At weekends they hung around the eastern beaches, working on their tans, the warm bleed of Fleetwood Mac or The Eagles seeping from car radios. I imagined they’d all marry each other and never leave.
November came and went and winter gaped ahead of me. The hostel was somewhere to sleep and a place to leave my things, but there was no comfort there.
Hearing the music in its original context, I could appreciate it anew and it made me think about how mutable songs were. How a stormy day might crank up the angst in a track, the way putting on a particular jumper could change the colour of your eyes.
I don’t feel the need to bump a Smiths track when it comes up on shuffle, for no-one can tear asunder what Morrissey and Marr put together all those years ago.