-1- Prelude to Poverty
"- from the trolly, dear?"
What's this annoying sound in the back of my head, and why does it sound like – for want of a better term – the trolley woman? I slowly lifted myself out of my comforting bubble and sat upright. Yawning, I faced Ms. Trolley. What else was I supposed to call her – Woman-who-likes-pushing-trolleys-in-big-red-trains? I think not. Besides, I like giving everyone and everything names. Beats not knowing, you see. Well, sometimes I don't know, and then I just give them random names, just so they'd have one. I imagine it'd be dreadful for one not to know their name, or worse: not to have one at all.
Realising Ms. Trolley was looking at me quizzically; I replied politely that I was in no need of sugary refreshments at the current time, thank you very much. And thus, she departed. What? I was brought up to be polite to people, even if they don't deserve it. For those of you with prodigious deductive skills, you may have also guessed I'm rather…thrifty.
In my opinion, being economical can be a good quality. There's no feeling guilty after buying a way too expensive handbag that'll probably get stolen within the next few weeks anyway. I mean come on now, I live in London, for Merlin's sake. Besides, I don't have any money to spend on overpriced luxury items anyway! I laughed out loud. Something I catch myself doing quite a lot, especially when I'm talking to myself – like now. Anyway, I'm just being realistic. Realism, another one of my character traits. I'm a realistic, polite penny-pincher. Now, what does that tell you about me? Indeed, it tells you I'm an orphan. Always have been, always will be. Admittedly, it might not tell you I'm an orphan, but hey, work with me here – I'm trying to tell a story!
I grew up in London - Fulham to be precise - in St. Jude's Home for Destitute Girls. Destitute. Sounds lovely, eh? Just the kind of word I'd want to be described with… Not. Our matron, Mrs. Sullivan, always used to tell me and the other girls how lucky we were, to have a roof over our heads and a meal every day – or at least once every three days.
What am I saying – used to? She still does, that wretched old hag. "She's not all bad," visitors would say. To which I'd think to myself: "Oh, certainly, if you disregard the continuous coughing (you know the kind: like she's going to spew out her guts); the greasy, unkempt hair; the dishevelled clothes; the cruelty, and so on and so forth." In the end, though, who really knows? For all we know, there could be a perfectly lovable woman underneath her troll-like exterior. But I'd figure that, if anyone knew, it'd be me. After all, I've been living with her nearly my whole life. My life, or lack of one, has been going on for 17 years now. But let me tell you about the moment where I felt truly alive for the first time...