It was a cold night on the 23rd November 1963, exactly forty-two years ago. I was fifteen years old and I remember it as if it was yesterday.
My two pals and I were sitting outside in the porch chatting and laughing. Gordon said the Stones were better than the Beatles. David snorted derisively. "The Hollies are the best, I'm telling you."
Suddenly my Uncle George rushed out, wide-eyed. "Kennedy's been shot," he gasped, "They think he's dead." He scuttled back into the house to watch the news bulletins.
I went to bed that night thinking that the Russians had killed him and that the ballistic missiles were already cruising through the night skies. I was terrified, certain that I wouldn't wake up again.