Waterloo Sunset. 1967.

1997. I moved out of that flat. I had to. They got rid of us all, tarted the place up, flogged our old homes off to people from Berkshire and Shanghai and Moscow. I spent a bit of time in the Maudsley after. A lot of time, if I’m honest.

I saw her once, last year. At the station, of course. I knew it was her straight away. Time had lived hard in her and through her and over her; she was lined and bagged and worn now, but she was still beautiful. She was unmistakable, at least to me. She’d lost that sad, young expectation, you could see that - hadn’t we all? - but she still lived her spirit, that head-held-high way of wearing her clothes and her pride that beckoned you towards her, just far enough.

She was waiting under the clock, looking at her watch. I thought that was funny at the time, I remember. I stayed over by the sandwich place, watching her for about twenty minutes. He never came. I knew he wouldn’t. I reckon she knew he wouldn’t too. She gave up eventually and I followed her out into the early evening air, down the bustling steps, across the road, watched her disappear into the Hole In The Wall.

I waited. And waited. A couple of hours later, she came out, arm in arm with some young guy, must have been twenty-five at most. I wanted to punch him and I wanted to shake his hand. I rehearsed in my head, yet again, everything I’ve ever wanted to say to her, took a step towards them, and then stopped. She deserved this: she deserved a few hours back then, a few hours back there, back in our time. I turned around, hoping - knowing - he’d only ever spend this one night with her. I saw a kid then, guitar on his back, looking down at me from the top of the steps, smiling. I smiled back at him and headed up, past him, into the station.