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The first time , I was 10. She was on Top Of The Pops, sailing through Sydney in an open-top silver car, wearing a black and white stripy top, her blonde curly hair swirled around by the wind, tall concrete buildings and bridges shooting by behind her. I thought she was the most glamorous person I had ever seen, and I remembering my mother if I could have a perm. She said no, and I sulked.
The second time, I was 16. We were in Martha's, a dodgy club in Swansea, sneaking in, underage. I was drinking a Malibu and Coke – I liked the coconut, but not that strange taste beneath it – and I remember my mascara feeling stiff on my eyelashes. A video screen was playing above the bar, above the crowds of grown-up boys, and I remember looking at it nervously. She was on it, looking like a brightly coloured cartoon character, wearing red lipstick, yellow fur, with lilac, glittery eyelids. "Lonely?", asked the video. "Do You Hurt?" "Sad?" I remember the song's strange, Indian strings shimmering through the bar, me sucking on my straw, letting them soothe me.
The last time, I was 23. It was a bright, Saturday morning in the summer, and we had got up late, drinking tea in our dressing gowns, watching CDUK. She was in a car again going across a bridge – but this time it was yellow, and she was moving the gears. La la la, la la la la la. I called Barry in from the kitchen – quick, quick, quick, this is brilliant – just as she appeared in her white robes, split to here, there and everywhere, and I still remember his wide eyes, our laughs echoing around the living room, our ears alert and alive.
I still love the way that a favourite song can come into your life when you're least expecting it. That the moments that they come be simple as these, as profane as they are profound.
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