Jean Jeanne, let yourself go!

I’d been away for several weeks on holiday in the South of France . Jeanne, my then girlfriend, hadn’t seen me in such a long time. I picked her up in my mustard coloured Morris Marina it had been inherited from my grandfather and was actually my very first car.

Jeanne, came down the stairs wearing a long overcoat and very high heels, made up to the nines. We said goodbye to her mother and father and promised not to be too late home, we only planned to go to the pub after all, what with it being a weekday evening.

Once in the car Jeanne leaned over and gave me a long lingering kiss.

“I missed you” she said “I hope you behaved yourself whilst you were away”.

“Of course I did” I lied, pushing the guilty thoughts of the lovely Norwegian blonde firmly out of my mind “I really missed you too babe”.

“Good, I’ve got a surprise for you later” Jeanne winked at me as she spoke.

“Great” I said “Can I eat it, wear it, or play with it?”

“Maybe all three” she laughed conspiratorially.

“I’ve got a little something for you too” I said “It’s on the back seat”.

She reached over as I started the engine and grabbed the plastic carrier bag that was lying there. I pulled the car out onto the road and started the familiar route towards Windsor town centre from Jeanne’s house.

Jeanne looked eagerly into the bag. “What is it?” she gasped. She pulled out a carton of 200 cigarettes. “Ooooh duty-free fags, thanks babe!” she leaned over and pecked me on the cheek in gratitude.

“The other stuff is for you too”.

She reached back into the bag and pulled out a miniature bottle of Brandy and a small furry toy sea lion. The sea lion bore the legend ‘St. Tropez je t'aime’.

“Aaaah that’s really sweet, thank you babe, you’re spoiling me”. Jeanne leant over again and gave me another kiss on the cheek.

“So what’s my surprise then?” I glanced toward her raising my eyebrows in a quizzical fashion.

“You’ll find out later, won’t you, if I tell you it won’t be a surprise” Jeanne smiled.

We spent the rest of the evening in the Adam and Eve pub, outside in the garden. Jeanne was still wearing her long overcoat and insisted she couldn’t take it off, saying she was too cold, although it was only September and still quite warm out. I told her all about my holiday exploits, taking care to miss any mention of tall, voluptuous Norwegian one-night stands.

Later as our friends began to drift in we chatted excitedly with them and I caught-up on what had been happening locally whilst I’d been away. Topics covered consisted of who was now going out with whom; what fantastic parties I’d missed; who was having the next great party and all that sort of idle chatter. Other people in the pub admired my tan and asked me where I’d been. I was quite enjoying all the attention that not having been around for a while was getting me.

I was driving so I could only have a couple of drinks and I nursed my two pints of refreshingly cold Guinness over the course of the evening until well after the bell for last orders. Before we knew it the landlord was hovering over us pointedly collecting our empty glasses and ushering us towards the exit. Outside the pub we bade farewell to our friends and made our way back to where the car was parked, near to the local rugby club in grounds called the Home Park in the shadow of Windsor Castle.

As we reached the car Jeanne embraced me and we kissed long and hard and then she whispered in my ear “Move the car to the far end of the car-park where it’s dark and I’ll give you your surprise”.

I didn’t need any further encouragement. We jumped into the Marina and I moved it 100 yards further into the car park where there was no lighting, and no other cars. I stopped the car, pulling on the handbrake and turned off the engine and the headlights. “No leave the headlights on!” Jeanne insisted as she leaned over and kissed me again. “Now get out of the car” she murmured seductively in my ear.

We both alighted from the car and Jeanne walked around the front toward the bonnet. She motioned for me to follow her lead and we met in front of the car. She told me to sit on the bonnet as she walked a little further away framed by the headlights. I sat watching her as she turned around slowly facing me.

“Are you ready for your surprise now?” she asked.

“You betcha!” I said eagerly .

Jeanne began to unbutton her coat slowly and sensuously, once all the buttons were undone she suddenly flung it open in the manner of a flasher to reveal that she was wearing nothing but a figure-hugging black lacy basque with black lacy topped stockings and suspenders and absolutely no knickers. She was certainly a sight for sore eyes.

I let out a gasp “Wow!” I exclaimed “Is that all for me?”.

“It’s all yours babe!” Jeanne cooed as she walked back towards me, settling beside me on the bonnet of the Marina.

“You’ve been dressed like that all evening under that overcoat and I didn’t have a clue” I said.

“I know!” she gushed “and it felt soooo sexy in the pub, with nobody knowing but me, It’s got me really worked up. I’m at fever pitch already. I'm wetter than an otter's pocket!”.

We kissed passionately for a short while, fondling and groping each other and then I took off her overcoat completely and spread it carefully over the bonnet of the car. Jeanne needed no further direction from me as to what to do next. She lay back on top of her coat, spread-eagled on the bonnet of my car. I loosened my belt and drank in the glorious sight before me. It was enough to arouse genuine passion in any man, but for this lucky twenty year old it unleashed an unbridled and urgent desire. My trousers and underwear quickly around my ankles I grasped Jeanne around both stocking clad thighs and pulled her swiftly toward me.

It was several minutes later that I noticed the reflection of headlights lit up in the foliage of the trees ahead. At first, abandoned in the throes of an all encompassing and passionate embrace, it didn’t really register. Then the noise of a car engine grew louder and my higher brain functions kicked in, detaching me from the overwhelming feelings of lust and pure animal desire which had swamped my lizard brain. But it wasn’t until the familiar sight of flashing blue lights started that the real higher reasoning took over and I managed to disengage from my partner and hurriedly pull up my trousers, whilst somehow in the same moment, running around to the driver’s side door of my car. Jeanne had also realized that we were no longer alone and struggling to pull her coat back on was also making her way to the passenger door and the safety and comfort of the car interior. We both jumped in simultaneously and shut the doors. Sitting bolt upright totally startled, desperately adjusting our clothing; still panting hard from our physical efforts and the subsequent adrenaline rush of being disturbed whilst in the act.

We were lit up by the headlights approaching slowly from the passenger side of the car and a rhythmic flash of blue light. I sat stock still as the police car pulled up gradually alongside us.

The policeman sitting in the passenger seat of the police car now next to me lowered his window and motioned for me to do the same. I complied and was greeted by the smirking faces of two officers.

“Evening!” said the first officer.

“Good evening officer!” I countered.

“So what’s going on here then, as if we didn’t know” the officer sniggered sarcastically. Both policemen were finding it hard to keep a straight face and were obviously enjoying our discomfort and embarrassment.

The policeman in the driver’s seat lifted his torch and shone it directly into Jeanne’s face, now bright red with embarrassment, and then slowly down her now firmly buttoned coat. “Evening love” he grinned.

