I sat on the edge of a plastic chair in a tired office on Bath Street, Glasgow. Pale walls, aging carpet. A boardroom that had seen better days, and probably better lives. Across from me, a stern-looking woman and her assistant shuffled through papers and clicked pens with bureaucratic precision.
I felt sick.
The trajectory of my life—my actual, entire life—was going to be decided in the next few minutes.
This was the appeal. The last shot. I’d answered their questions for half an hour, playing it straight, but now it was time to make my case. My real case.
The woman looked at me, impassive. Gold wedding ring. Hands that hinted at a life well lived. I wondered if she had daughters. Did she love them? Did she kiss them goodnight or remind them to wear a coat? She hadn’t flinched the entire time. Hard shell, built from years in this job.
“Is there anything you’d like to add to your appeal?” she asked.
There it was.
My mouth was dry. My brain raced. I had no script. I hadn’t rehearsed.
But then I remembered what had gotten me this far:
Audacity. Righteous rage. And being gallus as fuck.
So I said it.
“If we assume I win this appeal, then the government becomes my legal parent. And as their representative, that makes you my mum.”
A twitch. A moment’s hesitation.
Out the corner of my eye, the charity caseworker I’d bullied into backing me sat completely still. I was waiting for him to interrupt, to shut me down. He didn’t.
So I kept going.
“Do you have kids?”
She nodded. ”Two daughters”. Irritated. Clock-watching.
“If something happened to you—if your daughters lost you—wouldn’t you want them to keep their education? Wouldn’t you want them to have a future, even if the worst happened?”
A beat. Then another.
“So, I’m asking you, as your pretend daughter, sitting here alone, without the support your daughters have—if I promise to use this chance to build a life, to give back, to become someone you’d be proud of… will you let me stay in school?”
Her eyes welled up.
I’d cracked her.
Now, you’re probably wondering what kind of 16-year-old ends up begging a government official for access to education.
Let me back up.
The Scottish Problem
Back in the ‘90s, Westminster controlled the benefits system. It was based on English law, which said you were a dependent child until 18.
But Scotland had different rules. You could rent a flat at 16. Marry at 16. Legally, you were an adult.
The result? If you were thrown out of your house at 15, the English system would cover you until you turned 18. In Scotland, you’d get fuck all. Not a penny.
So, a 16-year-old kid could be homeless and still be told: go get a job.
That kid was me.
And I had other plans.
The Mitchell Library
Every solicitor I begged for help said no. So I spent my summer holidays at 15 living in the Mitchell Library—the largest public reference library in Europe.
I had no idea what I was looking for. But one solicitor, before slamming the door in my face, had said something that stuck:
“The law isn’t fixed. It can be tested.”
That was all I needed.
I sat under stone pillars on hot days, notebook in hand, determined to find the cracks. If the law didn’t protect me, maybe I could prove it should.
So I read. Page after page. Handwriting everything I found that looked even remotely useful.
(Also, don’t ask how a 15-year-old with no money was renting a flat in Glasgow’s East End. Let’s just call it ‘creativity’ and leave it there.)
Building the Case
Eventually, I had a full notebook: quotes from the Children Act 1989, the Children (Scotland) Act 1983, the UN Convention on the Rights of the Child (UNCRC). I’d mapped the contradictions. Tracked the gaps.
Now I just needed someone to listen.
I went back to the same charity that had turned me away. Same building. Same man.
I handed him my notebook.
“Where did you get all this?”
“The Mitchell Library. I’ve been going all summer. Also, I’m moving to the West End when I’m older. It’s pretty.”
He looked at me like I was mad. Here I was: scruffy leggings, biker jacket, shoes falling apart, standing in a place held together by sheer survival, talking about living in posh postcodes and taking down the government.
He sighed.
“You realise this is impossible.”
I grinned. “Delusion is the key to happiness.”
He smirked. Sat down.
I walked him through it. The contradictions. The logic. The rights I was owed.
He didn’t tell me to fuck off.
He listened.
And that’s how I ended up in that appeal room.
The Result
I won.
The government agreed to fund my education.
All it took was a pile of borrowed legislation, sheer bloody-mindedness, and the willingness to ask a civil servant to be my pretend mum.
Proof, if you needed it:
All you need is data.
And the fucking audacity to try.
End Note:
During this time, In the early 90s, I heard a song by Aztec Camera called Good Morning Britain. It’s not just a tune—it’s a time capsule. A protest song, a cry for unity, and a refusal to lie down in the face of a broken system. When I first heard it, I didn’t understand all the references, but I felt it. Now, I live it.
There’s a line that goes:
“Love is international, and if you stand or if you fall, just let them know you gave your all, and worry about it later.”
That lyric? It’s me. It’s 15-year-old me sitting on steps near the Mitchell Library. It’s me walking into that appeal tribunal like I owned the place, dressed in defiance and armed with nothing but legislation and gallus audacity.
And it’s me now—still giving my all, still not done.
So yeah. The past is steeped in shame. But tomorrow’s fair game.
Here’s the track:
