by Gillian Taber

Created on: March 12, 2011

It's a while back, before grey hairs invaded my life, along with creaking joints and less inclination to bound around like a lovesick puppy at the first sniff of spring, but I do remember it was the year of Abracadabra by the Steve Miller Band. Spring had just reappeared, buds here and there, a few scrappy crocuses fighting against the perpetual downpours, but spring none-the-less. With spring came certain responsibilities for me.

Our situation at home was pretty dire, a tale for another time. However, spring meant the resumption of the long trek from my home on the outskirts of London, to my maternal grandmother's house, a distance of about 8 miles each way. Purpose of these visits? To beg, steal or borrow the money which would get my mother, younger sister and myself through another week.

My mother, absolutely a tome for another time, refused to claim any benefits after my father couldn't take her any more and left. We had only the family allowance money (a small amount given for each child) to get us by and were permanently in debt, broke and hungry due to her 'pride'. Regularly, I'd do the trek to Nan's house to try and acquire money, by fair means or foul. I'm not proud of it, but it was a fact of life at the time.

There was never enough money on the outbound trip to pick up the 124 bus, walking was the only option. I used to follow the bus route, a kind of torture in itself, because I didn't know any other way to get there. Watching those warm, dry people sail past on the bus every half hour or so was not a pleasant experience, but when the days were warm and the sky blue, it didn't feel so bad..

At about the halfway mark, I'd be pretty tired, hungry and footsore. There was a convenient wall at this point and I'd plump down on it, watch the world go by for a little while, gathering my strength to face the rest of the way. The wall also had a bad point. It was the exact stopping place for the bus and it always looked as if I was waiting for it. Many a driver would stop, open the doors with a sucking whoosh which made my heart sink, and shout at me for making him stop when I wasn't boarding. I eventually learned to sit right at the end of the wall, my back to the main road and my head in a book. Fie on buses, what had they to do with me?

Money was very short, debt collectors were hammering on the door and I was heading out to Nan's every week. On that day, it absolutely threw it down. The rain was bouncing back up from the pavement and I was soaked from

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