remember fighting a rather lonely wind as I crossed Central Park on
that particular Wednesday before Christmas; an old faded newspaper
flapped in the breeze against a wooden seat but I could still make out
the headline: ‘JFK Dead’. They would be coming soon, those wise men from
the east, the Beatles with their new English beat music. Perhaps we
could stop grieving and begin to move on. I clambered up the hill,
crossed Central Park West sliding in to 72nd Street and as I passed the
Dakota building, a cold chill made me pull my coat in tight.