A brief history of being on the other side.

Originally Published in Headstuff.

I am 12 years old buying sweets in the local newsagent with my two friends. A man, older, maybe 50, in the queue behind us grazes his hand off my back and leaves it there with gentle pressure. Like it’s an accident but too certain of itself to be one. I keep my eyes on the sweets, flicking around the flurries of colour jumping out at me, urgently…