I'm a Fire Starter

I'm a Fire Starter

I have never been sure whether our parents were too distracted by their own grief to try to exert more authority over what we got up to during the evenings, or if they truly did believe that we were responsible young people in possession of basic survival skills and a spare ten pence to phone home. Whichever it was, we were frequently out most, or all, of the night and always nowhere near where we had told our parents we were going to be. With friends who were now at college we had a ready supply of invites to parties and people old enough, and willing, to buy alcohol for us. This was a time of much revelry, cheap cider, black leggings and moshing to Neds Atomic Dustbin. It was also a time of going out and not thinking about how, or if, we were going to get home. And it was inevitable at some point that we would end up roughing it, as Annette and me did after one such party in Bramley.

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