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In 1983, a friend of mine died. It was sudden and unexpected. I rang others to tell them. In that moment of conversation I knew which of them had loved him and by exactly how much. That, at least, was my conviction at the time. And indeed still. It is just about the saddest of all truths that if you sit by the riverbank long enough the bodies of your chums will float past. You have to work at your hating for you will never get as bitter as you would like. An old enemy dies and notionally floats past - you feel nothing very much; but if a friend dies you feel stabbed. I have long since parted company with those who insist that ageing brings insight, maturity, contentment…

  Though I was a small boy back then, the day of Jack Kennedy’s death remains so vivid, raw like an arthritic pain. The news bulletin interrupted regular viewing and the original flash was that the President had been shot in Texas but not killed. Only later were we told of his death and a silence fell over the family, the street, life itself. People put their hands over their mouths as the BBC newscasters  -  whose names I can still recall  -  dealt the final blow. Many years later, like millions I finally saw the full Zapruder footage and winced at that pornography of violence when the bullet explodes in the skull. I then realised just how sanitised had been the original broadcast version of those events. Probably just…