It seems like a lifetime ago, a different person altogether. I was thirty-nine years old, and Joan and I had been married for about eight years. It was early 1939, and I’d just started working for an advertising company near Charing Cross. It was my first managerial post, and I was doing remarkably well. We had our art supplies, pens and inks and so forth, supplied by a company based in Long Acre, around the corner from our offices. This meant they could deliver at a moment’s notice, which was very handy. One of the delivery boys, Billy, was a handsome youth in his early twenties, and I took a shine to his rugged and uncultured appeal. He must have been about six feet, four inches tall, with broad shoulders and dark hair, and the most dazzling black eyes. Many a time I had a vision of him in my head as I masturbated. One evening, working overtime, I needed some supplies, and so I telephoned to order what I required. They were just about to close, but promised to deliver within the half-hour.
