She had the most beautiful hair I'd ever seen. It was the color of Tutankhamon's gold mask, the color of Mesopotamian grave goods. We'd meet before our Archaeology lecture and sit under the jacaranda in the main quad at Sydney Uni and talk and argue until we cracked each other up.

She rolled her eyes at the way I dressed, and took me shopping in the little boutiques on Oxford Street. We'd get together for coffee in the Strand. She insisted I had to start drinking espresso, and introduced me to European films. We went to the Dendy and the Valhalla and the old Encore. She had flawless taste and a wicked temper.

She drove like a maniac. Driving to Uni one morning, soaring over Darling Harbour, she played Kirsty MacColl's Kite on the stereo as loud as it would go. I borrowed the album and listened to it until I knew every word of every song. She wouldn't let me keep it, and I never managed to find a copy of my own.

She crashed and burned. We lost touch. I don't know where she is.

Kirsty MacColl died this morning. She was only 41.

Damn.

"Thank you for the days/ Those endless days, those sacred days you gave me/ I'm thinking of the days/ I won't forget a single day believe me "