I am 13 years old and struggling with the auxiliary output on the stereo in our sitting room. I finally manage to synch tape deck to turntable, the needle catches with that brief sound of ripping fabric and Heart Of Glass by Blondie cascades like warm syrup from the speakers. This was my labour of love, and it is one that I am sure is lost to the hands of time.

To me, Blondie was always perfect Walkman music. Something about having a tape that purred away in that feline way really suited Debbie Harry. The way her voice growled and yowled yet would always reduce to a soft smooth whimper makes me think of cats. I am, after all, a cat lover. So, when researching more about Debbie Harry, I was somewhat surprised to hear that she is a dog lover and she keeps pooches. I am not sure what this says about my character judgment. It’s just something that interested me when I found out I was going to meet her.

I liken meeting important or famous people to visiting the lions at London Zoo. They can come up to the cage bars and growl or they can come off all soft and press their noses towards you. Either way, you will probably be disappointed and your child’s eye will recount with a wist, a sense of departed wonder. Like the lions in St Mark’s square they will appear smaller, greyer, shards of stone jutting where there once were wings.

But the prospect of meeting Debbie Harry made me think of my past, because there was something so wildly romantic about my introduction to her. Part of that lay in the physicality of having the Parallel Lines artwork on my lap whilst I sat on the floor listening to her, and beyond this, the memory of dancing to the record as a teenager with my cousin, him too short, me too tall, on a Zebra Skin rug that seemed like a psychedelic version of the album sleeve. Blondie could instantaneously transform our sitting room into a New York Loft. The sitting room was up in the attic and as we looked out the windows across London, everything became dryer and hotter. I felt as though police sirens and hot dog odours were wafting up from the street. It became another world.

Then there was Debbie Harry’s stance on the cover. Hands on hips, that pout, the Monroe inspired dress, dirty brown roots bleeding into the peroxide. Surrounded by interesting looking men, she shone, she stuck out – and it wasn’t just to do with her beauty or the fact she was a woman. She had an attitude that transcended two dimensions. Going to meet her, I wanted to know if she still does.

I meet up with my friend Rachel, who I bring for moral support and as photographer. Speckled by drizzle and dark grey teasing London’s chimneypots, we catch the tube having blinded ourselves with Kohl and layers of foundation. This seems like preparation for one of the most dreadful gut wrenching dates in the world. All I am worrying about is how my hair looks and... ”I’m not going to meet Debbie Harry and have less eyeliner on than her” is the last thing I recall saying as we left. As we change lines, my lashes straining under the fifteenth layer of mascara, we pass a huge poster of her on the Piccadilly line. It’s a still from the Heart Of Glass video. Debbie looking lofty with a bounce of champagne hair, red lips pouted to kiss and the words “HMV MEGASALE!” “Tentatively” is scrawled over her torso. “If she won’t let us take her picture, we can always come back here and take a picture of this!” I joke, my nervous wrist pointing all coy and slack at the billboard.

Everything was fine in the hotel foyer. It was even fine in the Sci-Fi lift that rocketed floor after floor flashing all blue lights and TV screens. I was even fine walking down the muted carpet corridor. I was fine when the man who took us up to meet her knocked on the door. I was not fine, however, when I heard a set of heels (which in my mind’s eye are small pony skin kitten heels for some reason) clatter towards the door. I beak a slight sweat at the base of my neck, I palpitate and breathe all shallow. Shit, shit, shit-shit!

There she is, her face masked by shadow. We follow her into the room and sit down. I haven’t even dared look at her yet. I cannot recall what her shoes were like.

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