It doesn’t matter if you were born in the 1960s, 1980s or 2000s. The Summer Of Love, in all its hazy, romantic, euphoric, bittersweet, insecure, hopeful, joyful glory, is for everyone. My brothers G, I and M had all that and more. The music, the nights, the sweat, the dancing, the camaraderie. G, in particular, was always up for it. He had so much rocking, romance and lust in him, it poured out of his soul and enveloped all of us and the nights we were together. At the height of our Summer Of Love, we were often at Zouk, a club we frequented most because the music was ace, and we knew people there and felt cool because we did. On so many Friday nights on Zouk’s dance floor, G would develop crushes so hard and so often, it was funny to watch. One time, though, it looked as if things were getting real. (It wasn’t.) But the depths of despair that young and careless love can inflict shouldn’t be taken lightly. Usually one to pick himself up the next moment he saw another girl he fancied, G had fallen into a big stink with this one who had strung and dropped him. Of course, we were bad at giving advice. But of course, we were always there for him.