Privilege is just a posh word for luck. Maybe you remember Martin. Obviously, I do. As we saw, it’s more than likely that, for me to be born in the first place, someone else had to die. So I think I know a thing or two about luck. I could dedicate this book to Martin but that would be the point at which a quiet gratitude turns into posturing sentimentality. There were nights in my late teens, wandering home from the pub when I lived with Dad, when I would look up at the stupefying beauty of a cloudless Lincolnshire night sky and thank the stars . . . thank my luckiest star – Martin.
