I only possessed two outfits of clothing then. It sounds incredible now but this was the early Sixties and nobody had much money and anyway it was so dark in the dives we frequented that it didn't matter that much. The place where it did matter was at work where I always wore black and got ribbed quite a bit because I worked in a busy office where I was the only beatnik, as they called me, and my older colleagues acted more like my parents.

One outfit, worn summer and winter alike, was a black polo neck jumper, worn with black skirt, black diamond pattern stockings, black shoes and a navy blue (my Mum refused to let me have black) leather jacket. The other was a pink denim shirt over which I wore, buttoned up, a black cardigan with the usual black skirt, stockings and shoes. What with my dark backcombed hair, black eye make-up and pale face and lips, I must have looked quite a sight. My fringe, of course, hung in my eyes. Most other girls in the clubs dressed the same, all in black. The boys were still wearing shirt and tie but some had graduated to the common black polo neck.

My parents must have been shocked at my transformation after attending the Iron Door club one night in 1963, from a quiet stay-at-home to a beatnik type, out clubbing every night. The Sixties for all their so-called promiscuousness seemed so innocent now compared with the new millennium. I'm glad I was a teenager then and not now.

The Iron Door Club proved to be a major influence of my life in the Sixties. Basically it was a terrible fire trap, but at 17 none of this occurred to my friend Joy and I. We were there to enjoy ourselves and loved every minute.

We purchased the paper Mersey Beat to find where our favourite bands were appearing and the venue for the Undertakers that coming weekend was the Iron Door club. It was situated in Temple Street, off Dale Street, in Liverpool city centre and was housed in the cellar of a warehouse, of which, as a major port, Liverpool had many.

Temple Street was narrow with tall warehouses on both sides and poorly lit at night. The club was about a third of the way down on the left and easily identified by its studded IRON door. There were steps up to the doorway which led first to the coffee bar and cloakroom and then a further flight of slatted wooden stairs down to the club itself which was no more than a large room with a low ceiling with two pillars supporting the roof. The stage was along the far wall and was barely higher than the floor which meant that the performers were literally face to face with their audience. On the walls were paintings of African tribal masks, shields and spears relating back, no doubt, to the jazz origins of the club. Opposite the stage, against the wall and beneath the stairs was bench style seating.

So one Saturday evening Joy and I ventured with trepidation down pitch black Temple Street to the dim light outside the Iron Door. The beat of the music could be heard from outside. We paid our entrance fee and ventured down the slatted stairs. It was very hot and dark and smoky and all that could be seen were the glowing tips of cigarettes. There must have been almost 200 people crammed close together there with the music (so different) and the beat (so loud) and the atmosphere (so suffocating).

The moment I set foot on that staircase I was captivated. It made such an impression on me that nearly forty years on I can still experience that shiver of excitement and see the crush of people.

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