The first policeman looked sternly at me, “We’ve had a complaint” he said.

“Have you officer” I said politely.

“Yes” he confirmed “We have!” He continued “You do realize that this is 'Crown Estate' land?”

“No actually I didn’t” I lied.

“Well, it is, and Her Majesty doesn’t really appreciate that sort of…um…‘goings-on’ in her back garden”.

“Oh I’m sorry!” I bleated pathetically “I didn’t realize”.

“However, as you’ve both given us a good laugh and we’ve got something interesting to talk about in the canteen for a change, we’ll let you off with a warning this time”.

“Thank you officer” I nodded.

“Now get on your way, and try to choose somewhere a little less…um… conspicuous next time” he gestured towards the castle which filled the view behind us.

“Ok, we will” I nodded again submissively, as I started the engine and put the car in gear. “Thank you and goodnight then officers”.

“….and make certain the way ahead is clear before you pull out!” The officer shouted after me. I could hear their roars of laughter as I drove slowly away.

I pulled out onto the main road with the police car following behind us at a distance and turned to Jeanne “I think we just made their evening!” I sighed with relief.

“…..and I was just trying to make yours!” Jeanne snorted “That’s three for the price of one! Not bad!!”

Sweet, Certain Surprise.

The recent sad demise of John Martyn made my eyes mist with nostalgia for the many times he’s seduced my sensibilities through both recorded and live mediums. His skilful mastery of the amplified acoustic guitar and gravel soaked, free flowing vocal style, hooked me from the first moment I heard him. Although, I came very late to appreciate his skill; he’d already enjoyed a career of almost 20 years before he was inserted, quite readily, amongst my sphere of musical influences.

He'd arisen in the London Folk scene of the mid-sixties, impressing the cognoscenti right through to the height of his popularity with the release of 1973’s ‘Solid Air’; continuing on this glorious plateau until 1977’s ‘One World’ whereupon, like his marriage to wife Beverly, his career trajectory and popularity went into a declining arc. So it wasn’t until the difficult mid-eighties period, where there appeared to be no place left for his brand of elegant meandering and wistful folk-rock styling, when he would finally become indelibly installed into my consciousness.

It was late July 1984 and I can still recall hitchhiking with friends Marc and Nicola to ‘The Elephant Fayre’. A weekend rock festival held in the grounds of a stately home on the outskirts of Plymouth at Port Eliot, St. Germans in the stunning county of Cornwall.

Leaving on the Thursday evening it had taken us 24 hours to reach the festival campsite. Nicola had realised her mammoth mistake about halfway down, having struggled to get lifts all night long and most of the next morning accompanied, as she was, by us two big strapping geezers. She rather gleefully abandoned us at a service station near Bath when she was offered a ride the rest of the way to the ‘Fayre’ on the back of a rather forbidding Hells Angel’s Harley-Davidson. Nicola was at that stage in no mood to compromise whilst Marc and I, still within earshot of the aforementioned Hells Angel, were in no position to argue the wisdom of accepting lifts from large greasy, lank haired strangers.

Consequently, Marc and I having finally reached our destination on the Friday evening were relieved to find a thankfully unmolested but remorseless Nicola waiting patiently, with other mutual friends, for us to arrive with the tent and sleeping bags.

With darkness fast approaching, we hurriedly erected the tent on the only clear spot remaining for us: on the side of a hill with an alarmingly angled slope! This proved later to produce the hilarious result that we’d wake up each morning in our respective sleeping bags all scrunched together at the lower end of the tent.

Now that camp was precariously but expediently established we finally went off to explore the festival grounds. I was particularly keen to see a new and promising band called Prefab Sprout who’s album ‘Swoon’ I’d been playing non-stop since seeing them earlier in the year at a local gig in Brunel University’s Union Bar.

The Sprout’s set was very impressive and I wasn’t disappointed in the slightest by my second exposure to their quirky and loose live sound, even making allowances for Paddy McAloon's and Wendy Smith’s shaky vocals in this less than intimate of environments. Frequent listening to their recent album had already proven to me that they were more of a force to be reckoned with in the studio anyhow, and that the real gems in their repertoire lay in the sublime eloquence and outstanding poetry of McAloon’s lyrics. With lines like “Words are only trains, for moving past what really has no name” and “Man made the neon and he learned how to fly, but God made the stars when he fashioned the sky” he’d caught my imagination in a way very few other songwriters could.

Having seen the Sprouts I feared the rest of the weekend would be a musical anti-climax, however (unbeknownst to me at that point), by far the most outstanding and memorable performance of that weekend was still yet to come.

Sunday morning arrived yawningly sleepy and severely hung-over. We were all still a little groggy from the copious amounts of very cheap ‘scrumpy’ cider, we’d drunk directly and continuously from brown plastic demi-johns the previous evening. Our burps still tasting resolutely of alcoholic apples we’d found a quiet spot on a hillside, high above the main stage to while away the rest of the day. Later, having drunk a strong brew of ‘magic mushroom tea’ for lunch we continued to laze around in the brilliant sunshine, laughing, joking and horsing around but not really paying attention to the artists or what was actually happening on-stage.

I must’ve drifted into some sort of reverie whilst soaking up the warm rays of the mid-summer sun, lying back enjoying the smell of the fresh green grass of a typical English meadow. I hardly noticed the new act that appeared on the stage to entertain us, lost in delightful psilocybin induced hallucinations as I half closed my eyes squinting through my shades at the bizarre shapes formed by small fluffy cumulus clouds gently moving high above in an azure sky. The sound of guitars drifted from the main stage, it sounded like about three different, distinctly separate guitars actually, and then those gruff, yet somehow smoothly slurred, warm and honeyed vocal tones came drifting through the microphone along the wires to be equalised by the sound desk, through the amplifier and then out of the immense speakers to arrive promptly at my ear-holes and pervade deeply into my senses.

“Wow. This band is amazing!” was my first thought. I kept my eyes closed and continued to thoroughly enjoy the excellent sounds that seemingly washed over, through and all around me. I think it was two or even three songs into the set when I finally opened my eyes to further investigate exactly who it was that was enthralling me so much.

When I did I was shocked. There was John Martyn with acoustic guitar, completely alone and seated at the front of the stage, plugged into an array of effects pedals and electronic gadgetry by his feet. In my minds eye I’d envisioned a whole band of at least five people, such was the intensity of the polyrhythmic tunes that had engulfed my ears, but no just this one guy on guitar and vocals making all of that noise. I sat open-mouthed and amazed as John continued to entrance me and the rest of the festival audience with a set consisting of one incredible melodic song after another. He managed to somehow throw syncopation into the mix that sounded like a full percussion section playing along simultaneously, but was in fact just the odd slap from his hand or thumb against the guitar body or the click of his plectrum against the hard steel strings echoing continually via these effects boxes.

