One day in early September 1981, my dad dropped me and my Berghouse backpack off at a scummy B&B at No. 14 Nightingale Road, Southsea, what was then the red-light district of Portsmouth.
Bye. He said, climbing back into our blue Chevette. See you at Christmas.
Righty ho. I replied stuffing the tenner he’d given me into my empty wallet.
And with that, I tumbled headfirst into a brave new world of post-secondary education, pubs, field schools, and student poverty.
Mrs. Smart
“Mrs. Smart’s B&B: No Vacancies” read the tired, unwelcoming sign in the window of the 3-story terrace house. Nicotine-stained lace curtains added a touch of brothel chic to the look.
