I hitched my satchel up onto my shoulder as I crossed the road. Even in this back street row of nondescript houses, ours stood out. It used to be green, once, although I couldn’t remember when, and only knew it thanks to the flakes of green paint that stubbornly refused to be dislodged. Most of the wood was bare and weather-worn, showing signs of rot in places. The landlord refused to spend any money on it, and we had none to spare. The windows and sills were always clean, the pavement always swept, but I didn’t see that. I only saw a place that I was ashamed to invite any of my new school-friends to. I had passed my 11 plus – a rarity from my junior school – and was now at the high school. But the girls there were different, grander almost, in my mind, and I was unsure of myself. So I always returned alone.

A few years later, my Mum was given some left-over paint from work, and a friend came and painted the doors and windows for us. They were green once more.