I later discovered that the secret of John’s particularly complex yet fluid ambient style was ‘Echoplex delay’, an effect he’d pioneered in electric folk music and was still using with devastating results.

That was why I thought I’d heard three distinctly different guitar sounds emanating from his single solo amplified acoustic guitar. That effect plus his skilful, super fast and lithe fretboard fingering produced a sound the like of which I’d never heard before, and boy was I hooked!

After that I collected every recording of his that I could lay my hands upon. The album ‘Solid Air’ is, in my humble opinion, a singular piece of recording perfection without even one duff track. Forty five minutes of mellow loveliness in which one can immerse oneself as if bathing in a vat of warm translucent caramel. I have particularly delightful memories of listening to this album on my first trip to Thailand, chilling with a ‘Sony Discman’ and a ‘thai-stick’ spliff in a hammock on a (virtually empty) tropical beach paradise. Life simply doesn’t get much better than that!

Many years later I found myself invited to a gig at ‘The Mean Fiddler’ in Harlesden. One of the resident soundmen there was a guy called Dave Florence, an Australian fellow affectionately and latterly known as ‘Aussie Dave’. I was, around that time, the manager of a rock band that regularly played there and ‘Aussie Dave’ had been so impressed by them that he’d offered to become the band’s resident soundman too. Thereafter he’d come with us to every gig venue at which we played, ensuring that our sound was the best imaginable despite the ambient, architectural or acoustic limitations he would be challenged with. Subsequently Dave and I developed a strong and lasting friendship and it was through this friendship that I received a phone message from him one day informing me that he’d put me on the guestlist for a forthcoming John Martyn gig at the ‘Fiddler’. I was naturally completely thrilled.

On the night of the gig it was rammed-full to the rafters, and I was grateful to Dave that he allowed me the privilege of watching everything next to him from behind the sound desk. The whole evening was absolutely amazing and John Martyn was on fine form, playing for at least 90 minutes, and even then being called back for a couple of encores. I’d taken the liberty of bringing my prized original ‘gatefold-sleeve’ copy of the ‘Solid Air’ LP with me, in the hope that Dave would be able to get it signed for me. Once all the commotion had died down after the gig Dave disappeared backstage with my album and a black marker pen to see if he could get John to sign it for me. I was absolutely bowled over when 10 minutes later Dave reappeared with the sleeve of this magnificent vinyl recording duly signed ‘To Rudi, One World! John Martyn’. It was a wondrous and breathtaking moment and I thanked Dave profoundly offering to buy him several beers later in gratitude.

“That’s not all”, he announced “He wants to meet you!”

“No way!” I said

“Fair dinkum mate.” Aussie Dave responded.

He gestured for me to follow him and, somewhat dazed, I did. We made our way backstage and Dave negotiated with security to let me have a backstage pass. As we approached the all too familiar dressing room door I turned to Dave.

“Hang on, I don’t know what to say to him”, I was confused and my brain just wasn’t functioning the way it should have been, addled at the prospect of meeting one of my all time favourite folk rock heroes.

“I’m sure you’ll think of something”, said Dave .

He opened the door with one hand and with the other planted firmly between my shoulder blades forcibly pushed me reluctantly into the dressing room.

I half stepped half stumbled blindly into the smoke filled room and was confronted with several seated people all of whom had stopped mid-conversation to stare at this sudden bumbling intrusion. In their midst sat the unmistakable figure of John Martyn.

“Er, Hi John…thanks for this” I vaguely waved the album at him.

“Oh that’s yours is it? My pleasure son, always nice to meet a true fan”, he answered in warm rounded-vowel tones of a pure London, almost ‘Cockney’ accent. “Take a seat”.

I looked around and saw a particularly moth eaten armchair, reeking with the sweat of thousands of spent musicians, and proceeded to sit down. My brain was stuck for ideas on what to say. I was desperately struggling to think of how I could adequately show my appreciation for this man and his music, whilst internally I was feeling like a befuddled and tongue tied 14 year old confronted with asking the girl of his dreams out on a first date.

“Excellent gig” I blurted out.

“Thanks” said John “Glad you enjoyed it!”

I could smell the heady aroma of marijuana in the air, several of John’s entourage were smoking joints and I could see that John himself had a roach between his fingers smouldering away. This gave me an idea of how better to proceed.

“Do you mind if I skin one up?” I asked.

“Course not” John nodded “The more the merrier!”

That’d made me feel slightly more comfortable. Rolling joints was one of my specialties and I just so happened to have three distinct types of cannabis with me. Moroccan; Soft Afghani Black and some Jamaican Sensimilia grass. I got out my large blue Rizla rolling papers and started to make a complex lattice work using John’s, freshly signed LP as a handy rolling surface. I was going to roll John one of my special around the world ‘Camberwell Carrots’.

Whilst I busied myself I listened to the conversation that John was now having with one of the entourage sitting in the room. It quickly became obvious that the four other people in the room were all Scottish. They were evidently friends of John’s from Glasgow. I knew from reading the liner notes on his albums that although John was born in Surrey, he’d spent his formative years, after his parents had divorced, living with his grandma in Glasgow. Subsequently he’d come back to London in his late-teens to become involved in the burgeoning London folk scene of the mid-sixties.

As I listened I realised that something a little strange was going on. When John spoke to his Glasgow friends he’d do so in a broad Glaswegian accent, using vernacular such as ‘blether’ and ‘scunnered'. Then in the same moment he’d turn to one of the backstage crew who’d just entered the room with a logistics question and answer him with a ‘Mockney’ London accent much like my own. I listened intently for a while bemused by this spectacle, when John had spoken to me he’d used the London accent and then switched back seamlessly to a Glaswegian accent to address his friends.

In a way I could relate to this, I have a talent for mimicking accents and often unconsciously do so when speaking to someone with an accent vastly different from my own. In fact I shared a flat for a while with a Scottish guy and rarely spoke to him in my true accent. So although John’s accent switching trick was familiar to me, it was nonetheless amusing to hear someone else doing it for a change.

I quickly finished rolling the vastly oversized joint, which I duly lit and then passed to John once it was well stoked. The rush hit my brain immediately after just a couple of short tokes, so I knew it was worthy of this legendary toker’s approval.

John accepted the oversized spliff from me eagerly and winked conspiratorially as he joked to his friends “Thanks man, but could you not have made it a wee bit bigger?”

His friends chuckled as John drew a deep lungful and then exhaled long and hard sending a billowing cloud of pungent thick grey smoke across the room.

