Number 13: The Door With The Cat Flap.

Chapter 1: A little bit about us.

The fairy-tale life of Catherine Flynn.

Yea I wish.

People don't call me Catherine, it's too… posh they call me Kate and this is my story, of how I was saved, from myself. Cheesy enough for you yet? Well, this is about as cheesy as it gets.

So here I am, sitting with two of the most beautiful people I have ever seen in my life staring at me from across the little table that is so elegantly squashed into the kitchen of my flat.

And when I say flat, don't get any bright ideas of luxury pent houses in London, no think council flat in a story block of other council flats, yep you got it. Classy right?

And when I say staring, I really mean I was the one doing the staring, I mean come on they just casually told me that they're vampires? HA yea that's what I thought too, what a pair of psychos. And that's not the best part – oh no – they just asked me… me! And Emily (we'll get to her later) to come and live with them in Washington in the USA, yea I know.

Fair play they might be a pair fresh out of the Looney bin, but I wouldn't mind jetting off to America.

I should have said no, I should have kicked them out and slammed the door on their faces.

But I didn't, I said. Yes.

Let me get the story straight before we go any further.

I've been in care for the past 17 years, now I know you're expecting some sob story about how it was so terrible and everything, but really after the first 5 years, you learn not to care, so you're not going to get one.

I don't know who my mother and father is, and I don't know where I was born. But what I do know is, the only person I love in this world is my best friend Emily (yes, I told you we'd get round to her) we've always been shunted from home to home together, because if any jumped up suite tried to separate us, well lest just say they weren't going to have in tack tiers or windows on their car for very long. So they just stuck us together with anyone who would take us.

And I can tell you, we were not an easy pair.

We've always been in trouble from a young age, you may say that's what you get from being in care, but I say that's what you get from permanent boredom.

And now we're both 18, fresh and ready to take on the world! No, im just kidding. But we are 18, and you know what that means? Yes you got it. No more care!

We're free to do as we please. And this is the point where I'd love to say that we got clean, got jobs and are renting a nice little flat somewhere. But sorry, this is the real world.

Don't get me wrong, we want jobs. There just isn't any to be had.

So 'how are they managing to stay alive, and where are they living' I hear you ask.

Well much to our displeasure, we are… claiming off the government. YES people we claim dole! And we're living in a council flat. Like I said earlier, Classy.

Now for the burning question, how did these two mystery people come into our lives?

Well, this is how it happened.

I and Emily – ha get that "I and Emily!" posh or what! - were casually not minding our business as we sat on the steps to the block of our flats, rolling joints and fags just to pass the time.

This is what you do see, if you want to stay alive around here, you change yourself to suit your environment, kind of like a chameleon. That's what me and Emily are, professional chameleons, and we were now keeping the cigarette companies, and the drug dealers of this country in pocket.

So like I said, we were sitting there not minding out own business, watching all the people stroll past us going about their lives, when out of nowhere this car drives into the estate, now I usually wouldn't have glanced at it twice but this car was not the kind of car you'd see around here, the driver was clearly either lost, or was about to finish someone off.

It was a Mercedes – black sleek, like a shark.

It didn't mean anything to us at the time, but it did mean enough for us to move, after all don't want to be on the scene if it really was someone coming to bump someone off.

So off we went back to our flat.

No lifts of course in this block of flats, Nelson Mandela House. (yea it makes me laugh too)

Well no lifts if you didn't want to get trapped in them for… oh the rest of your life.

So we walk around here. Up and down 7 flights of stairs every day, it's a miracle im not dead. But then saying that, it doesn't even get me out of breath… or even Emily.

So I guess its ok, so long as you're not drunk and on your way home from a night out or a house party, then it's a whole different story.

Up to the 7th floor along 13 doors, it can be quite a challenging thing to remember after a bottle of vodka or two.

You can't miss our flat, big bright red front door, with a cat flap; we don't even have a cat! But who can afford to go changing doors for the sake of a little gap at the bottom, recession's aye?

Well it does come in handy I guess, especially since I've been on this stupid tag – a tag for those of you who don't know, is something inflicted onto a person after a bout of antisocial behaviour, by the police. It means that I have to be in at night by 10'oclock – and lest just say when its 5 to 10 at night, and you can't get your front door open fast enough thanks to being tanked up from a party that your mates in the flat below threw to celebrate their brothers bail, shoving your foot through the cat flap is always the best option.