"There was no house. There was no home. I lay on the mattress at the squat in Warren Street. It suddenly began to dawn on me that without sleeping with someone the chances were I wouldn’t have a bed for the night. Sleeping with someone didn’t always mean sex but often it did and on a few occasions I’d have to fight my way out.

I was hungry. The others in the house had cooked a giant pot of stew. I asked what was in it. They told me it was ‘dog stew’. I knew it wasn’t but I still couldn’t eat it. Now I wish I had. I lay on the mattress waiting for Barry to come back. Barry was different from the others. He was from Essex. He didn’t go to art school. But all the others did. They did painting or fashion, went to Saint Martins or the Royal College of Art. I liked them but they made me nervous. I liked Barry a lot. He had a very sexy voice, a massive penis and pink hair and a pet rat. I don’t think there was anyone I knew at the time that wasn’t sleeping with Barry. The year was 1980. I was 16.

"Part of me still wonders where I'm going to sleep"