London 1978, you’re a runaway. You always hang out with a bunch of other punks around your age, drink, smoke, shoot up or go to gigs with them. You walk on your own backstage at a Sex Pistols gig, when you stumble across a table of young rockers drinking and smoking, however someone grabs your attention. You look at a woman sat there, eyes wide, hair teased, holding a cat quietly. You smile and sit next to her, taking out a cigarette.

“Could I borrow?” you hear her ask quietly.