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I guess I should start by saying that I hated school. I really hated it. At the tender age of 9, I would be playing truant, missing Tuesday afternoons because I hated PE. Looking back on it, I was pretty dumb. I could have been kidnapped but I didn’t realise that, I was innocent. I trusted the world. I thought nothing of asking random strangers what the time was and it didn’t bother me when people smiled at me in petrol stations for no apparent reason.

When I started high school, things didn’t get better. I was always in trouble. People that I thought were friends would snitch on me and then act like they cared. It made me realise that I was pretty much alone in the world. After countless detentions and social exclusions, my parents were sick of me. I hated disappointing them, and even though I got good grades, my behaviour was just appalling. I was their fourth child and my older siblings were kind of, well, perfect. I was expected to live up to their standards but I was always going wrong. By year ten I would skip ICT lessons. It was project work that was easy as pie so I got an A* in the end but those lessons were pointless. I’d just walk out of the school gates. ICT was before lunch so I’d stay out until afternoon lessons began and then it wasn’t much trouble sneaking back in through the side entrance. No one knew I did this. My so-called friends assumed I was just hanging around somewhere and the teachers were none the wiser. I never really fitted in. It was a grammar school, I did the eleven plus exam and was good at all my lessons but the other kids were stuck up. If you didn’t have the latest phone or iPod you weren’t good enough for them. I didn’t have much money. I used to shoplift all the time. I’m not proud of it, but it was just something I used to do. I can’t deny it. I got a thrill, a sick sort of kick out of it.

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