Barbara came round for me about seven thirty and, giggling like schoolgirls, we headed off for the Star and Garter. Barbara was signally jealous of my good fortune with the taxman and my agent, and insisted on helping me to celebrate by allowing me to buy the drinks. We settled into a table near the back.

"This place is a complete tip," I said, wiping my finger over the table and showing it, replete with film of dust and cigarette ash, to Barbara.

"I know. You realise you're in a rough place when the windows have bars on both sides. The Scar and Batter, the locals call it."

"Ha," I snorted. "You really know how to show a girl a good time, don't you? What have you got lined up for us later on? A walk home down Crack Alley? A visit to the red light district?"

"No, I thought we'd pick up some rough, take them down the park and let them bugger us rigid."

I supped on my drink. "Yeah, okay then. As long as I get first choice."

"Naturally. Seniority goes with age, after all."

"Watch it, I'll make sure you get left with Nobby the cross-eyed bricklayer from Birmingham."

"Had him last week."

"Still, he'd be a cut above your normal pull."

"Walking on two feet, you mean?"

"Yeah, that one you had a fortnight ago..."

"Don't. The one with just the one giant eyebrow across his whole face..."

"And brow so low it was beneath his nose..."

"Hung like a horse, though."

"Kissed like one, too, I imagine,"

"Same breath, certainly."

Barbara was what you might call a sexual adventurer. Monogamy or celibacy were impossible concepts for her. I admired her courage and resilience, and wondered at her stamina. She spent every weekend in dogged pursuit of men, never failing to return home with somebody in tow. That she was five feet six inches, blonde and big busted was probably in her favour, but I think, had she been a fat boiler with greasy hair and no teeth, she could still have pulled. Some women just ooze sexuality, and Barbara, with her lightning wit and easy, relaxed manner, could charm and schmooze her way to anything she wanted.

"What time are this band supposed to be on, then?" I asked, gathering up the glasses and heading towards the bar for a refill.

"Half eight, I think. Have you seen them before?"

"Never heard of them, to be honest."

"They're good. I saw them here a few months ago. Couple of girls on fiddles, a bloke with a bouzouki-thingy, a guitarist and a percussionist. They'll be on in a minute, so I'll have a double, save you going up again when they're playing."

There was no point arguing so I made for the bar, and was just returning to our table when a smattering of applause broke through the din of the canned music, and the lights dimmed. The band trouped onto the small stage at the front of the room, a typically ramshackle bunch of louche kids in ill-fitting clothes, scowling at the floor and avoiding all eye contact with the audience: why do all young bands seem to consider it a badge of honour to have no stage presence whatsoever? As Barbara had said, they comprised three blokes and two girls.

And the one at the back was Simone.

Instantly, my mouth went dry, my ears started ringing and I could feel the blood pulsing in my head. I sat staring, rigid, unable to move, like a woman in shock. It was her, there was no doubt. She looked stunning. She'd had her hair cut shorter, which neatly emphasised her face, drawing one's attention to it immediately and pulling one to her exquisite nose. She was wearing a skimpy blue tee shirt, revealing a lithe body and shapely bust, not too large; distinctly on the small side, in fact, no more than 32 or 34, and a B cup, maybe even an A. Her outfit was completed by a pair of black trousers, loose fitting, which showed off her bum to great effect. I wouldn't have thought it possible, but she was more arresting than she had been that first night. She was electric, casting a hypnotic spell over me. I couldn't take my eyes off her.

The world around me shimmered and shifted, narrow and darkened at the extremities of my consciousness, a meaningless, peripheral void; across the length of the room, I felt myself become attached to this ravishing beauty through some umbilical cord of the senses, drawn to her, only her, and only we two existed.

They began to play.

A slow introduction, picked attractively on the bouzouki and guitar, counterpointing one another, playing separate, complementary melodies which came together delighfully in harmonic triplets, flitting in and out of the main tune much in the style of Planxty; a steady, languid increase in tempo and volume, the guitar giving itself over to supporting chords, tuned down, probably to DADGAD, allowing more sympathetic support to the Irish melody; and then the first swoosh of fiddle as the third cycle began, accompanied by a gentle, rhythmic ripple of percussion from African-style drums: very pretty, very effective. I sat entranced, staring at my beloved and listening to the ethereal sounds. Still, though, Simone hadn't entered the fray.

And then she did.

And my heart stopped.

I fell in love all over again. As the set segued into a new tune, a reel I didn't recognise but which I suspected was from Shetland, the two fiddles launched themselves in tandem, shrill, exciting, excitable; like twins they bestrode the stage, my Simone right handed, the other girl left handed, mirror images of one another, bowing in tandem, drawing an exquisite tune out of their instruments. They worked beautifully together, seamless, relaxed and confident in each other's ability, a genuine understanding clearly existing between them. The vigour of the fiddle, with its edgy, raw sensuality, filled the large room, invigorating the audience, drawing them in to the power of the music.

And then, and then. Words fail me, I'm sorry. As they crossed into the third tune of the set, flicking deftly into a flighty slip jig, my Wonder Woman took centre stage, playing solo lead while the rest of the band provided a weighty support. I couldn't take my eyes off her, and I swear I didn't blink for the duration of the tune, wrapped up as I was in her splendour. She commanded the stage, feet planted firmly and definitely, half a yard apart. Her fiddle was lodged confidently on her shoulder, pointing downwards at an angle of 60º and facing away from her towards the wings. Simone's concentration was fierce, her gaze firmly on the fretboard, observing her dancing fingers. It was a very pretty tune, and she played it with elegance and understated charm.

