I was sixteen, or fifteen. I had learned three chords on the guitar and I had just managed to make the right sort of noise out of a trumpet. I had just learned "Freight Train" and listened, but really listened to Mozart for the first time. I was reading Neville Shute and F Scott Fitzgerald, perhaps also Ian Flemming. I had been in love, but it had never been reciprocated. I was a goofy, spotty, wavy haired misfit longing to grow up.