Looking back, I’m mildly astonished by my younger self. Not in a boastful way. More in the same way one looks at an old photograph and thinks, good grief, was that really me?

I wasn’t a ladies’ man. I never thought of myself that way. I just seemed, mysteriously, to have a lot of girlfriends. Sometimes consecutively. Occasionally… not quite.

At one point I had two, and both turned up at the same pub on the same night. How I survived that encounter remains one of life’s unsolved mysteries. There were no apps back then, no constant messaging, no digital footprints. Fate, however, had excellent timing and a wicked sense of humour.

In fairness, I should probably mention that I was also a DJ in the 1970s.

That may have had something to do with it.

I worked mainly for charities, events for Guide Dogs for the Blind and the like. It wasn’t glamorous in the modern sense, but in those days, standing behind a pair of turntables with a microphone gave you a certain… visibility. Music has always been a powerful thing. It brings people together, loosens the edges of the world, and occasionally rearranges one’s social life quite dramatically.

The girlfriends themselves were never carbon copies.

There was a rocker like me, cut from the same denim and noise.

 A prim and proper one, who looked faintly astonished by my existence.

 A formidable PC Plod, fearsome enough to make grown men behave.

 A nurse from a mental institute, tall, big-boned, long blonde hair, and a laugh like a foghorn that could fill a hall without amplification.

Summer weekends blurred into a rhythm of parties, charity dances, music, laughter, and late nights. Life felt wide open. Endless. Slightly indestructible.

During the week, I wore a three-piece suit and worked in an office as a senior executive. My hair hung down to my shoulders. Nobody seemed to mind. Or perhaps nobody quite knew what to do about it. I suspect I confused people.

My constant companion was my white and black Triumph 2000. The love of my life at the time. Not transport so much as freedom on four wheels. It never asked questions. It never left. It never chose someone else.

Except, of course, people did.

There was one special lady. The kind you don’t forget, not because of drama, but because of quiet truth. We had a brief summer together. She had a boyfriend in London. In the end, she chose him and moved south, away from my home in Leicester.

No villains. No bitterness. Just one of those moments where life gently closes a door and expects you to carry on.

And I did.

What strikes me now, with the benefit of years and perspective, is not the romance or the chaos or even the music. It’s something else entirely.

I was always watching.

Watching people on dance floors, at bar tables, in quiet corners when the song slowed down. Watching how they moved together, drifted apart, laughed, argued, loved, and left. I didn’t know why I was doing it. I thought it was just curiosity.

It turns out I was learning.

Learning how humans work. Learning how joy and heartbreak sit side by side. Learning that people can be strong, ridiculous, kind, terrifying, and beautiful all at once. Learning that moments don’t have to last forever to matter deeply.

Those days are gone now, as they should be. They belong where they are. But they weren’t wasted. Not one of them.

They were lessons. I just didn’t know the subject yet.

Copyright © Tom Kane 2026