“Woooooooooo” rasped John breathlessly “That’s nice and strong too, excellent work son!” He grinned at me and nodded his approval.

That felt good. As tongued tied and socially inadequate as I was in this great man’s company at least I was able to get him well and truly stoned.

I sat there for a while listening to the stories and memories from his Glaswegian friends, commenting politely now and then when I felt it was appropriate. My ‘mega-joint’ and several others were passed around sequentially in a circle and I finally started to feel comfortable amongst them as we all became more and more stoned together, chatting, laughing and joking.

After a while the harshness of all those doobies, made my mouth feel dry and I realised that I was the only one in the room without a drink. Not wishing to plunder John’s fast diminishing ‘rider’ I made my excuses, shook John’s and everybody else’s hand and left for the front-of-house bar in search of a thirst quenching pint of Guinness, pausing briefly to collect my newly signed copy of ‘Solid Air’ from beside the raggedy armchair.

I found Dave a little later, still behind the mixing desk and presented him with several bottles of beer that I’d just acquired from the bar. The grin on my face was akin to what our American cousins would call ‘shit eating’.

“Thanks Dave” I said "What an incredible evening. I can’t think of any way in which it could be improved upon.”

“I can”, smiled Dave as he reached over to the large silver TEAC machine next to the mixing desk and ejected a shiny new cassette which he then handed to me with a wink and a smile “Here's something nice to listen to on the way home.”

"That'd do it Dave", I sighed "That'd do it..."

Career Opportunities.

(or how the course of your life can hinge on a single unexpected phone call.)

Trrrrllll Trrrrlll.

The telephone was ringing.

“Hello!” I answered as I lifted the receiver to my ear.

A confident and businesslike yet mellifluous voice oozed from the earpiece.

“Is that Rudi Somerlove.”

“Yes” I responded affirmatively ‘Yes it is. Who is this?”

“Oh Hi, my name’s Charlotte Menzies. I work for an employment agency called Woodley Park Associates.”

“Hello Charlotte!”

“I was wondering how you are fixed for work at the moment?”

“Actually pretty good”, I replied “I’ve just recently started a new contract with British Gas."

“Oh that’s a shame”, Charlotte sounded disappointed “I have the perfect job here for you, their requirements match your C.V. like hand in glove…and it’s in Holland, well Rotterdam to be more precise.”

“Tell me some more”, I said. My curiosity aroused by the word ‘Holland’.

“Well it’s a long term contract working for a large Dutch bank, very attractive daily rate, thirty seven and a half hour week and like I said your qualifications and experience are absolutely perfect for this position. Are you interested?”

“Mmmm sounds really good but as I said I’ve just started a new contract with British Gas, the first day was last Monday actually.”

“Shame, because you are sooooo perfect for this.”

I silently cursed my luck. This is typical; I’d waited for ages for the British Gas contract and now that I’ve already started it something better comes along. Honestly they’re like buses, these contracts, you wait ages and then two turn up at once. Bugger!

“Yes it is a shame” I said “If only you’d rung a month ago; I’d have jumped at the chance to work in Holland. Oh well, never mind, that’s just my luck I suppose!”

“Ok then if I can’t persuade you I’ll just have to find someone else, but I doubt I’ll get someone as perfect a fit as you.”

“I’m sorry. Thanks for letting me know though, hopefully you’ll find something just as good for me once this British Gas contract finishes. Keep in touch, you never know.”

“Yes I will. OK, thanks anyway Rudi. Bye!”

The click of her replacing her receiver seemed to echo around my head, followed quickly by the dial tone buzzing noisily in my ear. I was still holding the receiver, clamped to the side of my face, in a trance. Did that just happen? Did I just turn down the chance to work in Holland? I must be mad! I started hitting the side of my head with the receiver repeatedly before putting it back firmly in the cradle where it belonged. Am I crazy? What did I just do? I stumbled out into the garden for a cigarette and tried to think through exactly what had just happened.

Holland, or more correctly The Netherlands had been my favourite European country for a long time now. Ever since my first visit on a family holiday when I was 10 years old and we visited family friends in Den Haag (The Hague) and camped briefly at Duinrell. Subsequently I’d revisited it several times since.

At the age of 19 a weekend trip to Amsterdam organised by the Students' Union at college had rekindled my love affair with the land of tulips and windmills, of course I found the Van Gogh Museum interesting but not half as interesting as the gorgeously painted ladies in the windows at De Wallen. Getting ripped-off buying liquorice instead of hashish from one of the copious and persistent street dealers hadn’t soured the experience either; it just made me much more wary for the next time (and somehow I knew there’d soon be a next time). After that there were in fact many trips over the years. Usually just weekends away here and there, but once to Utrecht.; an interesting detour (and a little bit of business) whilst ultimately hitchhiking to the South of France (again). Then there was a weekend with a band to see if we could get any gigs in Amsterdam, and also New Year’s Eve 1989 with my best buddy Paul and our respective girlfriends. Plus a ‘secret dirty weekend’ away with my company receptionist during a very brief love affair. All these varied occasions and also several soft drug and booze fuelled ‘Stag Weekends’ with family, friends and friends of friends. During these I’d use my considerable experience of navigating the city of Amsterdam to guide those that were less experienced around ‘Sin City’. So, by the time I was in my thirties, I felt I knew Amsterdam and the Netherlands pretty well and could even speak a couple of sentences of Dutch.

My experiences were always positive. I loved the people and the culture and the liberal attitude in Amsterdam. So different from the oppressive class-based restrictions I felt back in the U.K. I used to relish the walk towards Dam Square along the Damrak from Centraal Station; I’d always ask the rhetorical question to whosoever was with me at the time “Can’t you just taste the freedom in the air?” It was regularly the precursor to a few wonderful and fun-packed days. So, why all of a sudden was I quite readily declining the chance to live and work for a short time in my most favourite place in the entire world?

I’d been ‘resting’ for a while in-between contracts and I was so grateful that I now, at last, had well paid work with a large corporation again that I really felt like I shouldn’t push my luck. I stood there smoking a second cigarette whilst I mulled over my current situation. Cogitating intensely as I watched the wispy white smoke curling gently away from the burning tip.

There was no getting away from the fact that I’d already started a contract at British Gas although I’d actually only been there a week. I already felt a strong sense of loyalty to continue along the path I’d chosen, almost certainly misplaced, but professionally I felt that it was the right thing to do. I’m really not a flaky sort of person. Once I’m committed to something that’s it, for better or worse I’ll see it through. Then suddenly it struck me, I’d not yet actually signed the contract. Oh my goodness, there may be a way I can actually do this and keep my integrity intact.

