I was at Bristol Temple Meads and a five-hour train journey lay ahead. A party of young people boarded and a girl headed straight for my dog collar. “Can I talk to you, Reverend?” It had all the hallmarks of a “chat up the vicar” joke and I was tired. But no. Three hours earlier her boyfriend, a long-term depressive, had intentionally taken a lethal dose of tablets and she had discovered him dead in their flat. He could no longer face the pain of his existence and she was travelling to her parents for comfort.
Read the whole article in the Guardian here. Worth it.