Down In The Tube Station At Midnight. 1978.

Chertsey. 2020.

I knew I’d fucking hurt him. I didn’t know I’d fucking killed him.

Turns out he was a Yid too. Season-ticket holder. Married to a Woking girl. Don’t know why that upset me so much, but it did. At the time, anyway. Fuck. Never used a knife, before or since. Never hurt anyone. Not physically, anyway, know what I mean? Sometimes I still think about it. That night. Avoided Waterloo for years. Avoided fucking people for years, to be honest. Went up to town last week and felt a bit shaky. After all this time. Didn’t tell anyone, obviously.

Still. My kids grew up OK. Their kids have grown up OK. There’s always good and bad, I suppose, ups and downs. That’s life, really, isn’t it?