![]() She starts frankly, with the events of her first years, during which she experienced: It is, as she calls it, “all-encompassing, grinding, brutal and often dehumanising”. Reading Kerry Hudson’s excellent memoir, Lowborn, I was reminded, as though I could ever forget, that there is nothing glamorous about true poverty. We, the constant poor, had nowhere to go for the holidays but back to the bedsit, still cold, with 10 fags to last us for the festive season. By Christmas, the fun of that had worn thin and they returned to Surrey and York to be fed and watered and have their allowances topped up. The posh students used to come, a fresh round every October, and flirt with poverty, with having only 20 fags for the week, with the thrill of buying a second-hand leather coat and being too cold indoors to take it off. ![]() ![]() I grew up in the student area of Birmingham, solidly middle-class bohemian with a whiff of incoming immigration from surrounding poorer areas and over the waters. ![]()
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |