Sitting in the pub at the weekend I was reminded of an incident when I was twelve. Walking home from school, through a local housing estate, satchel over my shoulder. I was suddenly pounced on by a couple of the local toughs, probably 19 or 20, the housing estate was called the white city, a tough area on the outskirts of Belfast. They grabbed me, lifted me off my feet and jammed me head first into the hedge I was passing at the time. They strolled away laughing, heading for the local park.
Did I mention my youthful temper. I extracted myself from hedge, ran home crying with rage, dived into house, grabbed a kitchen knife and headed for the park. Fortunately, my mother had heard the commotion and saw me flash past outside on route to park with one of her knifes in my paw. Called our neighbour and told him to get after me.
Meanwhile I had reached park and was hunting for my two protagonists. Just as I found them and went for them my neighbour tackles me and wrests knife from my hand. Two guys see commotion and knife, scarper! Yours truly on ground now raging at the good samaraton. Point being, but for a few seconds and our neighbour being a shift worker my life could have been so different.
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