Memories Are Made Of This

Winning tickets for my wife and I to see Joan Armatrading yesterday set both our minds back more years than we would care to remember.

Over twenty years ago, as described here, we had met as trade union reps. There was an immediate attraction. I gave her my number. (My home number, mobile phones were the size of bricks and only for the ultra-rich). She rang for a date. Before I knew it, she had invited me on a little trip she was planning, and I had accepted.

A friend of hers was going to work in India. With Mother Theresa. My future wife was going to fly out and visit her. Thus it was that shortly after I had met my Better Half To Be, I was packing a rucksack and preparing for a month traveling from Calcutta north to Darjeeling, then up to Nepal, stopping in Kathmandu before flying back to Calcutta again.

I had never even been on a plane before.

Part of our luggage was a small recording Walkman cassette player with a built-in mono speaker. We only took five tapes with us, and they provided a soundtrack to that trip. What were the tapes?

Face Value (Phil Collins)

Chicken Skin Music (Ry Cooder)

Little Creatures (Talking Heads)

Planxty (Planxty)

And, Of Course, Joan Armatrading.