It was a Monday, a cold and grey day just like today, six years ago. I had to get up before 7am to catch an early tube. The radio alarm woke me. I am not a great morning person, but what I heard made me jump up from the mattress. There was tension in the voice of Nick Robinson, the presenter of the Today Programme that day, as he broke the news through my radio's speaker that David Bowie was dead.
"Oh, no don't say it's true", were the words that flashed in my mind.
Poleaxed, I got up and got ready to go to work.
I walked down Brixton Hill - I had been a resident of Bowie's birthplace for 15 years by now - and before crossing the road to the tube station, I stopped by Morleys department store. On an external wall there, around three years earlier, a portrait of Bowie as Aladdin Sane had been installed by Australian street artist, James Cochran.
It was just past 7.30am and already people had gathered in front of it, laying flowers and lighting candles.
I got on the tube, still numb with shock and grief. I put on my headphones and scrolled to my Bowie songs on my phone. The only one I could play was Sorrow.
"With your long blonde hair and your eyes of blue, the only thing I ever got from you was sorrow."
The last Bowie song I had listened to was just the night before. I had been watching on Channel 4 Deutschland '83. As the episode closed, the credits rolled to the sound of Modern love, one of my favourites.
Throughout the tube journey I could only listen to Bowie songs. The sorrow began to lift a little as his talent and humanity vibrated in my eardrums.
My mind was transported to how Bowie soundtracked my life, how he had changed the world.
That evening there was joy as well as sorrow in Brixton. The Ritzy cinema displayed on its marquee the simple words:
DAVID BOWIE
OUR BRIXTON BOY
RIP
My eyes may have watered a bit then.
People were on the street, with guitars singing along. The flowers outside Morleys carpetted the pavement.
An impromptu memorial party had been arranged at very short notice at the Prince Albert pub. It was absolutely rammed and the queue to get in snaked down Coldharbour Lane. Fortunately, my wife and I knew one of the bouncers on the door and she allowed us to jump the queue.
The pub was full of life, tears and fellow feeling.
Yesterday, on the anniversary of his death, I again walked down Brixton Hill and headed towards the Aladdin Sane portrait. There were fresh flowers and burning candles. The flame still burns. The black star still shines.
