Everything was beautiful and nothing hurt

The books I never read because I thought I had all the time in the world. The empty wardrobe, hangers clanging together like a skeleton. The imprinted pillow. The birthday cards I kept. The phone that never rings. The two last coffee mugs on the dish stand. The un-played guitar. The whisky bottles. A calendar event that will never arrive. The shoes in the hallway. The towel in the bathroom. The posh coffee. The starless sky. The dying alarm clock. The knitted character. A pile of bedtime books. A cork-board of memories. Echoes of laughter. Quiet. Things I'll always regret.

I'll never leave this

The happiest night of my life wasn't particularly special. Nothing happened, and it wasn't life-changing. Just an ordinary night out in London, an indiepop club run by friends, in the very first days of summer just like this one.

The previous night, I had been handed a 7 inch single - the very first record released by my band - and taken it home to study carefully. I thought about how this was way beyond my wildest ambitions, and I remembered that one of the things on my mental list of things to do before I die was to audition for a band. I could never have dreamed that I would go through with that, let alone be accepted into a band, and then another, and play some gigs, and release a record on an actual record label. These were all things that other people did, people I kept pictures and articles of and would never dare speak to in real life. It was hard to take in.

That night at the club, I rambled on for yonks to my friend Stuart who seemed to laugh a lot. That's what I remember most about that night - everyone was smiling or laughing. Faces were beaming and red and sweaty from dancing and drinking. We sang our hearts out and there wasn't a single person in that room that I didn't love so much that I could have cried a million tears over them. Outside afterwards, in the middle of the sticky dirty west end, nobody wanted to go home. It was warm and still and people were buzzing and flirting around those boys from Finland. Records were exchanged and plans were made and the future suddenly looked bright and clear as crystal. I realised at that moment that nothing - not a single thing - was wrong, and I almost threw up at the thought, because it felt terrifying somehow. Instead I just for a moment stood and looked at the scene so I could remember it always. I thought about how I wanted these people to be my friends for the rest of my life, and to be able to do this for the rest of my life. 

On days like this, early summer days in London with the hum of the traffic and distant sirens and warm air and Cats On Fire playing through my speakers, the memory of that night makes me feel sick with nostalgia, and although I'm unsure I'll ever get that feeling again; that nothing is wrong, I'm grateful that it happened to me at all.