My current agent had got me the position on the basis that there was an urgent requirement and I could start almost immediately. The paperwork still hadn’t been finalised and was sitting in the bureaucracy of British Gas’s administration system. Most likely awaiting authorisation, rubber stamping or whatever they had to do before I finally put my signature to it. So actually I didn’t have any legal obligation to continue at all. I pondered the ethics of the situation thoroughly, I didn’t owe the agent anything and he’d at least get a commission on the week I’d already been in the job. I certainly didn’t owe British Gas anything, except gratitude for taking me on. I’m sure it happens all the time, people start at a company and then realise that they actually don’t like the ambience; their prospective colleagues; the state of the offices; the demands of the boss; or indeed find that they have actually been presented with a better offer elsewhere.

A wide grin spread across my face as slowly I began to realise that indeed what I’d previously thought impossible, might actually be possible after all. I made a beeline for the phone; entered the code to find the last received call details and hurriedly pushed the send button. A ringing tone came from the receiver then a click as it was picked up on the other end.

“Woodley Park Associates, foreign contracts, Charlotte speaking!”

“Hello Charlotte, it’s Rudi Somerlove, we spoke a short while ago about the contract in Rotterdam. Have you found anyone else yet!?"

I tried not to sound too desperate.

“Hello Rudi! No not yet. Actually I’m just trawling through some of the other C.V’s. now.”

“Charlotte. Stop right there. I might just be interested after all….”

Eleven years later and I'm still here! Proving that the course of your life can hinge on a single unexpected phone call.

Make Poverty History.

I remember precisely where I was on July 2nd 2005. I spent most of the afternoon and the whole evening at Hyde Park in London. The largest rock concert of all time 'Live 8' was happening, an immense global event, featuring some of rock and pop's biggest and most famous acts, and I'd been fortunate enough to snaffle some tickets. This was in complete contrast to the first ‘Live Aid’ concert twenty years earlier in 1985 when I'd had to settle for spending the day glued to the TV and taping the whole event from the radio coverage, even though it was happening only twenty miles away. So, I was feeling somewhat pleased with myself.

I'd decided to take my Dutch friend Marc along with me. Marc and I have been friends since my earliest days in the Netherlands, and I can confidently say he's my oldest and dearest Dutch friend. We met because we both worked for the same company in Rotterdam, and in fact Marc still does. On Marc's first day in the office he walked in wearing exactly the same jacket as me; same colour, same style. This was an excellent ice breaker and upon further investigation we discovered that we shared similar tastes in many things. Thus a connection was forged and a solid friendship began which has since stood the test of time.

One of the things Marc and I have most in common is an intense interest in music. Marc plays bass and has played in almost as many bands as I have. One of Marc's biggest musical influences is the band Pink Floyd. Dave Gilmour is Marc's very own personal hero. I would go as far to say that Marc is the biggest Pink Floyd fan I have ever met, and I've met quite a few over the years. So it was with this in mind that I'd invited him to attend 'Live 8' with me. I'd actually promised him that I'd take him as soon as it became clear that I might just be able to get some tickets. So when, incredibly fortuitously, I actually received some tickets in the post I rang him immediately. The pure ecstasy in his voice at the prospect of seeing the four original surviving members of Pink Floyd, reunited after 24 years, was such a beautiful thing to hear. I had a lump in my throat when I told him and I felt a joy in my heart knowing that it was such an easy thing for me to be able to fulfil this dream for him.

Before too long we found ourselves in Hyde Park for the big day, all around us were many smiling, expectant faces and everyone waited patiently as we were all herded into a holding pen where we'd have to stay until they finally opened the turnstiles and started to let us in. Surrounding us was an atmosphere of enthusiastic anticipation while we waited in line to be checked by security. The bubbling murmur of excited voices made us curious about exactly what sort of momentous day lay before us.

As we approached the gates I knew that I’d have to show my ticket and therefore started to reach into my back pocket. Panic gripped me when I realised there was nothing there. My heart started pounding and my mind raced as I checked the other pockets, there was no ticket in any of them. "Fuck, fuck, fuck!!" I quickly tried to make sense of what was happening.

"Marc, I think someone has pick-pocketed my ticket," I said, my eyes wide with alarm.

"You’re joking!" Marc responded with disbelief.

"I dunno it's just gone!" As I spoke I was double checking every pocket.

"Have you checked everywhere?"

"Yes! It's gone, I'm certain."

"Oh shit! It's not here with mine is it?” Marc checked the envelope I'd given him earlier containing his ticket. "No look there's only one here. What the fuck have you done with it?"

"It was in my back pocket, I'm sure," I said, desperately trying to remember what I’d done with my ticket. "Some bastard in this crowd must've stolen it without me noticing." 

I felt sick to my stomach as these words echoed inside my head and I realised their significance. My whole day would be ruined; my one chance to be a part of this historical day had disappeared in an instant. Dark thoughts quickly enveloped my brain as I silently cursed whoever had been clever enough to steal my ticket from under my nose. I was standing on the lip of a precipice looking down into the boiling flames of a fire-pit from hell and feeling the inexorable pull downwards.

We were close to the turnstiles now. Within a couple of minutes I'd have to show my non-existent ticket to security and face expulsion. Marc, seeing the disappointment on my face and sympathising with my plight, offered me his ticket like a true friend. I thanked him, but I wasn't about to allow him to miss this phenomenal day. I'd just have to accept the consequences of my negligence and step aside. I folded my arms across my chest in resignation, shaking my head. Then I felt it, under my T-shirt, tucked into my waistband under my belt…where I'd put it…for SAFE KEEPING!!

I quickly pulled out the envelope containing my ticket and let out a huge sigh of relief. Oh what a stupid twat I was, oh my God how utterly inane! Marc was grinning. I had been saved from the pit at the last moment, it felt as if a huge eagle had swept down and picked me up from the edge of the precipice and now I was soaring up into a bright blue sunlit sky. Every little bit of tension that had so suddenly enveloped my back, neck and chest was now instantly released. The day was saved. Internally I scolded myself for being so quick to blame someone else for my own foolishness. How quickly darkness can fill our thoughts; how readily we seek to blame faceless villainy for our own shortcomings. There was indeed a lesson to be learned.

I showed my ticket to the security man, he tore off the stub and waved me through the turnstile. I was then greeted by one of his colleagues, frisked and had my bag checked for glass bottles, bombs and heaven knows what else. Then we were in. Marc and I strode purposefully toward the stage to claim our spot amongst the throng as the 250,000 strong crowd slowly built up. The sun was shining on and off, as big white cumulus clouds scudded gently across the sky. It felt great to be there.

