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The last time I was in Tottenham, twenty-two years ago, I was set upon by a gang of youths, moments after leaving a close friend’s wedding.

I had just called my wife on a dinky mobile phone to tell her I was on my way home, when I saw a group of a dozen young men coming straight at me.

The next thing I knew, I had been steamrollered against the wall and was now being pummeled to the ground. In that moment, completely overwhelmed, I grasped for the only thing I thought might help, yelling “God is great” in Arabic.

That was more a prayer than a battle cry, but — who knows? — perhaps it stirred the conscience of someone amongst them. Or perhaps they just realised I had nothing worth stealing.

In any case, moments later they ran away, leaving me to pick myself off the ground. Perhaps they had been disturbed — this was in broad daylight after all, next to waiting buses, and a minute’s walk from the police station.

Dazed by the assault, I wandered back into the townhall and told a friend I had just been mugged, whereupon a group of friends went charging outside in pursuit of them.

I’ve always regretted that, for causing a scene on my friend’s special day. Of course, he would say that’s ridiculous: blaming myself for events beyond my control. But really I mostly blamed myself for being so weak, and completely unable to defend myself.

I’d have to wait another three years for the diagnosis that would explain that weakness, but even then I still wouldn’t draw the strands together. This is another of those events that might be reinterpreted in the light of what I know now.

At the time I believed they had set upon me in pursuit of my phone and wallet, and yet they fled with neither. Now I wonder: was I actually targeted for my face and form? Or was it really just an opportunistic assault on one who was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time?

Well, who knows? I was angry and upset for days after that, shaken up by such a brazen assault in the late afternoon. I wasn’t badly injured: only my self-image really took a bruising. It was just yet further confirmation of what I could expect from life.

From the corridors of school, to being pelted with eggs on my way home from college, to repeatedly being pinned to the wall by my neck, or being threatened with a broken back, or being jeered at in the street: this was just my lot.

Of course, had I had testosterone pulsating through my veins, I could have gone full Karate Kid, and trained hard to ensure no one ever messed with me again. But then I’m reminded of all those mornings training on Primrose Hill at uni, which made no difference whatsoever. It wasn’t the time. Perhaps only now is the time.

At yesterday’s wedding, meeting family friends I haven’t seen in years, it occurred to me that the healthcare professional was right all those years ago. I do still look much younger than my age. My face has filled out, thank God, edged now by a decent beard, but people would still think “young man”.

What’s my secret, they might wonder, apart from not drinking or smoking? I guess it’s my long-delayed coming of age. There have been tests along the way, for sure, but perhaps I am finally becoming confident in myself, content with the provision of my Lord.

Two characters at two weddings in Tottenham, poles apart.