I made a brilliant start, or so it seemed at the time. I turned right out of the station and started walking. I’d no idea where I was going. I was looking for somewhere to live. The street I was walking up was called Pancras Road. I hadn’t gone far when I came to this row of shops under a block of flats. One was a newsagent’s, and there were some postcards stuck on the glass door. I went for a closer look. They were ads, as I’d thought they’d be. Articles for sale. Babysitter wanted. House repairs done cheap. One said ‘B&B, suit working man, rent negotiable.’ The word negotiable was spelt ‘Negoshable,’ and the whole thing looked like a six-year-old had written it, but I didn’t care. There was an address. Wharfedale Road. I went in the shop and asked directions, and it was back the way I’d come.

It was a sleazoid place, and the rent wasn’t all that negoshable either. ‘Fifty a week,’ the guy said. He’d a face like a rat. ‘Fortnight in advance,’ he said, ‘and I’m doing you a favour. Most places want a month.’

‘I’m looking for work,’ I told him. ‘I haven’t much money. Can we negotiate?’ (I told you I was green.)

‘Negotiate?’ His voice was a sort of screech. ‘You can negotiate yourself right out of my house, lad, if that’s your attitude. It’s fifty a week, take it or leave it.’

I took it, and that was my second mistake. Oh, I was thankful at the time, don’t think I wasn’t. I’d a place to lay my head and keep out of the weather, and I hadn’t been in London an hour. If I’d known, though, there were other places I could have tried – places like the YMCA, where there’s help and advice and food as well as a bed if you’re lucky enough to get in. But like I said, I didn’t know.