london 1974

I was expelled from my first school because I ran away, with my best friend Penelope when I was 14. It was the most brilliant fun. We left a letter at school saying "goodbye colditz", explaining just how bored we were.

We had planned it for months, sitting in our bedrooms, listening to Marc Bolan, David Bowie and the New York Dolls, dreaming of escape from the unfairness of our strict and suitable upbringings. “girls must bring their own table napkins to school in bags, with their names on” Indoor shoes, outdoor shoes, velour hats with the ribbon around the brim, the “cherry red” blazers and the grey socks – it went on and on, the list of injustices. We were fourteen – it was time to see life, not just listen to it.

At the tube station we changed into afghan coats, jeans with glitter on, and platform clogs with big solid wooden heels and we headed off into the centre of london - I can't remember exactly how much money we had - possibly ten pounds between us - but we weren't that bothered really - we were fairly sure something would turn up. We were so excited. The noise, the crowds, the griminess of London – it was so much more beautiful than the big green gardens and neat houses we’d left behind.

I think it was near charing cross station, along the embankment, where we met the buskers - or possibly trafalgar square - they were really kind and friendly so we stopped to listen to their music and we helped take the hat around. They played "where do you go to my lovely" and "in the year 2525", and they were funny and made us laugh. It was march but we weren't cold - it was such brilliant fun, wandering round london, singing, joking - so much more exciting than school. We never wanted it to end. We were fairly sure no-one would notice how young we were - we looked pretty tall and sophisticated in our platform shoes. The buskers bought us a pie to eat. I'd never had a pie from a street stall before - it tasted exotic but it burnt my tongue and gave me blisters in my mouth.

They told us they lived in a squat in stamford street in waterloo - it was a kind of commune place - loads of them lived there. We asked if we could come too and they weren't too sure at first, because of our ages: "jailbait, man" they said, but eventually they said we could, since we had nowhere else to go. We were quite relieved, since it was getting dark and cold.

I lost my virginity that night - I'd been dying to for ages, and it seemed like a nice way of saying thank you. I was surprised at how boring sex was once you'd got past the bit where it hurt, but I was so pleased that I'd ditched the virginity part. Afterwards I looked in the mirror and my face looked the same, but inside I knew that now I was completely grown up. I was so thrilled. The man was called Ali. He was from the north somewhere. He was 21 and he had long hair and tasted of cigarettes. He was funny and gentle and friendly and generous. They all were, and we had nothing really to return the generosity with but ourselves. We were perfectly happy to do so.

The raggle taggle life continued – each day wandering around London, singing, shaking the hat, joking, meeting the underworld of runaways from all over England. We didn’t eat much but we weren’t hungry – it was too exciting to be hungry. I smoked my first joint. I learned how to pass it round, take deep tokes, cupping my hands around my mouth. Sometimes we met scary people – the ones who started drinking in the morning, the ones with missing teeth and red faces who smelt bad, but we never felt threatened by them – the buskers looked out for us, and each night we went back with them to the squat by the side of the thames and sat in the candlelight and listened to them playing their guitars.

Ten or so days later there was a bit of an argument in the squat - some girl thought someone had stolen her coat and she called the police. We were told to make ourselves scarce so we separated and hid in the arches by waterloo station. that was quite scary. It was dark and there weren't many people around, and I wasn't really sure what to do next. The drips of water coming from the tops of the arches unnerved me, and the pitch black made me worry about who else might be there hiding in the dark.

Eventually one of the buskers came to find me. We were so relieved we’d got away with it but later that night, when we were asleep, the police came back, and we were taken home to grim faced parents and endless recriminations, followed by visits to private schools around London where I sat sullen faced, refusing to say “yes I am a changed person now – I see the error of my ways” I didn’t at all. I was just counting down the days when I could be off again.