The Bitch Is Back

I live in this really cool place that you might have heard of. At the moment you might not be hearing good things; a man killed for having a black grandmother, a little girl missing in Portugal. But you know, it's a big city. The place I live sees nothing like that. The most controversial thing that's happened on my road was when my own father collapsed outside the gate drunkenly, broke his arm, gave himself a black eye. I screamed at him while the neighbours looked on, pretending not to. That was a while ago now, and our resident alcoholic has been sober for 8 months and 2 months. So it's peaceful. We sit in the back garden and drink innocent smoothies. We play with the rabbit. We go out at night. To Mood, or Suede, or the Boudoir, or, if we're really quite irreversibly pissed, the Krazyhouse. We get dressed up and put on the war paint. Put the insoles in our boots, ready to dance the night away. Flirt with the guys who work at Starbucks. This is our life now. We live in a nice city. The buses run on time, the people smile at you in the streets, the kids stick in their own groups but get on with each other. Once you get to our age, though, all those group divisions seem a bit silly. We try and ingratiate ourselves with a lot of people. We try and prepare for leaving our little city, and going into the big bad world. Whether we're going further north or further south, we are leaving. Good God, that's frightening. I don't want to leave here. Liverpool is my home. God help me.