easyiris

I completely misread that as, "former cop and child molester here..."

When I was given my council flat when I was eighteen the walls and ceiling were covered in both graffiti and blood, I found part of a syringe (no needle just the case part where the fluid goes) under the fireplace, there was a bin bag rotting in the cupboard outside, the toilet was black (I mean black. Not slightly brown or off-colour, fucking black) and the whole place stank. No one helped me to clean or decorate. I donned surgical gloves and went at it myself. I was given £10 in B&Q vouchers for paint but ended up having to spend about £50. I also laid the carpet by myself.

As a little girl who had been street homeless for a while I was over the moon to have a roof over my head but felt sort of upset that no one thought it was pretty unacceptable to allow that young girl to move into somewhere like that with no help.

Anyway, fast forward six years and I now live in a different city (and country, really), have a high paid job and my very own two bedroom house. But that scabby little flat (my first home) will always be my pride and joy.

I remember all your lines, don't worry.

I'd stick up for you, Louis.

My grandfather was the same. I didn't even know war was war until I was about six or seven. Thought he'd gone off to a summer camp where he built motorbikes all day. Different story if you have someone fighting in a war talking about it now.