It was snowing, and at the bus garage—our usual meeting spot before school—we collectively decided school was definitely closed. Well closed for us. The story if questioned was going to be something about the heating breaking down. Jumpers off, ties loosened, we got on a random bus. We were looking for a distance of at least 30 minutes away by bus and a park.
On the way, we scouted an off-license. Found one. Convinced some guy to go in and buy us booze. And just as we walked out, arms full of glass bottles, a police car pulled up.
Two coppers got out.
“What are you lot up to?”
Calmly—too calmly—we hit them with our pre-rehearsed excuse: school’s closed because of the snow.
“What school do you go to?”
Shit.
We hadn’t thought that far ahead. We didn’t know the names of local schools. Someone blurted out the first one that came to mind—completely at random.
Then, divine intervention.
Their radio crackled. They got called away.
I swear, recalling this still makes my stomach drop. Imagine being taken home in a police car during school hours. Not just bunking — underage drinking too.
My brain refuses to imagine what would’ve happened next. The fear wasn’t just about my parents back then — it’s about my kids now. That double-decker generational jeopardy. Fucked by the ones who raised me and the ones I raised — stuck between a rock and a hard place.
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