The CLH years
Charlotte Lessing Hall was your typical church hall, from the dusty floor to the strange salty smell and the limp brown curtains hanging at the full-length windows. It was nothing special and definitely nothing extraordinary. The only interesting feature of the whole room was the 7ft piles of chairs stacked along one wall in bright red and deep brown. Occasionally they would fall over and hit some poor unsuspecting brat on the head; and that was about as close to action as CLH ever got.
The mundane establishment was used for a range of mundane tasks, Mother's Union, Brownies, Tumble Tots, and all the usual value-added organisations yuppie scum liked to attend or send their kids; even if it was for the sole purpose of being able to brag what a huge part they played in village life.
Yet this wasn't the case for everybody, for the children of the yuppie scum CLH was something more, it was theirs. It was where everything for young people occurred and it was the foundation for many of the personalities of those who attended it. Lives where formed around this little hut and it's muddy car park, and events which happened before could have a direct effect on the future.
Morning
Nicola woke up to the familiar sound of Mike Toolan on the radio "And now from the heart of Manchester, this is the North West's number one radio station, this is Piccadilly Key 103". Really not in the mood to finally raise herself out of bed Nicole randomly threw her hand from under the warmth of the thick duvet which currently bound her and slammed it against the radio. Mike Toolan instantly shut up. Resigning herself to the inevitability of having to rouse herself for another fun day in the local educational establishment know as "the university on the hill" Nicola swivelled out of bed, absently mindedly ran her hand through her hair and started to descend the stairs.
She was grateful for the quiet, both her parents were abroad on business trips and Nicola being an only child had only the company of her soppy cat and mad dog for the next 2 weeks. After feeding her co-habitants she set about making her self some breakfast eventually stumbling back up the stairs in her 1800s farmhouse and into her bedroom. Looking in the mirror her reflection stared back at her. Masses of deep dark hair fell at her shoulders, this coupled with her dark skin made her look almost Mediterranean. Nicola had always been of the fuller figure but had a perfect complexion that her friends would most probably kill for.
It took the usual 20 minutes to get changed for school; there was a certain procedure to be followed each morning. A semi-ritual. The tights had to be put on (2 pairs, 70D), then the knickers. The white shirt was next, then the tie with the sheep's head which even after 4 years worth of practise still took a couple of attempts to get in the right place. Next came the skirt, a positive art form to get to a decent length; 2 turns at the top was Nicolas preferred length, but you had to check that it was perfectly straight and short enough not to be ridiculed but long enough to avoid the mini referrals. Then came the school shoes with the maximum allowed heal of 2 inches. Pulling her hair into a high ponytail Nicola was pleased with the results and pegged it down stairs once more, grabbed her bag and set off on the 1.5-mile walk to Whilshaw High School.