There was no mirror large enough in the squat to practise my snarl into, but I did it in the mirrors at work instead. As a member of staff I got free swimming passes too, and I went three times a week to swim and, more importantly, shower afterwards, the song lyrics churning through my head in constant earworms as I ploughed up and down the lane. I took all my dirty knickers into the shower with me once a week and washed them with the same shampoo I used on my hair.

I did that on the morning of the gig – I wanted at least to have clean hair and pants for my debut. We’d practised so hard for it and, even though I said so myself, we weren’t half bad. Webbo had borrowed a mate’s drum kit, and the pub already had a backline so we had everything we needed. As I dried my hair with the wall dryer in the women’s changing room, my nostrils were filled with the scent of chlorine and my brain with the random to-do list of what needed completing before showtime: write set lists; take Pete for a pint to calm him down after he’d seen the squat; shoplift some gaffer tape as we were nearly out; put make-up on; inspect the sheet on my mattress to make sure it wasn’t too revolting, since Pete and I would have to top and tail; fill my oil lamps up so we’d have some light when we got home; buy – or nick – shoelaces for my DMs as the old ones kept breaking…

I didn’t approve of stealing anything, by the way, and always wrote the purloined items down in the back of my diary. As soon as I had any money, I bought the same thing somewhere else and replaced it on the shelf of the original shop I’d nicked it from.

I’d wanted to make a banner bearing our name, to put behind Webbo’s drum kit, but I wouldn’t have time for this gig and I didn’t have a spare sheet or any black paint. We’d called ourselves Cohen, which was the name of the people who used to live in the flat before we took it over. Their post still arrived in surprising quantities and we burned it all in the brazier. It never looked like anything interesting.

I turned the corner into our terrace, these thoughts still chasing themselves through my mind, and was about twenty feet along the pavement before I noticed the tall figure of the woman ahead, shoulders bowed by the heavy rucksack on her back, red hair obscured by the roll of her sleeping bag…

‘Samantha!’ I shouted joyfully, pounding towards her as she turned and opened her arms wide, beaming at me.

I threw myself at her. ‘You came back!’

‘Of course, honey – as if I’d miss your first show!’