in a packet, or three, of Mintolas. I've no idea where she purchased them from. I still haven't located anywhere in London that stocks them.

We once found ourselves rather spectacularly lost on Hampstead Heath. It was a damp, drizzly November day. H and I had decided upon an afternoon amble as part of my 31st celebrations. The idea of a bracing walk had seemed like a good one. Not when we found ourselves in a directional muddle and at the mercy of our map reading skills. The icy drizzle morphed into vengeful rain pellets that targeted us with missilic gusto. Then the swift arrival of an inky dusk mid afternoon sent us into a tail spin. Tree branches that had offered a protective canopy in the daylight now clawed menacingly over our heads. There was no one else about but our nervous selves as we trudged aimlessly round and round the same path. It all got a little Blair Witch. After an hour we eventually found the exit and the reassuring sight of H's car. Still, the afternoon had not been not in vain. It made several generous servings of victoria sponge and a mug of strong brew back at H's taste all the more sweeter.

This masterpiece is my wedding gift from H. I always secretly hoped she would bequeath Younger Dad and I an original canvas to mark our nuptials. And I wasn't disappointed. On the day before our wedding H arrived in her car and unloaded a very large and beautifully wrapped square shape.

"No" I gasped. I couldn't believe it. I was ecstatic.

Inside our living room, I carefully prised the delicate tissue off to reveal an H original.

H and I spent a decadent afternoon together getting pampered at the Cow Shed. Then the night before the ceremony we kicked back, ate food, drank sparkling wine and watched Wood Allen.

We also talked about the years gone by and our hopes and fears for the future.

Friends.

I love H's work and not just because she is my best friend. I love her subject matter; the relationship between architecture and urban space. I really like the way she plays with perspective and cleverly incorporates industrial materials into her pieces.

H was the best woman at my wedding and will be for the rest of my days. I honestly can't imagine life without her.

Ten months separate H and I in age and do you know what is so poetic? Ten months now separate the age between our daughters. And we are both God Mothers to each others children.

This post is dedicated to H. A wonderful, wonderful friend.

I am linking up this post with Midlife Single Mum's very imaginative Art I Heart meme. The idea is that you choose one piece of art you feel drawn to and write a short story about it. Although in this case it was three pictures and long rambling prose.