... The Yardbirds. But no. For once this is not the start of another post about the white haired, marathon running, paedo, dead DJ, Jimmy Saville.
Instead this marks the 20th Anniversary of when I first met my darling wife Anne.
In the bar of the Vagabond Inn on Van Ness in San Francisco she waxed lyrical about her disappointment in The Cure's recent movement towards pop sensibility with Friday I'm in Love. She much preferred their 'jump off a bridge' stylings on Disintegration.
She didn't find it odd that I'd chosen to sing a cover of Terence Trent D'Arby's 'Sign Your Name' onto a cassette. My version lacked soul, pitch, timing and rhythm, and mindful of our location, there were probably 8 guys with waxed chests down the road in a bath-house saying "Dude, that sounds gay".
It would be another year before I met her again, and her unusually (for her) organized CD collection.
Back then she wore shorts because she was a tough girl who knew what 'really cold' meant having grown up in Ohio.
20 years later she warms her feet on me in bed every night, even when it's a 100° outside.
I still cannot say I've known her for half of my life, but she's already given me a lifetime of happiness.