We cottoned on early that there were certain bars that the musicians liked to hang out in and certain cafes too but most of them are long gone so it would be pointless to tell you about them and heartbreaking too, the booths with the torn leather seats, the shakers stopped up with damp clusters of salt, the chipped Formica tables, all vanquished in favour of faceless coffee shops full of idiot middle-class couples and pregnant mums. On Saturday evenings, after lying around in Johnny’s living room playing our latest purchases – The Modern Dance by Pere Ubu or Like Flies on Sherbert by Alex Chilton, which still sounds perverse and macabre, like a suicide note where you’re not sure whether it’s a joke or it’s for real – we would head out to one of the bars and mooch around and scope the scene. Occasionally we would bump into Big Patty and we’d both feign surprise, wow, what are you doing here, we hang out here all the time, etc. It got to the point that we struck up a real friendship, which at first was exciting. I’m in, I thought, bohemia here I come.