It was late summer or, perhaps better, early autumn. I remember there were flowers growing. In those days the station master grew flowers to brighten up the Junction platform. I have been on the same Junction since; there are no flowers now. There is, however, a great deal of graffiti. But when I set out on my journey to ‘become a priest’ the walls were clean.

It is vital, nevertheless, to point out that the absence of graffiti should not be understood, or interpreted, as an indication that there was nothing to protest against or nobody to hate or love. In fact I think there were vague efforts, even frightened attempts, to inform the world in pencil about life’s hopes and problems. And, of course, the more adventurous had attacked various wooden surfaces with pen-knives. The comparative cleanliness should be attributed more to the absence of aerosol sprays and felt pens than to the lack of desire, in various sectors of the public, to address their fellow citizens about their bitterness or enchantment with life. In fact there was a lot to be bitter about in that late summer or early autumn. We had, more or less, just come to the end of one of our periods of global killing. The time had come to number such periods. The one just finished would be known historically as World War II. And it had come to an end with an event, or an act, which had not totally sunk into our world consciousness—we had dropped an Atomic bomb on Japan. The world would never be the same again.