Upon reflection, the seductress had to be someone who shared their first name with a Roman goddess. As for me, I was an immature bundle of naivety.

Having grown up as a bookish eldest son in the bosom of my family in Birmingham, UK, my only taste of life had been making liberal use of a free school bus pass at weekends to explore the museums and Central Lending Library in the city centre.

In 1979, we moved 23 miles southwest to Droitwich. Formerly, a sleepy spa town, it’s high street is lined with subsided eighteenth and nineteenth century buildings caused by over pumping of underground brine.

When we arrived as part of the ‘Birmingham overspill’, Droitwich was burgeoning with new light industrial parks, and social and private housing estates.

I had my own first floor, narrow, single bedded room with a view out of the front of the brand new ‘council’ house. The view from the window took in the gardens of three terraced houses running perpendicular to ours.

It was an easy transition from having Woodgate Valley Country Park on the doorstep in Birmingham to the historical and rural connection Droitwich had to offer. My favourite outdoor pastimes included, exploring derelict farm buildings, the graveyard of Salwarpe Church, and dreamily wandering along seldom used lanes and paths.

While I was singled out for physical and verbal abuse at secondary school in Birmingham for being a ‘puff’; I had no idea what this term meant or how it was spelled, I sensed it was something bad that needed to be avoided at all costs. Preferring acting, classical music, languages, and art over science, sports, and hanging out with the boys, I avoided aggressors in the playground and hid from conflict by spending lunch hours in the library, art room, and at a drama group.

In Droitwich, the school based discrimination shifted focus to my broad Brummie accent. In the chaos filled minutes before the teacher arrived to teach French, my point of difference was called out by my peers resulting in a metal waste paper bin being thrown at my head. That moment of shock, horror, embarrassment, and shame tarnished my view of the remainder of my schooling at Droitwich High. I felt so ashamed, I didn’t tell my parents or anyone outside of the class group. I buried the experience, thinking maybe I deserved it.

In 1980, I commenced a two years’ full time course at a college in the nearby city of Worcester.

As I approached eighteen years old, in the seemingly unending heady Summer of 1981, I embraced the sunshine, eating al fresco, and commenced a journey of self discovery.

A vague impression of my siren from over forty years ago include, images of a sun kissed Mediterranean complexion, soft brown eyes, frothy shoulder length hennaed hair, hippie love beads, Indian sandals, floaty pastel blue/purple patterned flimsy cotton gypsy dresses and skirts, and a warm welcoming smile followed by a husky ‘hello Rob’.

My spirits soared in the company of this fortyish, single-parenting, huntress. I eagerly spent hours at her place listening to stories of her colourful life, of being married, and running a jewellery shop in Hong Kong.

I was swept away in a romantic illusion, accompanied by her record collection including, Barbra Streisand’s, the Love Songs album (released in USA as Memories), Joan Armitrading’s, Walk Under Ladders, On My Way to Where, Dory Previn, and the movie soundtracks from Neil Diamond’s, The Jazz Singer and Streisand’s, A Star is Born.

Our love making was limited to kissing and clothed caressing.

Post holiday reality kicked in from the September of that year when my temptress returned to teaching drama full time and I commenced my second year at college; severely restricting the time we had available to spend with each other.

Passions dwindled and the brief relationship morphed into a fond memory.