A year before I met Mark Brydon - he was the one I used to make

Host: The rain had stopped, but the streets still shimmered under the amber glow of the lamps. A faint fog curled through the alleys of Sheffield, wrapping the city in a kind of nostalgic stillness. Inside a small, half-empty café, the steam from coffee cups rose like ghosts of forgotten dreams. Jack sat by the window, his reflection a shadow in the glass, while Jeeny flipped through an old magazine about art and architecture.

Jeeny: “You know, Jack… I read that quote from Róisín Murphy today. About how she was just drifting — crashing lectures, studying art, then suddenly she meets someone, and her life changes. A new path, a new voice, a record deal… It’s wild how a single encounter can redirect everything.”

Jack: “Or maybe it’s not wild at all. Maybe that’s just chance, Jeeny. Random alignment. People like to call it fate when it works out. But really, it’s just timing — statistical coincidence wrapped in emotion.”

Host: A truck rumbled outside, splashing puddles against the curb. Jeeny looked up, her eyes deep and still, her fingers resting gently on the magazine’s spine.

Jeeny: “But don’t you ever feel it, Jack? That pull — that sense that something, or someone, is meant to arrive in your life? She could’ve stayed an artist, gone to lectures, done paintings that no one saw. But she met Mark Brydon — and suddenly there’s Moloko, there’s music, there’s expression. Isn’t that more than coincidence?”

Jack: “You’re romanticizing it. She didn’t meet destiny; she made a choice. She saw an opportunity — a record deal, a better shot at recognition. We dress up our decisions in mysticism because it makes them sound poetic, not pragmatic.”

Host: Jack’s voice was low, almost gravelly, the kind that vibrated through wood and memory alike. He stirred his coffee, the spoon clinking in slow, measured rhythm.

Jeeny: “So you think it’s all just cause and effect? No soul, no serendipity? You think everything’s just the next logical step in a chain?”

Jack: “That’s exactly what it is. Look at any artist, Jeeny. Picasso, Bowie, even Murphy. Each ‘epiphany’ is a reaction — to boredom, to failure, to luck. She didn’t ‘find her voice’ because of some cosmic design. She just happened to meet a man who opened a door. She walked through it. End of story.”

Host: A pause lingered in the air, heavy and quiet, like dust in a shaft of light. Jeeny’s gaze drifted toward the window, where the reflection of the streetlight trembled on the wet glass.

Jeeny: “But even if that’s true — isn’t there beauty in it? Isn’t there something divine about two people meeting at the right moment, even by accident? I mean, Van Gogh never sold a painting in his life, but he still painted with fire because he felt something was calling him. That call — that’s what I believe in.”

Jack: “And I believe in gravity, Jeeny. Things fall because they must, not because they’re called.”

Jeeny: “You sound so empty when you say that. Don’t you see? She wasn’t following a plan, she was following curiosity. She walked into those lectures, not because she belonged there, but because she wanted to feel alive. That’s the kind of rebellion that creates real art — not logic.”

Host: The wind pushed against the windows, whistling through cracks like an old violin. The café hummed softly — the espresso machine hissing, a waiter wiping down the counter, music playing faintly from a radio in the corner.

Jack: “You call it rebellion; I call it distraction. How many people chase one passion, only to abandon it when something shinier comes along? If she’d stayed in fine art, maybe she’d be a brilliant painter now. Or maybe not. We’ll never know. Life’s just a collection of forks, Jeeny. Each turn kills another possibility.”

Jeeny: “But that’s exactly why it’s sacred. Because every choice is a small death — and still, we choose. You make it sound like it’s all meaningless, but those lost paths are what make our stories worth telling. When Róisín said she met Mark, it wasn’t just a career shift. It was a transformation — from the observer to the creator.”

Host: Jack’s jaw tightened. He leaned back, his grey eyes narrowing, a flicker of something — perhaps envy, perhaps memory — crossing his face.

Jack: “Transformation is just another word for adaptation. People change to survive, not to bloom. You know how many artists have said ‘meeting someone changed my life’? That’s just code for ‘they gave me a platform.’ Without the industry, without the deal, Murphy would’ve been just another dreamer sketching in a cold flat.”

Jeeny: “You talk as if dreaming is a crime.”

Jack: “No, I talk as if reality doesn’t reward dreamers.”

Host: Jeeny’s hands trembled slightly as she lifted her cup. A tear of coffee slid down its porcelain lip, dark and bitter, like a thought unspoken.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s why people like her matter. Because they prove that sometimes — just sometimes — dreaming and doing collide. You call it luck, I call it grace. Think of how The Beatles met — Lennon and McCartney, two kids crossing paths by chance. Was that mere probability? Or was that the universe whispering, ‘This is the moment’?”

Jack: “It was probability, Jeeny. Two musicians in the same town. Nothing mystical about that.”

Jeeny: “Then why does it feel like fate when we look back? Why does every great story start with a coincidence we can’t explain?”

Host: The rain started again, soft this time, like a memory returning. The light from the street poured in gold and silver streaks, dancing over their faces.

Jack: “Because humans are storytellers. We stitch meaning into randomness. It’s how we cope with the chaos. You think life hands you symbols, Jeeny? No. You paint them on.”

Jeeny: “And yet… maybe that’s what art is — painting meaning on chaos.”

Host: For a moment, neither spoke. Only the sound of rain and breath. Jack’s eyes softened, the edge in his voice fading like smoke in the cold air.

Jack: “You know… maybe you’re right. Maybe it’s not about fate or logic. Maybe it’s about the moment you decide to step into something unknown. That’s where meaning is born. Not in destiny, not in design — but in the decision.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It’s not about who we meet. It’s about how we respond when we do. Róisín could’ve said no. She didn’t. That’s courage. That’s the art.”

Host: A smile — small, tired, but real — found its way onto Jack’s lips. The rain lightened, the fog lifting from the windowpane, revealing the quiet city beyond.

Jack: “So we agree then. Fate doesn’t write the story — we do.”

Jeeny: “Yes… but maybe fate hands us the pen.”

Host: The camera would pull back now — through the window, past the reflected streetlights, up into the misty skyline of Sheffield. Two figures remain in the café, their words hanging between them like warm smoke, a testament to the fragile, beautiful chaos of choice, chance, and creation.