place to stop, you stupid girl,’ says a woman in high heels. She clicks off, swinging her briefcase and shaking her head in annoyance.
I fight back tears. I’d give anything to see a friendly face – Mum, Harry, even any kid from school – but that’s not really likely down here in the smelly bowels of the London Underground, so I drag myself off to find the Northern Line after a quick look at the directions I printed off earlier.
The tube is packed to the brim with people, even though it’s Sunday evening. Most of them look like tourists. They’re holding rucksacks like mine or staring at the map of the underground above my head and shouting at one another in loud, foreign voices.
I stand with my hand on the greasy pole in the middle of the carriage and try not to panic. Mum’s always told me to keep away from the underground because it’s a hotbed of germs and viruses and with CF I spend most of my time trying not to catch anything. We used to live in London but Mum moved out when she and Dad broke up and her main reason was because of the increased risk of infection.
I push my way off and change onto the Piccadilly Line. My B&B is in a part of London called Bloomsbury. I chose it on the internet because it looked close to the studio where the baking competition is going to be filmed. I reckoned that ‘Bloomsbury’ sounded cool – kind of pretty and old-fashioned with lots of cherry trees and cobbled squares.
Yeah, right.
There’s a horrid lift at Russell Square station and I have to cram into it with loads of other bleary-eyed people all trying not to look at one another. The lift judders, stops, starts and creaks to ground level, before we’re all spewed out into the station and then out into the humid, stale-smelling London air.
I slide my rucksack off my shoulders to give them a rest. Then I look left and right and consult the map I printed off the Net this morning. The roads are crammed with traffic and people and I can’t see the street names at first, so I set off in what I hope is the right direction and after about five minutes of struggle I end up at a small grey concrete building that sits at one end of a square with railings around it. There’s a flight of steps leading up to the front door and I just can’t face them at the moment so I cross the road and go to find a bench in the square.
There’s a statue of a woman’s head in one corner. She’s got a beaky nose and a thin, sad-looking face. The head is made of bronze and is covered in pigeon droppings. I look at the plaque underneath. It’s somebody called ‘Virginia Woolf’ and she used to live in a building on this square. She looks about as miserable as I feel. I wonder if she had CF?
I sit next to Virginia, lean back and drink loads of water from one of my bottles. I feel like I need a snack but I’m scared to eat too much without my Creon, so I nibble on the corner of a Mars Bar and then fold the wrapper back over the rest and put it away again.
I drag myself back over the road and up the stairs into the B&B reception.
The building is very modern. When I booked it I pictured an old-fashioned Victorian sort of building, with hanging baskets and a friendly woman on reception with maybe a hotel cat perched on the desk.
There’s nobody at the small reception desk inside the door, so I ping the bell and wait.
A dark-haired woman with olive skin and large gold earrings shuffles down the hallway in a pair of oversized fluffy slippers.
‘Yes, love?’ she says.
‘I’m booked in for three nights,’ I say, breathless. ‘I think.’
I don’t really know. It all depends whether I get past the quarter-finals tomorrow.
‘You look very young,’ says the woman.
‘I’m nearly sixteen,’ I say, drawing myself up as tall as my short body will allow me to. I put my purse on the desk and raise my eyebrows at her, tapping my fingertips on the polished wood in what I hope is a grown-up, impatient fashion.
‘I’m booked
I fight back tears. I’d give anything to see a friendly face – Mum, Harry, even any kid from school – but that’s not really likely down here in the smelly bowels of the London Underground, so I drag myself off to find the Northern Line after a quick look at the directions I printed off earlier.
The tube is packed to the brim with people, even though it’s Sunday evening. Most of them look like tourists. They’re holding rucksacks like mine or staring at the map of the underground above my head and shouting at one another in loud, foreign voices.
I stand with my hand on the greasy pole in the middle of the carriage and try not to panic. Mum’s always told me to keep away from the underground because it’s a hotbed of germs and viruses and with CF I spend most of my time trying not to catch anything. We used to live in London but Mum moved out when she and Dad broke up and her main reason was because of the increased risk of infection.
I push my way off and change onto the Piccadilly Line. My B&B is in a part of London called Bloomsbury. I chose it on the internet because it looked close to the studio where the baking competition is going to be filmed. I reckoned that ‘Bloomsbury’ sounded cool – kind of pretty and old-fashioned with lots of cherry trees and cobbled squares.
Yeah, right.
There’s a horrid lift at Russell Square station and I have to cram into it with loads of other bleary-eyed people all trying not to look at one another. The lift judders, stops, starts and creaks to ground level, before we’re all spewed out into the station and then out into the humid, stale-smelling London air.
I slide my rucksack off my shoulders to give them a rest. Then I look left and right and consult the map I printed off the Net this morning. The roads are crammed with traffic and people and I can’t see the street names at first, so I set off in what I hope is the right direction and after about five minutes of struggle I end up at a small grey concrete building that sits at one end of a square with railings around it. There’s a flight of steps leading up to the front door and I just can’t face them at the moment so I cross the road and go to find a bench in the square.
There’s a statue of a woman’s head in one corner. She’s got a beaky nose and a thin, sad-looking face. The head is made of bronze and is covered in pigeon droppings. I look at the plaque underneath. It’s somebody called ‘Virginia Woolf’ and she used to live in a building on this square. She looks about as miserable as I feel. I wonder if she had CF?
I sit next to Virginia, lean back and drink loads of water from one of my bottles. I feel like I need a snack but I’m scared to eat too much without my Creon, so I nibble on the corner of a Mars Bar and then fold the wrapper back over the rest and put it away again.
I drag myself back over the road and up the stairs into the B&B reception.
The building is very modern. When I booked it I pictured an old-fashioned Victorian sort of building, with hanging baskets and a friendly woman on reception with maybe a hotel cat perched on the desk.
There’s nobody at the small reception desk inside the door, so I ping the bell and wait.
A dark-haired woman with olive skin and large gold earrings shuffles down the hallway in a pair of oversized fluffy slippers.
‘Yes, love?’ she says.
‘I’m booked in for three nights,’ I say, breathless. ‘I think.’
I don’t really know. It all depends whether I get past the quarter-finals tomorrow.
‘You look very young,’ says the woman.
‘I’m nearly sixteen,’ I say, drawing myself up as tall as my short body will allow me to. I put my purse on the desk and raise my eyebrows at her, tapping my fingertips on the polished wood in what I hope is a grown-up, impatient fashion.
‘I’m booked
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