BEATS OF LOVE 

94. Honey Sanba by Katsuyuki ItakuraTrio

AS AN ex smoker I'm constantly plagued by smoking dreams where I'm puffing away in a state of contentment, only to wake up in a guilty cold sweat. Before thankfully realising that was another life. 

A life of unfathomably long bus commutes to get me to work and back. It's little wonder I subconsciously recall the often torn brown and orange stitching on the upstairs seats where I puffed away far more than the nightlife that first drew me into the metropolis. 

For four years, my kid sister encouraged me to try a new life there, but the fear of being too broke to buy records stopped me. I finally went to live in my mate's back bedroom. My job was intact and now much nearer to home. 

When I was being made redundant (22 years after I'd hoped), it seemed like all that record buying would permit me the chance to own a little vinyl cafe. When the redundancy finally happened, covid was happening and then when it wasn't, the cost-of-living crisis happened. I figured only a reckless dreamer would pursue such a risky endeavour. Not me then. 

A life of unfathomably tough 3am starts keeps me in my current job, but I still count all my many blessings. Like buying brilliant records like this. A solid, physical anchor in a life no longer built on smoke.

BEATS OF LOVE 

93. Hold Me Now (Extended) by Thompson Twins

I WORE my late father’s wedding ring until 2010, when a swollen finger meant it had to be cut off. 

I gave it to my ex to hold onto while I planned to reshape it into my own wedding band. She pawned it. Though that betrayal should have been the end, I didn't find the strength to leave until I had a profound conversation with my mother’s partner. It remains deeply poignant to me that these two men, my father through his legacy, and my mother’s partner through his support, instrumentally shaped the decision that allowed me to finally move on.

I cannot multitask. If I had to balance everything, SFH would have ended. Its ten-year survival, with only one bad day of online abuse, is entirely thanks to the missus. She accepts my slow pace but is now holding me to my promise to sell records again. I used post-Brexit complications as an excuse to stop. Once that's sorted, we even plan to host occasional club nights.  

Detached from my story, I sometimes look at my life from a distance, needing a reminder of my history. I remember the dark-haired version of me, cradled through anxiety by my mother and kid sister. That grace never faded, outlasting my youth and surviving my mother’s death. Now, backed by my missus’s fierce and unflinching faith, I should be invincible. While men guided me through my opening chapter, it is the women who authored my future. 

Here is to the women in my life, to this fresh new chapter. Let loving start.