I never made it to the bridge where I was going to take my own life. As the Toyota Prius got closer and closer on the morning of February 25 and I swigged raw gulps of Glen’s vodka from the blue corner shop bag, I kept changing the route. I was on a comedown. I hadn’t eaten. I was a broken man needing to escape.
Tower Bridge was too close to my flat in Hackney, my illogical reasoning went, and the Millennium Bridge could wobble. I watched the taxi driver look at me drinking, tears running down my face, and the grey wreaths trailing out of my T-shirt where I tried to hide my vape. I’m not sure why he said nothing.
