Back in Hebden Bridge: always a bittersweet experience. When I moved here, years ago, I thought I’d found my place. The good times were very good indeed, but the bad times were horrible… and it’s the bad times that I recall most strongly as I take a stroll. I still have no idea why some people in town accused me of being a paedophile (I’m writing now about the dangers of believing things without good evidence, and this episode was a classic example).
I remember sitting on the bottom step of the stairs, surrounded by broken glass, realising that having a mouth that tasted of ashes was more than a metaphor. I knew the craziness was unlikely to end. It might have died down, after a few months, or years, but there would never be any genuine resolution. I locked myself away, then, a few weeks later, left…
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