June 5 Small tremor hits Stoke-on-Trent

I am watching myself, almost eleven, its teatime and Frank Bough is on television discussing the prophesies of Nostradamus.

Running upstairs, I appear to be alone in the house but that’s memory fitting events to emotions. I see my reflection in the small mirror above my dressing table, the tears forcing their way out. Am I attempting to hold them back ? like I did whenever Seasons in the Sun came on the car radio; not wanting my parents or God forbid, my sister to see me so weak. Or am I forcing them out, eager to feel everything and anything, hampered as I am by a remarkably content uneventful life.

Frank has just told me I will die before I've even kissed a girl. The end of the world is due before I am sixteen and I know I won't be ready.