How To Be a Woman [antikvár]

PROLOGUE The "Worst "birthday '^ver WOLVERHAMPTON, 5 APRIL 1988 Here I am, on my 13th birthday. I am running. I'm running from The Yobs. 'Boy!' 'Gyppo!' 'Boy!' I'm running from The Yobs in the playground by our house. It is a typical playground of Britain in the late eighties. There's no such thing as safety surfaces, ergonomie design or, indeed, slats on the benches. Everything's made of concrete, broken Corona pop bottles and weeds. As I run, I'm totally alone. I can feel the breath in my throat catching, like sick. I've seen nature documentaries like this before. I can see what's happening here. My role is, clearly, that of'weak antelope, separated from the pack'. The Yobs are 'the lions'. I know this never really ends well for the antelope. Soon, my role will turn into a new one: that of'lunch'. 'Yah pikey!' I'm wearing Wellington boots, NHS glasses that make me look like Alan Bennett, and my dad's \Vif/t»ai/-sty\e army coat. I