Last month, I went to the Tottenham Hotspur Stadium to watch the NFL game between New York Jets and Atlanta Falcons. It was the first time I'd been there since this new, state-of-the-art colossus opened a couple of years ago, and it was a great experience. The show was good, the game was patchy but fun, the facilities tremendous, the beer decent. Added to which, it was strangely powerful, in and of itself, to be among so many people again.
My friend explained where the old stadium would have been. We'd been to White Hart Lane together in 2010 to watch Spurs-Fulham - only the second time, in fact, that I'd been there, despite being a lifelong Spurs fan. There are few longer journeys in London than South Ealing to Tottenham, after all. It's actually easier to get there from Ashford, where I live now.
I recalled the first time I went, in 1989, and that took me down the path I'm going to go down now.
I went, along with a couple of other boys, with a schoolteacher, a man who committed suicide last year faced with renewed charges of historical child abuse.
When I heard that news, I told a friend of mine who'd been in the same class, and we both agreed to mixed feelings, that it was sad, that, despite everything, we had fond memories of that year.
When stories about my school were first in the national news, almost a decade ago, I saw his name amongst several others, in the context of being investigated but not charged with grooming. At that stage, I confess, part of me went to defend him, to wonder if he'd been misinterpreted, if rumour and malice had implicated him amongst other, more exploitative men.
When charges were later brought once, then again, and further details emerged, I was not naive enough to imagine that he was an innocent in the crossfire.
And yet, my feelings remain complex. I cannot speak for his mentality and actions, I cannot speak for the victims who came forward against him, I can only interrogate my own experience.
Like countless children of my generation, generations before and after, there were no shortage of predators around when I was young. Nor is he the only one that seemed to take, for a period of time, a particular interest in me. There were three. The other two I have no complex feelings about. I can see them for what they were.
Nothing happened to me, to the depth of my recall. As I've got older, I've doubly investigated my memory - have I missed something, hidden something? But I don't think so.
He was the first male form teacher we'd had, after five years of kind, nurturing women. The year he taught us was the last time I enjoyed school, indeed, didn't dread it, perhaps until the final few months of the final year, eight years later.
The switch at the start of the following year was pretty much instant. Teachers were intimidating, strict, uninspirational. The odd one would try to be inspirational but it felt two-faced. School was an eight-year trial after that, where I steadily fell away from top standards, did not feel I was highly regarded, valued or liked.
So, what's to make of that year? With the benefit of various levels of hindsight. In the years that followed, there were whispers about him, innuendo. For older, street-smarter but also meaner boys, he became, along with a few other teachers, a byword for something negative. But, even at that time, I think I thought it was all talk, that they didn't know anything I didn't know, that perhaps they were even a bit jealous, but perhaps they did know something specific, perhaps they weren't throwing cruel rumours and stereotypes about, but honing in with righteous fury.
He was funny, in that trendy vicar kind of way (he was a Christian), played guitar, told stories, had in-jokes and well-honed systems for getting the best in people. Everything seemed fun, and he rarely got angry. He gave us Mars bars for improving our times in his weekly times tables competitions. I broke records, week on week, the star of the class. I performed in plays we put on for assembly. He made me captain of the year's football team that year, one of the few times I ever had the chance to captain. I played rugby for the year above, performed in the school musical. I felt capable of anything and genuinely loved being at school.
He took me, and other boys, to the David Lloyd Club, where we played tennis, badminton, squash. pool. He took the football team to the Richmond Slides, then back to his flat to watch the FA Cup final. He took me, with other boys, to Plough Lane to see Wimbledon, Loftus Road to see QPR-Spurs and, as I've said, to White Hart Lane. That summer and the summer after, he took a group of us on walking holidays in the Peak District.
But, there's the thing, I don't remember being alone with him. We were always in groups, large or small. Was I being groomed, I who received all that favour? Or was I party to someone else being groomed?
The answer feels more complex. I said I wouldn't try to answer it, but I'll say a few things. I think he loved teaching and was a good teacher, I think he had kindness in him, I think he certainly enjoyed the company of boys, and that was capable of being in a non-exploitative way. But, I suppose, if there was ever any exploitation, any misdeed, then it was all exploitation. He was tactile, there were innuendos, that I do remember. And, like I say, I'm not a fool. This story's played out many times in many contexts. I'm not going to be anyone's apologist, even in death.
My mixed feelings don't really matter, I know. My sense of sadness at his death. Yet it remains.
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