“When Sheryl Crow tells me all she wants to do, I’m immediately transported to the warm weed-y haze of Los Angeles.”

I love music. I publish a music magazine, I’ve hung out with my favourite and some of the world’s most iconic musicians and, before I was a writer, I got flown around the world to DJ in clubs and parties. I literally stop functioning if there’s no music – even doing the washing up in silence becomes a struggle. It’s as if instead of a heart I have two walnut-covered speakers pumping away inside of me.

When I lived in London I marched about with headphones permanently grafted to my ears to drown out the sound of, well, everything: I don’t want to listen in to other people sniffing away, or their tedious conversations, unless I know there’s going to be something juicy; like overhearing the details of a sordid affair or a dirty night out.

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