S.S. (Siouxsie Sioux) had invited me over to her house for tea, in neighbouring Chislehurst, a leafy and posher suburb than Bromley, a village almost.  She met me from the bus, first time I'd seen her since the party, she came screeching around the corner in a 1950s poodle skirt, pink stilettos and full make-up.

The house she lived in with her mum was a 1930s semi.  S.S.'s mum was a lady with greying hair and horn-rimmed glasses; she served us tea in the living room after S.S. had shown me her bedroom.  She was particularly proud of a white Formica bookcase she had just demolished in a fir of rage about something or other.  She gave me a brief lesson in make-up.  How to apply eyeliner with a steady hand, suck in your cheekbones and aim the blusher brush at an angle smudging the blusher to give deathly hollow cheekbones and to use the right amount of powder.

Whenever S.S. received a phone call, the phone was in the hall in front of a mirror, into which during the conversation, she would put and pucker her lips, tweak her hair, roll her eyes and gaze intently at herself.  Posing, trying to find the best camera angles, her best side.  So whenever I called I knew she was talking to her reflection as well as me.