Eighteen years old, I left home for good. I didn’t hitch-hike the length of America along Route 66 to San Francisco, I just took the train from Nuneaton to London (journey time ninety minutes).

I didn’t grow up in hunger, no shoes on my feet, holes in my trousers. I wasn’t bullied at school, there were no beatings, no kiddie fiddling.

Mum was a hairdresser, dad a bricklayer, I was an only child. We had a car and went to Spain for our holidays (not common in the 1970s).

I didn’t want to be a writer, join a pop group or be a footballer.

I’m not gay and wasn’t searching for my tribe.

When I got to London I didn’t sleep on the streets, take drugs, or rent my bottom out to perverts.

I got a job burning burgers at the newly-opened McDonald’s in Edgware Road and rented a small bedsit nearby.

I had three A-levels, I could have gone to university (or at least a polytechnic) but instead I got a traineeship at Barclay’s Bank. I’ve been there ever since.

I left the bedsit, rented a flat and then bought a house in the suburbs (a preferential mortgage was a perk of the job.)

I never married, I’ve never been in love really and didn’t have much sex.

I collect postcards of seaside towns and have more than 100 followers on my Facebook page.

I haven’t been to Nuneaton since father died.

I think I’ve had a good life.

Words: Richard Rooney

Illustration: A.I.

 

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