It was some time in the early 70s (can’t remember precisely as things were rather vague back then ...)
Our dealer in best bush-bud marijuana was ascending the stairs to our first-floor, wonderfully ramshackle apartment in Wellington St, Launceston, beneath which was - if I recall correctly, and there is some doubt about this - a printing works.
Pete always carried his stash in his underdaks for reasons known only to him. Perhaps it was his attempt at humour (‘Is that a gun in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?’).
We were always happy to see Pete, my (platonic) mate Annie and I ...
For it signalled the Log Fire ...
There would always be a roaring log fire in the kitchen of our apartment. In mid-winter it was always going ... and when Pete produced his stash and rolled up the most enormous ‘log’ in the history of the world ... we knew there would be wondrous hours ahead of dreamy contemplation ... and Bowie on the stereo.
Annie was a David Bowie Tragic. She introduced me to this most innovative of creatives; this wondrous changeling who altered music forever; whose Ground control to Major Tom ... has circled the earth from Space ...
His death is one helluva shock.
His son, film director Duncan Jones, tweeted: ‘Very sorry and sad to say it’s true. I’ll be offline for a while. Love to all.’
Dated January 10, it read: ‘David Bowie died peacefully today surrounded by his family after a courageous 18-month battle with cancer.
‘While many of you will share in this loss, we ask that you respect the family’s privacy during their time of grief.’
David Bowie’s latest album, Blackstar, released just three days before his death, is widely expected to reach number one in the British charts this week.
Thereyago ... so passes the glory of this world: