There’s a place on the South Bank in London, just near the National Theatre where the skate-boarders go. It’s nearly always busy, every inch decorated by graffiti. The day I went a man was over-painting a wall – tattoos, straggly hair, low slung trousers, numerous spray cans at his feet.

‘Can anyone do that?’ I asked.

‘Yeah,’ he said. But then noticing my older features, my lack of rad clothing, my clearly absent skateboard, ‘but you might want to practice first.’

I went round the corner away from the crowds A couple of lads were practicing their jumps, over and over, trying to mount one of the blocks and flip the skateboard in the air, landing on it without falling over. There’s probably a name for it, but it’s not my scene and I don’t know the correct nomenclature. The light was mixed – darkness slipping into brightness, garish colours, reflections, deep shadows, inky blackness, sudden shafts of sunshine.

I had my Fuji x100 – the original, now superseded by 5 new versions – each one bigger and more expensive than the last and maybe better, like all the YouTubers say. And maybe not, even though I coveted one. I snapped away, eye glued to the optical viewfinder, aiming to catch him in mid-flight.

I’d like to say I caught the pose first time, but it wouldn’t be true. But I got there.

It reminds me of one of Cartier-Bresson’s greatest photos – the man skipping over a puddle, a dancer on a poster in the background mimicking his leap – my desperate attempt to emulate the great man. For me, the deep shadows, the shaft of light, the mysterious graffiti in the background go to make the image – that and the young man caught in graceful flight in the centre.