My Autobiograpy as a Historian
Twelve I’m twelve years old, on the top deck of a double-decker bus, riding into the city with my younger brother and mum. As we get close to our destination, I see a squat brick building that we’ve passed many times before without me paying it much attention. Today, however, there’s a line of people spilling out its front door and far down the street. I ask my mum what’s going on. “It’s a soup kitchen for the miners,” she…