them she could show them something few other visitors to the UK ever got to see.
The underground cathedral at Charing Cross Station.
Honoured to be given such a privileged opportunity, the fifty quid Isobel asked for soon changed hands and delighted with her haul, she then guided them to the fringes of Charing Cross station, where she left them.
Her position as one of the custodians of the cathedral, sheâd explain in a low voice, would be in jeopardy if its exact location ever became public knowledge, therefore what they had to do now was find the nearest policeman, whisper the secret password to him, and he would then guide them to the hidden entrance.
The Japanese would then thank her and as Isobel wandered off, go in search of the nearest policeman. Leaving Isobel wishing she could stick around to see what happened when they whispered Youpigshitâ to the nearest copper. But with hundreds of pounds at stake, it was usually better to leave.
The money, however, was her undoing.
Back at Sunnylawns, the senior administer having been advised that Isobel was suddenly turning up with new clothes and various other items unlikely to have been bought with her allowance, instantly decided that this thieving must be a cry for help and arranged for Isobel to attend a series of counselling sessions in the hope that finally somebody might be able to get through to her.
Isobel, wearing a brand new skirt cut so short it could have doubled as a belt, dully attended the first meeting. Emerging ten minutes later with a sore hand. The result of having punched her counselor, who seeing her in so tiny a garment, had dared to suggest that perhaps her problems would be easier to bear if she indulged in a little sexual therapy?
At eighteen, and legally an adult, she demanded she be allowed to leave the home.
The home was delighted. Glad to be rid of her and wanting to ensure that she never came back, the administrators paid the first three months rent on a studio flat and handed over the reigns of responsibility to social services, breathing a sigh of relief as they closed Sunnylawnâs grim doors on her forever.
Isobel had returned only once.
To watch it burn.
After that, had come work, although how sheâd ended up doing the job she did, she would never know, but beguiled by the glossy recruitment poster and sucked in by the courtesy and respect shown to her as sheâd requested application forms, sheâd promptly signed up. Thinking it the ideal way to get back at all the people who got up her nose.
Let people swear at her and get physically abusive, she didnât care. She was used to looking after herself and if all else failed, she could always walk away. And if any of them did decide to take things a step too far then she wasnât going to think twice about threatening them with words like âpoliceâ or â casualtyâ.
So far, though, sheâd managed to walk the streets as a traffic warden relatively unscathed, assaulted by nothing more than a few, swear words and furious inquiries as to the nature of her parentage. Neither bothered her. It was the weather that pissed her off. Rained on, frozen to death or sweltering in 90 degree heat, the conditions were sometimes bloody awful and that was before the general public chipped in by parking in the most stupid, bloody places before going mental when they got a ticket.
Occasionally she did think about jacking it in, but then she thought about the effort needed to find another job and she changed her mind. She also couldnât think of another occupation where she could possibly throw her weight around half as much.
Straightening the fridge magnet, she fingered the second one of non stolen origin. This she had made herself and it featured nothing but a feather sellotaped to a magnet, a small memento of her days in an office and a brief affair that had ended in tears. She didnât really know why she kept it, except that it reminded her
The underground cathedral at Charing Cross Station.
Honoured to be given such a privileged opportunity, the fifty quid Isobel asked for soon changed hands and delighted with her haul, she then guided them to the fringes of Charing Cross station, where she left them.
Her position as one of the custodians of the cathedral, sheâd explain in a low voice, would be in jeopardy if its exact location ever became public knowledge, therefore what they had to do now was find the nearest policeman, whisper the secret password to him, and he would then guide them to the hidden entrance.
The Japanese would then thank her and as Isobel wandered off, go in search of the nearest policeman. Leaving Isobel wishing she could stick around to see what happened when they whispered Youpigshitâ to the nearest copper. But with hundreds of pounds at stake, it was usually better to leave.
The money, however, was her undoing.
Back at Sunnylawns, the senior administer having been advised that Isobel was suddenly turning up with new clothes and various other items unlikely to have been bought with her allowance, instantly decided that this thieving must be a cry for help and arranged for Isobel to attend a series of counselling sessions in the hope that finally somebody might be able to get through to her.
Isobel, wearing a brand new skirt cut so short it could have doubled as a belt, dully attended the first meeting. Emerging ten minutes later with a sore hand. The result of having punched her counselor, who seeing her in so tiny a garment, had dared to suggest that perhaps her problems would be easier to bear if she indulged in a little sexual therapy?
At eighteen, and legally an adult, she demanded she be allowed to leave the home.
The home was delighted. Glad to be rid of her and wanting to ensure that she never came back, the administrators paid the first three months rent on a studio flat and handed over the reigns of responsibility to social services, breathing a sigh of relief as they closed Sunnylawnâs grim doors on her forever.
Isobel had returned only once.
To watch it burn.
After that, had come work, although how sheâd ended up doing the job she did, she would never know, but beguiled by the glossy recruitment poster and sucked in by the courtesy and respect shown to her as sheâd requested application forms, sheâd promptly signed up. Thinking it the ideal way to get back at all the people who got up her nose.
Let people swear at her and get physically abusive, she didnât care. She was used to looking after herself and if all else failed, she could always walk away. And if any of them did decide to take things a step too far then she wasnât going to think twice about threatening them with words like âpoliceâ or â casualtyâ.
So far, though, sheâd managed to walk the streets as a traffic warden relatively unscathed, assaulted by nothing more than a few, swear words and furious inquiries as to the nature of her parentage. Neither bothered her. It was the weather that pissed her off. Rained on, frozen to death or sweltering in 90 degree heat, the conditions were sometimes bloody awful and that was before the general public chipped in by parking in the most stupid, bloody places before going mental when they got a ticket.
Occasionally she did think about jacking it in, but then she thought about the effort needed to find another job and she changed her mind. She also couldnât think of another occupation where she could possibly throw her weight around half as much.
Straightening the fridge magnet, she fingered the second one of non stolen origin. This she had made herself and it featured nothing but a feather sellotaped to a magnet, a small memento of her days in an office and a brief affair that had ended in tears. She didnât really know why she kept it, except that it reminded her
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