That evening I sat on a bar stool whilst Dad worked the bar, most of the regulars seemed nice enough.  There was a low buzz in the air because of newcomers ... Us.

Bell worked the room which basically consists of floating around and chatting should she choose whilst it was Dads job to manage the bar and the staff.  I just sat at the bar nursing my drink of lemonade not really that interested in the conversations of these adults.  I am more adapted to being around adults than people my own age because of being in and out of school, but I don't find it very interesting or stimulating.  Adults will either do one or two things when talking to someone my age; either speak down to me as if I'm a baby or moan about their problems which are usually money or their partner.  I know it's not their fault, that's what is important in their lives but for once it'd be nice to be asked what I think, not told how they feel.

Dad has the ability to fall into any situation and blend in as if he's meant to be there.  The ability to adapt never ceases to amaze me and because of this people take to him instantly.  He's running this bar as if this is second nature to him, not one person would realise that only yesterday we'd taken out of date food from behind the supermarkets from the bin because we were so hungry our stomachs ached, had to wash ourselves in public toilets because even though we were down on our luck Dad never wanted anyone to know that, for fear of Social Services taking me away then tried and failed to mug Bell. 

Every now and then Dad would glance over at me, wink or smile probably to reassure me but it wasn't necessary, even when juggling a hundred balls he always had one eye on me.

Years ago I'd ask Dad why that day when Mum passed away, didn't he just walk away from me? I'm not his biological daughter and he owes me nothing.  Over the years I've probably caused him more hassle.  He replied that the family you choose are sometimes more important than the family you're born into.  Your family by birth is your family simply because of blood, genetics and DNA, there is no choice or say in the matter, it is simply thrusted upon you. But when you choose to embrace someone, love them and protect them then that bond is stronger because that is your choice.  Id like to think Dad loved Mum so much that his love for her spilt over on to me.  But I think also, because he couldn't protect her from herself he felt the need to step up and protect me instead.

I can feel my stomach rumble, I'm hungry.  I lean across the bar to get Dads attention to maybe give me a packet of crisps or peanuts from behind the bar but he's too busy chatting with the locals to notice me.  I don't want to interrupt him; I know it's important for us for this to work, for him to make a good impression.  We have no back up plan if this falls through.  Bell appears beside me "Is everything ok Jane" she whispers as I slide back from leaning over the bar trying to get Dads attention.

"I'm fine just .... ".

"Hungry of course" she finishes my sentence.  She slides behind the bar, opens the till and hands me a twenty-pound note.  "Go get your yourself some fish and chips, after all we are the seaside town famous for our fish" her hand is outstretched with the money but I feel awkward I didn't want to wander off out of Dad's sight again, as I promised not to, but she senses my apprehension and goes over to Dad whispers in his ear while he's laughing and joining with the Whitstable natives boring jokes.  He glances over, smiles and nods as if to say I can go, I nod back.  Bell hands me the money then informs me where the chip shop is.  There are three in Whitstable, but her personal favourite is the one at the beginning of the high street across the road from the bus stop its a five-minute walk from here.

I hop off my stall to make my way through the chatting adults trying to avoid either bumping into them or ending up wearing their beers.  The cold air hits me once outside like a slap around the face and a punch to the lungs, these fish and chips best be worth it.  The pub is so warm with the old fire that roars and crackles away, for a moment you forget about the bitter cold that awaits for you outside.

I get my bearings for a moment, remembering the town from my walk earlier with Bell.  As I approach the chip shop the smell of salt and vinegar makes my stomach rumble and ache with hunger. 

The town is generally quiet, the odd person here and there.  Bell had said in Autumn/ Winter it's mostly locals but come summer the town is swarmed with tourists all wanting a piece of the relaxed and laid back seaside town it then becomes full to the brim, much to the annoyances of locals.  Because of this trend the town prices had gone up, house prices had gone through the roof and the little shops, adored by locals, driven away by bigger chains.  I assumed Bell would be happy with more customers surely that would be good for business but she informed me she did just fine before Whitstable became trendy and would do fine when it wasn't.  It wasn't so much the tourists that were despised, but the lack of respect they had for her town and locals. 

She struggled to stomach why they always insisted on taking something that is quite lovely and making it bigger and better until they destroy what was lovely about the place in the first place.  Appreciate a place but don't try to dissolve it of its customs and history.  I think she has a point but my views are probably not that relevant as I'm not from Whitstable.

Inside the warm chip shop, I order myself cod and chips, large with extra vinegar, no salt.  As quick as a jiff they hand me my warm package, which I cling onto so I can absorb some of the heat.  My coat will stink of fish and chips for days but considering this coat has never been washed, this will be one of the nicer smells to be found on it. 

