She thought I was a tosser. I thought she was a slag.

And I can understand my friend Lorraine thinking that. I had a Friday night residency at Le Beat Route. She was the glamorous receptionist. I’d arrive with my boxes of 80s floor fillers like this one, exuding club DJ cockiness. She was beautiful. Tumbling blonde tresses, masses of make up and long painted nails so, well, I could be forgiven for that initial impression. And yet, once we got to know each other, we realised that we were both just young twentysomethings trying to earn a little extra cash. Neither of us had any interest in the cheap drugs and even cheaper sex that attracted most people to Soho nightclubs. I saw her in Costa Coffee today and, thirty years on, she’s still lovely, gentle and demure. I couldn’t have been more wrong about her. Though I’m not sure she was quite so wrong about me.