After a short delay the biggest concert the world had ever known kicked off and it's difficult to describe the varied feelings of emotion that welled up inside me when Paul McCartney took the stage with U2 to kick off with “Sergeant Peppers Lonely Hearts Club Band”. As soon as I heard the words "It was twenty years ago today…" and the special poignancy those lyrics now held, alluding to the first 'Live Aid' concert, tears filled my eyes and I felt immense pride; proud to be a part of this; proud to make a stand against world poverty; proud to be British; proud to be old enough to remember the first one and above all proud to be a part of history.

The rest of that afternoon Marc and I watched, danced, cheered and sang along to nearly all of the numerous groups and solo artists that took to the London stage. Once or twice we went to queue for one of the port-a-loos to relieve our bulging bladders or buy some food & drink from one of the many catering concerns on site, missing part of an act in the process. Occasionally we sat an act out because they didn't particularly interest us – Snoop Dog and Mariah Carey spring to mind. These were also prime opportunities to rest our aching legs, neither of us being used to standing for a whole day. Highlights for Marc, I think, were Velvet Revolver and Sting; and for me Bob Geldof (re-living his 'Live Aid' moment during “I Don't Like Mondays”), Annie Lennox and Joss Stone.

We also watched, with interest, footage shown on the giant screens to the sides and at the rear of the stage of the other 'Live 8' concerts going on simultaneously that day, in other parts of the world. It felt as if there was a real force for global change and finally we lesser-mortals had the attention of the most powerful leaders in the world: the G8. It felt like a real 'people-power' moment similar to that which we'd witnessed in the 90's after the fall of the Berlin Wall and the subsequent decline of Communism in Eastern Europe. Sadly, in retrospect, although the movement had some initial successes in its endeavour to eliminate poverty, since then it appears that what we were actually given by the G8 was mainly rhetoric and platitudes. In some instances promises, assurances and pledges made at that time have entirely failed to materialise. In my opinion this is a great and abiding shame. Of course in the current economic climate nothing will change; and if anything, more of the promises made that day are likely to be broken.

As the evening fell and the skies above London began to darken, Marc and I started to edge forwards in the crowd to get an optimal position for what would surely be the biggest highlight of the whole day: Pink Floyd's reunion performance. Slowly over the course of two or three hours we occupied spaces left by people in front of us as they moved back for toilet or refreshment breaks.

We both thoroughly enjoyed Robbie Williams and after years of completely misunderstanding my reverence for this British cultural icon, Marc finally got it. He could at long last see, hear and feel for himself what an incredible performer that guy is. Robbie truly held the entire audience in the palm of his hand with his inimitable charm, overwhelming panache and unbelievable charisma. His showmanship was on top form as he pleased the crowds with some of his greatest hits, having recently returned to the U.K. after a prolonged stint of living in America. He certainly didn't disappoint anyone.

After Robbie Williams' awesome performance we made the most territorial gains as the youngsters vacated their forward positions which were eagerly filled by 30- 40- and 50-somethings, like us desperate for the prospect of a better view of The Who, Pink Floyd and finally McCartney's grand-finalé. As we neared the barrier, which was the closest point we could get to the stage without a V.I.P. pass - excluded from the 'golden circle' as we were - competition grew fierce amongst the restless crowd. Many of the positions we tried to occupy were strenuously defended by people who'd been camped out there for the whole day. More than once we were threatened with violence by drunken or drugged-up louts, fiercely guarding their metre-square patch of turf whilst we stealthily inched forward into any free space which became available.

The Who provided some welcome relief from our stressful machinations. Happy with our hard won emplacement, two rows away from the barrier and slightly off-centre to the left of the sound-desk tent, Marc and I settled in to watch one of the hardest working bands in show business. Because only Roger Daltrey and Pete Townsend remained from the original line-up, the band on that night was supplemented with Steve White (Paul Weller's drummer) and Damon Minchella (Ocean Colour Scene's bassist). Despite this, and the fact that they were at that time celebrating 41 years in the business, they put on a performance worthy of the British rock stalwarts they truly were. Both Marc and I watched entranced as Daltrey swung his microphone and Townsend windmilled his way through “Who Are You” and “We Won't Get Fooled Again”. It was mind blowing to see them in full throttle, remaining almost as vigorous and energetic as they must have been in their youth. These two men who have inspired so many to learn instruments and start bands of their own were equally inspirational to me and I personally hope that I have as much energy and verve when I reach their age.

After the compelling delights provided by The Who, Marc and I held our premium position and I could see that Marc was barely able to contain his excitement with the prospect of all his dreams coming true in the very immediate future. There was a delay on stage and it was already becoming clear that the concert would over-run by a couple of hours. This precipitated a tension in the air as the Hyde Park audience wondered whether they'd be able to get a tube train home. The build up was excruciating and you could feel a tangible electric buzz from the masses of Floyd fans, old and new, waiting for the magic to begin.

An immense roar arose from the patiently waiting crowd as the familiar sound of a heartbeat which started the song “Speak to Me/Breathe” was heard through the giant P.A. system and a reunited Pink Floyd took the stage for the first time in 24 years. Marc's face was a picture, like a five year old boy faced for the first time with a jolly, bearded real-life Santa Claus; the delight and awe was only too evident. He was completely enraptured, caught up in a single moment in time; for him nothing else mattered except for the “right here and right now”. For me too the moment felt enormously significant, a once-in-a-lifetime chance to see these massive British rock legends do what they do best.

I was thoroughly entranced from beginning to end. The four all-too-familiar songs were executed perfectly. Roger Waters’ tribute to Syd Barrett at the beginning of “Wish You Were Here” caused a lump to rise in my throat. More tears started to well up when the four great men took a final bow, arms around each other in a symbolic display of unity. A greater and supremely worthy cause had motivated them to set their differences aside, just for once. They provided a few moments in time which, I'm sure, for everyone there will be remembered forever. Looking back these moments take on a particular poignancy; the recent death of keyboardist and founding member Rick Wright ensures that this magic will never be repeated.

After Pink Floyd had left the stage Marc looked disappointed and yet overwhelmed at what he had just witnessed. He thanked me again for enabling him to be there and seemed lost in wistful reverie. Although the show still wasn't over we felt that we'd already witnessed the highlight and our aching legs and feet longed for the chance to rest a while. This was of course impossible, we were completely packed in like sardines in the middle of the crowd and the proximity of others meant that sitting down wasn't an option. We resolved to ignore the aches and pains and watch the show's finalé as Paul McCartney was due back on stage; a nice way to round off, I thought, with the same person who had begun the whole event.

The world’s most celebrated, bass playing, rock 'n' roll icon finally reprised the whole show in his own highly professional and unforgettable style. I remember thinking how tired he must have been having spent the whole day on site knowing he'd have to remain fresh to complete his act. He was joined briefly by George Michael to help sing backing vocals on “Baby You Can Drive My Car” which elicited another huge cheer from the hordes of exhausted onlookers. Another poignant moment was McCartney's piano rendition of “The Long and Winding Road”, the lyrics of which now appeared to be about “The Long Walk to Justice” a march to Edinburgh, close to Gleneagles where the G8 summit was being held, taking place in 4 days time. I'd vowed to become involved in this as testament to my commitment to this cause, Marc unfortunately had to return home to the Netherlands but I'd be accompanied this time by my brother and his wife.

The whole cast of musicians appeared on stage for the extended coda finalé of 'Hey Jude' with Bob Geldof centre stage and once again there were more echoes of 'Live Aid' from twenty years previously. Then swiftly it was all over. As we began to leave Hyde Park, bowled along by the thronging masses I told Marc that I'd have to sit down just for a while by the gates to relieve my aching feet. We were both comprehensively tired and even though we'd been told that trains would keep running later than usual, there was still a sense of urgency to get out of town.

A few days later my brother, his wife and I were returning from Edinburgh on an early morning shuttle flight having attended “The Final Push”, a concert at Murrayfield to mark the end of “The Long Walk to Justice” featuring amongst many others the legendary performer that was James Brown. Although fatigued from very little sleep we were all quite buoyant upon arrival at Heathrow. The day before it had been announced that London's Olympic bid, against Paris, for the 2012 games had been successful and it seemed that, just for once, everything was right with the world. Making our way from the arrivals hall into the terminal we noticed that there were more policemen than would normally be seen at the airport and a strangely sombre atmosphere was pervading the place. My father picked us up in his car and immediately told us that, whilst we were airborne, terrorists had bombed several tube trains and a bus that morning in central London causing horrendous carnage. We all fell silent in a state of complete shock; there had been a threat that something like that might happen but nobody believed it really could or would.

I'd felt personally spoilt over the last week; I'd had the incredible fortune of being able to witness, first hand, live performances from some of the most celebrated rock and pop musicians ever. For someone like me, wholeheartedly interested in that genre, it had been a veritable orgy of delight, but right then I had the overwhelming feeling that the party was well and truly over.

Oh White Water Keep On Rolling....

It was my first Christmas away from home. I’d travelled across to the other side of the world to New Zealand to spend a few weeks with my best friend Paul. It was the first time that I’d spent so many hours on a plane. Arriving on Christmas Eve I was invited to a social event that very evening arranged by Paul’s company on a large boat out in Waitemata Harbour. I was so jet lagged that I was falling asleep whilst doing my level best to be sociable and make the acquaintance of Paul’s work colleagues. Whatever those Kiwi’s must’ve made of this weird Englishman lapsing into an unconscious torpor after only two beers and right in the middle of a conversation (and, I’m told, actually mid-sentence at one point) I’ll never know. Paul found it hilarious of course.

The next morning, after a much-needed night's sleep for me and a Christmas morning breakfast of champagne and strawberries in Paul’s garden, we headed to the beach for a traditional Kiwi Christmas day. Along the way Paul stopped at the only open service station we could find, where he purchased the ingredients for a very non-traditional Christmas Dinner of eggs, bacon, snags (Antipodean for sausages) and baked beans, which we then cooked on the (thoughtfully provided) public beach barbeque.

It didn’t really feel like Christmas Day; there in the bright sunshine in the middle of a southern hemisphere summer on a sandy beach as we watched families playing cricket together and the azure and white surf waves of the Pacific Ocean come tumbling rhythmically up the beach. I wondered about my family back in the U.K. who in twelve hours time would be tucking into their traditional Christmas Dinner of turkey with all the trimmings, in my absence for the first time ever, and probably in a typically English cold and drizzly winter setting. My wistful cogitation on this matter didn’t last long though as my attention turned to the adventures that lay ahead of me in Aotearoa or The Land of the Long White Cloud, as they call it in Maori.

New Zealand is renowned as the adrenaline sports capital of the world and Paul and I would take full advantage of this fact over the next fortnight or so. Travelling around the North Island in his sporty green Honda, we'd be staying at various motels and caravan parks and visiting all the sights on offer. Amongst the activities that we would enjoy during that couple of weeks were bungee jumping, jet boating, a helicopter ride, quad biking and tandem sky diving. We lived on New Zealand’s famous Ponsonby Meat Pies (steak and cheese being a particular favourite) and the McDonald’s special Beefmeister Burger (I couldn’t get enough of those: two quarter pound patties with cheese, loads of special sauce, onions and a minimal amount of salad on one huge toasted bun). Also occasionally we'd eat a Kiwiburger although it was somewhat of an acquired taste (a normal cheeseburger but with the addition of a fried egg and a slice of beetroot).

New Year's Eve was spent mostly at a house party in Mount Maunganui, but also at an especially laid-on rock concert on the beach. I found the whole thing weird, I must say. Sitting on a beach on a relatively warm evening where it didn’t get dark until gone 10pm, and later hearing everybody wishing each other ‘Happy New Year’, it just didn’t feel right to me. I was used to spending my New Year's Eves inside, comfortable and cozy out of the inevitable cold and damp weather, during dark dingy winter nights.

I thought about the only other time I could recall that I’d spent my New Year's Eve wholly outside, one year when I was around 17 or so. Several friends and I made the short trip by train and tube to Trafalgar Square with plastic bags stuffed with bottles of cheap cider and cans of supermarket-brand lager. In those days the fountains were left open (before they started boxing them in sometime around the mid-eighties) and you could, and I did in drunken abandonment, frolic in the gushing waters. My overwhelming memory was that after the rowdy countdown to midnight I was snogging and groping a plethora of equally drunk women of various ages and levels of beauty in amongst the heaving crowds; this commotion was accompanied by the chimes of Big Ben from a few hundred yards down the road, as the cheer for another promise laden new beginning went up. Because I was a fit, blonde-haired, blue-eyed teenager of limited sexual experience I found it a little intimidating when the less attractive older women (in their 30's!) grabbed a hold of me, breathed alcohol-laden fumes in my face, slurred “Appienooyuuurrr darlin'!” and plunged their tongues down my throat before I had a chance to escape. I’m sure that is precisely when I picked up my very first cold sore infection.

