“Here for a reason? Mine`s for my Duke of Edinburgh Silver, you know.” She arched her deeply pencilled eyebrows, while her confident voice bouncing brightly from the institutional tiling. “Enhances your CV; shows social conscience.” She flashed her phone. “I`m TazzyB (# insta). I`m an `Influencer`. My followers have serious life decisions: belly pierce, ombre hair, tattoo sleeve. I can add you to my fan base?”

“I`m alright, thanks.” The pouty lipped smile vanished abruptly as she looked beyond me for anything more interesting. The water cooler won.

A clipboard, with A line skirt, shoulder pads and a perm clacked across the hall. “Welcome! So WONDERFULLY selfless that you young people come to visit our elderly residents,” Clipboard gushed.

Miss Influencer basked in the approval.

“It`s only for my project,” I blurted out. “Stuff we have to do for school.” (An easy decision between Community Litter Pick or Care Home Visits. The latter could be done sitting down.)

Clipboard rallied her enthusiam, then consulted her list. “We have Sidney and Emily for you. Sidney is full of such interesting stories; he flew planes for the Berlin airlift.”

We traipsed through a bland corridor with squeaky linoleum and dejected flower prints; past a sad carpeted room, where grim upholstered chairs clung to the walls like novice skaters. Each held a slumped resident, of indeterminate consciousness, facing a TV.

“They like a little snooze after lunch.”

We continued to a room with French doors which led to a fiercely manicured garden. A small, dapper man sporting a double-breasted jacket, bright with medals, sat bolt upright. Clearly this was the ace pilot and saviour of Berlin.

Miss Instagram (#bee line) shot over and settled herself next to him. “How wonderful to meet a war hero,” she tinkled.

“Well, that`s decided,” beamed Clipboard. “Emily for you.” She pointed through the French doors. My partially visible resident sat on a bench, tucked away behind dense shrubs. Birdsong and sunshine, waving flowers and seed heads clearly approved of my allocation.

“Emily is a recent resident, so DO be patient. Her placement files seem to be delayed, and she certainly seems frail and quite reticent. Now, IF you need it, this pull-cord by the door will bring help.”

Just then, a small anxious woman in a lilac overall hurried over and whispered hoarsely, “It`s Elsie – she`s done it again and we can`t unblock…”

Like a hound to the scent, Clipboard was off, calling, “Remember the pull cord! I won`t be far.”

With deep trepidation, I entered the garden.

Emily was gaunt, with wild, grey hair, a long Indian print skirt, pink tee shirt, green sandals and, strictly against all No Smoking signs, a large hand rolled cigarette. I suddenly realised why she was outside and tucked away in the shrubs.

“Hallo-my-name-is-Meg,” I rattled off brightly and held out my hand.

She gasped, rising from her smoke wreathed seat and began a proxysm of coughing that wracked her hunched body, culminating in copious spitting into a creased hanky. “Jesus H Christ, don`t DO that!”

My feigned confidence instantly dissolved. “Um, sorry, I didn`t mean to scare you.”

“Bloody hell! I thought you were one of those purple Smoking Nazis, come to pat me down again.” Darkly calculating eyes in a ravaged face regarded me speculatively.

“Er, do you think you should be smoking, when your cough is that bad?”.

This was not well received. “Listen, doll, ALL I can get is roll ups – well, and a bit of skunk at weekends if I play my cards right with the caretaker. I CHOOSE to smoke because THEY don`t like it. `Fight the power`, man. I don`t suppose you have any Es on you?” she added as an afterthought.

I was deeply shocked. I mean, I`d heard the drug talk at school, but I avoided the mad/bad/dangerous kids in the canteen and I was unprepared for a mad/bad/dangerous pensioner in a Care Home.

“I don`t do drugs – AND I don`t know anyone who has any,” I rushed on desperately as a I saw the next question forming on her lips. I took a deep breath. “I`m your volunteer visitor”.

“Oh, Hell! You`re just about the kind of volunteer visitor I WOULD get.” She regarded me curiously. “ So, if you don`t do drugs, what DO you do?”