I decide not to go straight back to the pub but sit at the bus stop and eat my fish and chips, It's cold but my body is now adjusting to it so I can sit and play mine and Dads favourite game all on my own -people watching.  You watch people and make up funny little stories about who they are, their lives etc. I know Dad made up this game to distract me from the cold when we found ourselves on the street for the night but nevertheless I enjoy it.  I plonk myself down on the bench and unwrap the layers upon layers until the heat hits my cold cheeks as I unveil my feast.  First things first, I halve it, I push half the chips to one side and rip the scolding fish with the delicious crackling batter and flaky white cod.  Half for me, half for Dad, this is what we do, always share, because when you never know when or where your next meal is coming from you take nothing for granted.  Once halved I start to shove the chips in my gob they burn the top of my mouth but I don't care as they really are as good as Bell said. 

Because of this distraction I didn't notice him stumbling down the road with a can of the corner shops cheapest lager and a half lit fag hanging from his lip.  He slid down beside me on the bench but I continue to ignore him, he wasn't the first drunk I'd met and doubt the last. 

Most of the time these people are either so full of self-pity or irritatingly cheerful, you learn to tune them out.  He shuffles closer to me, then leans in, with that god awful beer breath and mutters "Give us a chip" I ignore him and start to wrap up my dinner, I think it's time to go.  He's mumbling and swearing under his breath  I know well enough when I'm in situation I shouldn't be in. 
I go to step away but he grabs my arm this time he hisses at me "Give me a fucking chip" I yank my arm away I turn to run then he grabs my hair, pulls me back and I fling onto the bench and my head hits the bus shelter.  I'm still clinging on to the wrapped parcel of now squished fish and chips as he swings me around so he's face to face with me, his hands pressed on the bus shelter wall either side of my head with my hair still tangled in his fingers "little bitches like you need to be taught manners" I try to wriggle but he's put his full weight of his body on me.  I scream, but he grabs me by the throat the air trapped like a bubble in my neck that can't rise and I gasp like a fish out of water.  I start to feel dizzy and feel my body going limp, then I hear the growl, it's not coming from him.  His eyes are blood shot almost crazy but he didn't make a sound and seems unaware of it, it certainly didn't come from me. 

The belly growl gets louder it tears through the silence like a knife in butter, he startled and releases his grip on me when he catches sight of them surrounding us on their bikes.  He jumps up, the instant release from the weight of his body and his hands that gripped so tightly around my throat lets me desperately breathe again, I drop the bundle of wrapped food and cling to my chest, as I cough splutter so hard the taste of blood floods in to my mouth. 

He's standing with his hands in the air and walks towards them.  They circle him on their bikes, all growling, there are about five teenage lads head to toe in black, no older than 15 or 16, all their faces are covered by their hanging hoods or scarves.  He laughs then addresses them.  "No harm done here, I was just playing ...  I wasn't going to hurt her".  He turns to look at me with pleading eyes as if for me to agree with him. 
It then dawns on me he's scared of them ... This man who is double the size of these boys is scared of them but even with his pleading they carry on circling him on their bikes growling like feral dogs about to pounce on their prey.  The larger one of the bunch jumps off his bike and walks over to him he leans in to whisper something in the mans ear with this I see his shoulders drop, his head slumps forward then I hear his crying his desperate pleading with the boy.  "I didn't know, I didn't know" the boy jumps back on his bike then beckons me with his hand to follow them. 

I'm frozen if this guy who is double the size of them is terrified of these boys what hope is there for me? but what are my choices stay here with chip shop strangler, who is now a large heap on the floor crying, or follow them.

The larger boy drops his bike again and walks over to me, he picks up my now squashed bag of fish and chips hands them to me and in husky voice far too deep for an adolescent boy says "Come" then "Home".

I muster up any last courage, which feels non-existent at this moment,  rise up off the bench, don't show your scared, don't show your scared I repeat again and again to myself in my mind.  As I walk past the slumped heap an anger rises from the pit of my stomach, I stop, untangle the fish and chips to pour the lot on his head letting them flutter and fall on him with the paper floating down beside "You want a chip, here have the fucking lot" he doesn't flinch, move or look up at me. 
I hear a chuckle from the feral boys, my cruelty has amused them.

As I walk towards the pub they surround me on their bikes, silently guiding me home, a circle of boys leading me back.  I feel a mixture of being herded and protected all at once, not at one point do any of them speak to me.  When we arrive at the pub they stop, still not a word, I mutter "Thank you" to which they all nod at me.  Then I rush into the warm safe pub, between the noise of the blaring music with loud chattering merry customers I slink upstairs unnoticed and go straight to bed wrapping the duvet around me like protective armour and cry myself to sleep.