#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.

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Tasting Better

I have to say, that I like being forty two. It tastes better than forty one. Maybe I prefer even numbers or maybe forteee twooo just sounds better, rolling off my tongue with an air of grace and sophistication and cleverness, or so I like to think. I barely uttered forty one to anyone but with forty two, I generously hand out the number like it's my Twitter handle (or my blog page). I simply like being forty two; it's how a good curry should taste the following day or a perfectly brewed cup of tea or a moist, crumbly slice of cake. It wears well on my skin, a realistic fit upon the comfy rolls of flesh. Perhaps I'm accepting middle age? Perhaps I've stopped resisting the linearity of time? Or perhaps I'm completely deluded? 

Twenty years ago, I'd just stepped into my twenty third year. It seems offensively young now. With stars and hope and intensity in my eyes - amplified by precocious swagger - I thought I had life sussed. Dream on younger self. If I could wind back time, I might impart the following wisdom to the more arrogant, impulsive version of me...

On the other hand, what's the point? I could share such philosophical insights as to the paradoxical nature of existence - how life is as random and meaningless as it's connected and laden with synchronicity - but I know younger me won't pay the slightest morsel of attention. Just know this twenty two year old fledgling, it generally all works out in the end, and stop blowing all your money on records, you need clothes too!

Anyway, returning to the present, my birthday falls exactly a month before Christmas, and is usually a rain soaked affair. This year I awoke to filmy blue skies and a pale yellow sun at half mast, a sure sign it was going to be a fine day. And I wasn't disappointed, my birthday haul included a stack of novels and a brand new camera no less! Who's a lucky hen then?

Younger Dad, Little A and I went for a stroll in our local park followed by a succulent roast beef lunch with all the trimmings at a local gastro pub. It was a very relaxed celebration, and as Younger Dad had taken a week off work, it turned out to be a very eventful week indeed with some surprising and not so surprising realisations...

(You'd better be paying some attention to this twenty two year old me.) 

I'm now a veteran at handling episodes of vomiting. Little A began throwing up on the night of my birthday. It began in earnest at 3.00 am - I will wake up and throw up and wake up again, and then, I will throw up and vomit and throw up again - with the last hurl around 8.00 am. Apart from the initial burst of undigested scramble egg, no other changed sheets were necessary. How so? Well I cocooned myself in a warm duvet next to her cot, and as soon as I heard a sniff of a stir, a croaky "mummy", I grabbed her in a torpedo hold, raced her to the bathroom - making it by the skin of my teeth - so that she could take aim over the side of the bath. By 9.00 am Little A had returned to life, raring to go on a bowl of Cheerios...    

As mothers, WE DESERVE the finer things in life. I don't feel I need to add much more to this other than I spent quality time rehousing my sullen wardrobe and treating myself to skin care luxury. I felt very worth it indeed.  

Little A is very, very loud... 

"THE DOGGEEE IS GOING TO GET STICK MAN. THE GIRL IS GOING TO GET STICK MAN. STICK MAN'S IN THE SEA. LOOK, IT'S SANTA CLAUS - IT'S SANTA CLAUS MUMMEEEE. IT'S SANTA CLAUS!!!! I'VE BEEN A GOOD GIRL - I'M GOING TO GET PRESENTS TOO!"

These were just some of  Little A's urgent cries during her very first trip to the theatre. In case you hadn't guessed, we took her to see a very charming live performance of Julia Donaldson's Stick Man. It was a joy to witness my daughter's sheer exuberance as she whooped and cheered and added her commentary throughout the unfolding story. And so wonderful to view the show through her captivated eyes.

I CAN roll with the punches. Change usually bothers me, especially if it's big change, and I will procrastinate until the final hour. But by the end of last week, our flat was on the market, and by the end of tomorrow we will have offered on another property. Not in a million years would I have predicted this as the outcome of my birthday week. And I have really surprised myself at how, so far, I've taken this turn of events in my stride. It feels very good. The timing is right. It's full steam ahead as we've boxed, cleared stuff out, booked decorators and carpet cleaners, made our flat spacious and presentable. So it's been a very busy time in our household, and the main reason I've been so quiet on the blogging front of late... 

Do you like your age?
What things did you learn last week?

#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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#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.

Grab the badge code ...

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