Some grey day in December, 1993, it was about 3pm or so, must have been as it was still light, I remember getting off the bus in Dingle, Liverpool, where I was a student, and crossing the road I felt this itchy feeling in my calves. I got in to the flat, a massive Victorian conversion of two maisonettes above the shops on the Aigburth Road, nine of us students lived there, it was a bit dingy but with a very nice landlady who owned the photography shop underneath. A few of them were milling about when I got in, having a tab, watching TV, revising notes, pottering. I guess I had a tea and a smoke, but the itching was incessant, raging almost, and wouldn’t go no matter how hard I scratched.

Within an hour or so, I was also beginning to shake with cold and feel a bit queasy. I…

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