We couldn’t afford a taxi and all the trains had stopped running, so we walked the six miles to Chiswick High Road where one of my friend’s older brothers had a flat in which we could all crash-out on the floor. That journey probably took about three hours as we were all so completely inebriated. I was absolutely freezing cold in my soaking wet jeans and squelchy boots from my earlier fountain frolics. I’d lost my jacket too, as I recall, and I have vague memories of someone wearing a traffic cone as a hat and some of us stealing flashing roadworks' lanterns. At one point, in desperation, we realized that if we pooled our remaining cash we could probably afford to get a cab the rest of the way and so we started trying to hail black cabs, none of which stopped of course. One look at this motley gang of drunken teenagers in damp clothing and sporting stolen flashing lanterns would be enough to tell any self-respecting cabbie that this really wasn’t a fare worth picking up...what a complete contrast that evening was to where I was now!

Later that week I found myself arguing with Paul, we’d decided that we wanted to go white water rafting and we’d picked up a leaflet from the Rotorua tourist information office. We just had to book whichever excursion we fancied, once we’d had a chance to mull over all the options of course.

“Look, it’s our first time doing this don’t you think it would be more sensible to do a nice sedate Grade 2 trip first?” asked Paul.

“Mate, this is probably my one and only chance to do this. There isn’t gonna be enough time for us to do another excursion during this trip. So we might as well do the top one - the Grade 5. It’s meant to be an adrenalin buzz anyway; what sort of buzz are we gonna get from doing a pansy-arsed Grade 2?”

The International Rapid Classification System qualifies Grade 5 as: very powerful rapids with very confused and broken water, large drops, violent and fast currents, abrupt turns, difficult powerful stoppers and fast boiling eddies; with numerous obstacles in the main current. Complex, precise and powerful sequential manoeuvring is required. A definite risk to personal safety exists.

Do we really want to put ourselves in mortal danger for the sake of a quick buzz?” Paul asked, sensibly.

“Quite frankly mate YES!” I grinned.

“But you’re a much better swimmer than me, what if I fall in?”

“Then I’ll just have to save you won’t I?”

“God you’re so fucking arrogant,” said Paul.

“I know,” I smirked. “Look mate, I'm certain we won’t regret this…it’s gonna be awesome…TRUST ME!”

After what seemed like an hour of arguing, I finally had to resort to the dubious macho tactic of questioning Paul’s sexual orientation and proclivities before he was eventually browbeaten into submission and agreed to attempt the formidable Grade 5. We returned to the tourist information office and the nice blonde woman behind the counter booked it for us, took our money for the reservation and gave us directions to the Kaituna River where we’d be rafting.

Upon arrival at Trout Pool Road, the setting off point, we had to sign disclaimers exempting the rafting company, Kaituna Cascades, from any liability. We kitted up into wetsuits, fleeces, surf booties, life jackets and helmets. Greg the instructor gave us a paddle each and introduced us to the rest of the crew that would be in our large inflatable raft. They were a mixture of people of various nationalities and, like us, all virgins to the sport.

Greg briefed us about the rafting route we were about to embark upon. Running through an extremely steep and narrow canyon, in the course of about an hour we would paddle 14 awesome drops, including two Grade 5 waterfalls and some great rapids from Grade 3+ to Grade 5. We received some dry land instruction, first practising procedures on the river bank and learned how to respond to the commands Greg would give us along the route. At the ‘put in’ point Greg organized everybody according to their weight and body build. I was positioned at the back because of my bulk and upper body strength. Paul was seated at the front to balance me out and fend us away from the rocks. Greg then told us how to operate the raft in the water, what each person’s responsibilities were and what to do in case of an emergency.

There were three other rafts in the water with us, each with a virgin crew and instructor busily explaining things. As we set off down the river in a gentle current, our raft was third in line. The first few rapids were gentle and easy and gave us a chance to practice the manoeuvres and techniques for the more challenging rapids that lay ahead. The trick was to guide the raft into the best entry point for any given section of rapids and essentially hold on for dear life as the waters took you. The raft had ropes at the sides and front to hold onto, and special handles built into the floor. We were advised on how to move to adjust the weight within the raft according to how we wanted to manoeuvre it. The most difficult thing seemed to be holding onto the ropes and your paddle simultaneously whilst being wildly buffeted by the water against the large rocks.

In between the sections of rapids and waterfalls, in the canyons and gorges, there was a chance to enjoy the scenery as we waited in clear, still pools until each raft had completed that section. The mountains rose up either side of us, covered in a thick forest of native trees. We saw trout jumping for flies in the pools ahead of us and birds swooping low skimming the water for insects. Artists and filmmakers will tell you that there is something magical about the light in New Zealand and it really does make those landscapes even more breathtaking and special.

We came to a quiet section where it appeared that, over eons, the river had carved a niche for itself out of pure granite. Cliffs rose up tightly on either side of us and there was just enough room to get a raft through. Beyond and above the strange and beautiful rock formations of this natural cutting the forest towered majestically, echoing with weird and wonderful calls from the native wildlife.

The fun really started when we went over the top of the world's highest commercially rafted waterfall, the Tutea Falls, and experienced an almost vertical drop of 7 meters. The raft was tossed violently to the swirling whirlpool at the bottom and with the thousands of litres of water falling around me, I felt like a lone sock in a washing machine on a spin cycle. There was a brief moment when the water just poured over us as if we were being bombarded from all directions by water canons. We clung firmly to the ropes and some of us had shifted around in the raft, but nobody fell out. Incredibly we remained afloat and continued to find our route through the turbulent waters until we were ejected out the other end.

It’s difficult to explain the exhilaration you feel when you complete a section of rapids and waterfalls; maybe it’s to do with relinquishing that need for control. There is a palpable excitement as you approach the entry point to a dangerous section; the anticipation is unimaginable. The water gradually deepens. It bunches up at the horizon and swells. Ahead you hear the thunderous roar as the river tumbles inexorably downward, obeying the laws of gravity. When the raft tips over the edge, through the mists you glimpse the tumultuous chaos ahead. Your heart stops momentarily, your grip tightens and you brace yourself. You surrender completely to the mercy of the flow. Huge jagged rocks loom; just as you know you are going to be dashed against them the raft lurches to one side and you are swept away by the torrent.

At the end of our incredible joy ride down this fevered stretch of water, the other rafting crews had to make several stops to pick up members who'd been thrown overboard and were clinging to boulders awaiting rescue. Our crew lost nobody.

Paul and I were unusually quiet as we drove away from the Kaituna River that evening. Our bodies were aching from the day’s exertions and a delicious tiredness was seeping through us, but there was nonetheless a warm glow within and a comforting sense of achievement.

“Thanks mate!” said Paul.

"What for?" I asked.

Paul's broad grin was lit up by the lights of an oncoming car. “You may be an arrogant shit but you were absolutely right. That Grade 5 was just fucking awesome and at least you didn't have to fish me out of the drink!”