“School Sixth Form. I`m visiting for my Community Volunteer unit, also my Social History Project, er…” My voice faded. What made me blurt out these shallow motives?

“Doing two jobs in one, eh? Clever girl. Explain this Social history project to me.”

Somewhat incoherently, I told her.

“I get it. So, if you REALLY want to know what influenced social change, why don`t I tell you about Jimi and Syd?”

I had no idea who Jimi or Syd were and said so.

“Jimi HENDRIX and Syd BARRETT. Greatest musicians ever, lady.”

I thought I remembered Jimi Hendrix when we did Post War trends in Year 8.

“OK, tell me more”. Perhaps this could also be worked up for my English Essay? “May I take some notes?” I asked tentatively.

“Knock yourself out. You SHOULD know about Pink Floyd and the Jimi Hendrix Experience”.

I had no idea what she meant, but I poised my pen and she began. Information rattled past with amphetamine velocity: a catalogue of names, people she had seen, places she had been, musicians she had – er, had. Names streamed on: Marquee Club, Worlds` End, Monica (stupid tart), Kathy (Jimi`s REAL lady) who inspired a song: The Wind Cries Mary. Memories of friends (Syd was a crazy diamond) interlaced with drink, drugs, groupies, festivals - and eventually addictions, breakdowns and death. I had no way of getting it down – I might have recorded it, if I`d had TazzyB (#insta)`s expensive phone. Finally, she told me Foxy Lady and Syd`s big Pink Floyd hit were written about her.

“You know, Jimi Hendrix`s death sounds just like Amy Winehouse – talented, but tragic excess,“ I mused.

“Yeah, both taken at 28 – amongst others.” She sighed heavily. “Jimi had an old soul, man, but he made some bad decisions. We all did.” Another sigh. “Karen said: write everything down; keep a diary; it could be worth something when you`re old and broke. You know they say, if you actually remember the 60s you weren`t really there? But I WAS and I remember. This diary? I`m cashing it in and getting out of this place.”

This started her laughing. I smiled politely. Her merriment became wilder and louder, making me feel uncomfortable. Suddenly, laughter became violent, hawking coughs; then frantic, terrified gasping for breath. I ran for the emergency cord and tugged it frenziedly. Alarms rang and a purple haze of uniforms ran into the garden.

She retched great gouts of blood, desperately gasping and clawing at the air. The insistent bell clamoured deafeningly as I stood, spare and useless, helplessly watching her `fight the power` one last time - and lose. In the confusion, I retreated into the shrubs.

Finally, I was alone in the empty garden with a bloodied handkerchief on a vacant bench. All my projects were in tatters. The alarm stopped abruptly, cut off like wasted talent. How fragile and painful life could be.

Shivering, I looked down. Beneath the bench lay a small leather book, black, battered and biblical in its potential.

I shouldn`t have, I know it, but the decision was made - and it was in my pocket as I was slinking my way to the exit.

There stood TazzyB (#insta) pouting and posing for an Instagram selfie against a shaded wall. “That alarm! I thought we might be totally trapped and burned. #herorescue.”

“I think someone died.”

I stumbled away down the path, heading home. Poor Emily, to die so horribly after such an exciting life. I patted the diary in my pocket. I should hand it in; perhaps she had relatives?

But I decided not to.

Because all the notes I had failed to take would be in this book.

Because HERE was my school project.

Because Jimi Hendrix and Pink Floyd fans would want this – and want ME. I would be interviewed. I would be famous. #begformeg

I scuttled upstairs to my bedroom, where I opened the diary with trembling hands to the first page.

15th September 1967

Took a wild acid trip with Syd. The universe is crazy beautiful. Must tell Jimi to try the blue pills.

16th September 1967

Syd has stopped speaking or eating – weird. His eyes are like black holes.

I turned the page.

The rest of the diary was blank.

Notes

Syd Barrett, founding member of Pink Floyd, wrote `See Emily Play`, their first hit. He never recovered from a LSD overdose which left him catatonic. Shine on You Crazy Diamond was written about him.

Jimi Hendrix was the most influential rock guitarist there has been. His short, meteoric rise to fame ended when he died from a barbiturate overdose.

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