Understated, that is, until the second cycle, when it exploded into life. Something seemed to take hold of her, a life force appeared to grip her. The change was extraordinary: music has an awesome power, and occasionally, often unexpectedly, it enters your soul, takes over your entire being, and you have no alternative but to give yourself over to it. Such a change came over Simone at that point; I could see it happen. Her body went rigid and loose at the same time: rigid as any conduit must inevitably be, but fluid, alive, sensitive to the rhythm of the music. She was hunched over her instrument, body bent to its will, head down, eyes no longer watching the progress of her fingers on the fretboard, but sightless, staring, oblivious of everything but the perfection emanating from her fiddle. Her breasts, negligible though they were, swayed mesmerically. I was transfixed, by both the music and the musician: the two were inseparable. It was as though the tune were an aural manifestation of the woman. The fiddle soared, hitting achingly perfect high notes, then swooped, plucking from lower octaves, a living, searing, soaring, musical journey; all the while Simone, lost to the world, trapped in her music, swayed and rocked, her magnificent, beautiful body a graphic representation of the perfection she was creating with her hands and her fiddle.

And just as she was lost in the beauty of her music, so was I in the beauty of the musician.

As the tune ended I felt an ache in my heart, a loss, a little death. Music is the most imperfect, impermanent art. A beautiful painting can be observed for hours; a perfect line of literature can be studied, re-read, admired for ever; but music, that transient artform, is here, then gone, instantly, a bird on the wing, momentary perfection, a fleeting, glancing rendevous with absolute beauty.

And I became aware of Barbara.

"Welcome back to Planet Earth," she said, her voice ripe with amusement. "So which one has got you all hot and bothered? Is it the guitarist or the drummer boy? I rather fancy the drummer boy, actually, so hands off, he's coming home with me tonight."

I had no answer for her. At that moment I couldn't possibly have put my thoughts into words; even now, a day later, I am having difficulty explaining the power of the emotion which was surging through me; even now I don't think I understand it fully myself. Fortunately, I was spared having to frame a response by a mercifully brief introduction to the next set, as the music struck up once more.

The tune, I noticed was "Music in the glen", a tune the Bothy Band had made famous a number of years ago, although this was a very different interpretation, focussing on the fiddles as main instrument. I smiled as they segued into the next tune: "The humours of Scariff" had been the next tune in that original Bothy Band set, which presumably meant they were going to finish with "The Otter's Holt", one of my favourite Irish tunes of all time.

As "The Humours of Scariff" floated round for the third time, played out delicately on fiddle and bouzouki, Simone laid down her fiddle and headed towards the back of the stage. She re-emerged some second later, holding a flute. My God, was there no end to her talent? The other fiddler launched into the opening section of "The Otter's Holt" and went through the repetition. And then the interpretation of the whole tune changed. As the second section began, ringing out with three dramatic D chords from the guitar and bouzouki, in the stead of the lead fiddle, Simone launched herself on the tune with her flute, breathy and daring, flighty and fresh. It was startling. The tune came to life, resuscitated through her flute's breath, dancing, flying, soaring. She charged through the second repetition, and then the third, and by now my breath was shallow, as I scarcely dared to breathe for fear of missing some of my precious love's music. My favourite tune, and I can honestly say I have never heard a more outstanding version: not simply because I was besotted with her, but truly and honestly, it was a rendition which brought that delightful tune to life, revealed the charm of its simple, insistent melody, charged it with a haunting, eternal grace.

By now I was inhabiting a different world. Human time was beyond my comprehension, and so, it seemed, two minutes later we had reached the interval. In that two minutes, I know, we heard probably half a dozen sets of tunes, but my memory of them is almost non-existent: by now I was so disorientated I would have had difficulty telling my name. So overloaded were my senses that the interval was a distinct relief.

But then, I realised, I would have to deal with Barbara.

"I'll get the drinks in," I said, pre-empting any enquiries from her, and rushed to the bar. There was a melée, as there always is during intervals, and people were jostling me left, right and centre. I didn't mind. I was so elated by the evening I was oblivious of all the things which would normally have had me irritated enough to eat my slipper. Consequently, I was beneficence personified when someone dug deeply into my ribs with their elbows, almost making contact, so it seemed, with my liver and spleen. I turned round, forcing a smile on my face, prepared to accept the puny apology.

And it was her.

It was my Simone. My beautiful, wonderful, talented Simone. The woman who could make her fiddle sing, could cause her flute to cry, who lived her music, made it alive for her audience; and above all, the woman who was perfect, the woman who had obsessed me, stolen my waken moments, colonised my dreams, insinuated herself on me since the moment I first saw her.

It was her. And I didn't know what to say. After all, what do you say to the woman who has stolen your heart?

"Hello," I said. Sorry, it's feeble, I know.

She looked at me quizzically. "Hi," she said . "Sorry, did I poke you just then?"

Oh my love, my love, my perfect, beautiful young love.

"Oh, not at all," I replied. "I loved that set. You are so striking, so exceptional..."

I was trying to tell her how I thought, but as I was speaking I was aware of a curious look crossing her face. Suddenly, she became disengaged from me, distant, different, difficult.

"Oh yeah?" she responded, hostility dripping from every inch of her body. "Really striking, really exceptional." Her tone was so dismissive, so defensive, so hostile. "I expect you're wondering why I needed the bow for the fiddle. Why not just use the nose, eh?"

I had not the slightest comprehension of what she was talking about, but she was clearly upset. I tried to grab her arm, to talk further with her, but she angrily thrust me aside and stormed away from the bar.

I have no conception of what I did wrong.

None whatsoever. But it is eating me alive. I can't sleep. I can't think of anything but that conversation. I keep replaying it in my mind. I keep trying to rewrite it, rephrase, correct myself, make it better. But I can't. Because I simply don't understand where I went wrong.

I have no idea what she meant. 'Why not just use the nose?" I simply don't understand.

On to next story: Simone's Diary, May 28th