2009.

 

It was past midnight. A friend and I were walking, arm in arm, stumbling on Bayswater's piss-wet cobblestone. I pointed to a three-step near a flat, and we sat there, each opening a little bottle of Babycham.

 

I don't drink anymore. I never did, actually. Except when I was still around that age: young enough to want to try to be someone else in company.

 

"Hey lads!"

 

Out of nowhere, this bum, walking with a stick, approached us, eyeing our cheap drink like it could save him from whatever was his ruin. I hid half my face under the fur of my leopard-print coat, not out of fear of him... just of small-talk with strangers. My friend went into protective mode, straightening up instead.

 

"What's up, man? We don't have any change, sorry."

 

The bum, a man in his 60s with bad teeth and who looked like Steve Buscemi on a bad day, shook his head.

 

"No, no, don't want any money. I'd take a sip if that's alright. Or you could let me talk about Jesus."

 

My friend and I eyed each other; he laughed.

 

I just silently offered my little bottle. That shit tasted too bad anyway. The bum took it, a bit too quickly.

 

"Still, Jesus is coming back, lads. We are all doomed."

 

He drank it – the whole thing – and handed me back the empty bottle. I took it. Slipped it in my coat pocket. He tapped his way back into the dark.

 

I still do that. Take things back once they've been emptied out. I collect other people's empty things. I don't know what that is. I notice it though.

 

Maybe Jesus is coming. I honestly kind of hope so.

 

But the doom? Yeah. That part I've never had trouble believing.