Life In Stereo.

 My stereo has died. It's an old Sony one my Dad bought me, maybe 25 years ago. Other than a comb and a facial structure, it might be the last thing he gave me I still have. It still looks pristine. It has, had, a huge, warm sound, really rich and mellow. It's followed me everywhere for a quarter of a century - which is, admittedly, a good innings for a stereo. It's traveled from my parent's house - no longer our house - to my first flat-share with friends, one of whom is dead. It came with me from Basingstoke to London - all over London - then London on to Belfast. It saw me through my marriage and my grief - it's played a lot of Tindersticks over the years. It's been the soundtrack to healing and happiness. I played less Tindersticks then.  

It was in the spare-room for a while, but today I took it downstairs again. I have a lot of CDs I'd like to play - not everything in my oddball collection is available to stream. I set it up in the office and switched it on. I put on a Glam Rock compilation album I'd received as a gift and never properly  listened to. It sounded great. I was so pleased to have it back. 

The compilation finished - all 18 tracks - and I had a hankering to listen to the Mark Hollis solo album. Hadn't heard it in years. I pressed eject, placed the disc in the tray and, as it returned, it made an ominous growling noise and spat the disc out again. Funny, I thought. I tried a Krzysztof Komeda album, hoping the Hollis disc was the issue. It wasn't. The same noise, the same up-chuck. Great.

I looked for advice on the internet and was advised to clean it with a microfibre cloth and blow on it. They said to leave the tray out for a while, like a patient's tongue anticipating a thermometer. I also turned the heating on just in case it was a bit cold. It wasn't a bit cold. It was dying. It had gone from working perfectly to not working at all in the space of a minute. People tell me machines are pure logic. But that's not logical is it? Fine/Dead. 

Just like a person, then. That's how we carry on. One minute we're high fiving and jit jiving, the sun on our backs, the sky wide, blue and yonder. Next it's we who are blue and stiff, like a smurf's hitching thumb. 

The stereo had worked hard. It was old and it had carked it. I was unexpectedly sad.

I know that's foolish. It's just a stereo. But it's been my constant companion for half my life. The two of us, through thick and thin. Two pals together. Life in stereo.