After work, I went to a bookshop. There was a book I needed to pick up. This would be the last book. A man can’t live off unemployment, even with a couple of hundred company shares. We have a lot in common, me and the guy who owns the bookshop. As he gave me book, there was a gleam in his eye. ‘This is the book you should have started with,’ he said. It was true. It hadn’t occurred to me. Urged on by horror, I had started at the end, with the Nuremberg Trials, and slowly worked my way back to the beginning, the hunt for war criminals, the discovery of the camps, the Normandy landings, the war itself, the phony war, etc. All the way back to the source. And this book was the source. When I’d asked him to get me a copy a couple of weeks earlier, he shook his head. ‘It might be tough to get hold of. It used to be banned. I’ll do what I can, otherwise, you can try second-hand bookshops . . . I’ll give you a few addresses.’ In the end, he managed to track down a copy of the book which had unleashed the most ghastly tragedy on the world. On me. Mein Kampf.