**Diary Entry, 15th November**
My stomach growled like a stray dog, and my hands were freezing. I shuffled along the pavement, peering through the glowing restaurant windows, the scent of freshly cooked food stinging worse than the cold. Not a single pound to my name.
London was bitterthe kind of chill no scarf or pockets could fend off. The sort that seeps into your bones, reminding you youre alone. No home. No food. No one.
I was hungry.
Not the *”I skipped lunch”* kind. The gnawing, days-deep hunger that turns your stomach into a drum and your head into a spinning top if you stand too fast. Real hunger. The kind that aches.
Two days without a proper bite. Just sips from a public tap and a crust of stale bread handed to me by an old woman near Charing Cross. My shoes were split, my clothes grubby, my hair tangled as if Id brawled with the wind.
I drifted down a street lined with posh bistros. Warm light, soft jazz, laughtera world that wasnt mine. Behind every pane, families clinked glasses, couples grinned, children doodled with forks like life couldnt bruise.
And me? Id have killed for a slice of toast.
After circling for blocks, I slipped into a place that smelled like heavenroast beef, buttery mash, gravy thick enough to stand a spoon in. Tables packed, but no one noticed me at first. Then I spotted a just-cleared table, scraps still on the plate. My heart lurched.
I moved carefully, eyes down. Sat like I belonged. Thenbefore I could thinkI grabbed a cold dinner roll and shoved it into my mouth. Stale, but to me, a feast. Trembling, I scooped up congealed peas, gnawed a string of dry beef. Then a voice cut through me like a slap:
“Oi. You cant do that.”
I froze mid-chew.
A tall bloke in a sharp navy suit loomed over me. Shoes polished to mirrors, tie knotted just so. Not a waiter. Not a regular.
“Sorry, sir,” I mumbled, face burning. “Just hungry.”
I palmed a chip into my pocket like itd save me. He stared, torn between scolding and pity.
“Come with me,” he finally said.
I flinched. “Im not nabbing anything. Let me finish this, and Ill go. Promise.”
I felt tiny. Broken. Invisible. Like a smudge on the place.
But instead of tossing me out, he signalled a waiter, then sat at a corner booth. Minutes later, a steaming plate appeared: roast chicken, crisp potatoes, buttery greens, a slab of warm bread, a pint of milk.
“This for me?”
The waiter nodded. “Aye.”
I glanced at the man. No mockery in his gaze. No pity. Just quiet.
I wobbled over.
“Whyd you do that?”
He shrugged off his jacket like shedding armour.
“No one should scavenge to live,” he said. “Eat. I own this place. From now on, theres always a plate here for you.”
Tears scorched my eyes. I weptnot just from hunger, but from the shame, the exhaustion, the relief of being *seen*.
I came back the next day. And the next.
Each time, the waiter smiled like I was a regular. Same table. Same silence. Napkin folded neat when I left.
Weeks later, the suit man reappeared. Invited me to his table.
“Got a name?”
“Elsie,” I whispered.
“Age?”
“Seventeen.”
He nodded. Didnt pry.
Then: “Youre hungry. But not just for food.”
I frowned.
“Youre starved for respect. For someone to ask how you are, not just step over you.”
He was right.
“Family?”
“Mam died of cancer. Dad buggered off with another woman. Got evicted after. Nowhere to go.”
“School?”
“Quit Year 9. Too ashamed to show up filthy. Teachers treated me like vermin.”
He slid a card across the table. “Go here tomorrow. A youth centre. Theyll feed you, clothe you, train you. I want you there.”
“Why?”
“Because I ate scraps once too. Someone helped me. Now its my turn.”
Years passed. I went. Learned to cook, to read, to type CVs. Got a bed, therapy, a flicker of pride.
Now? Im twenty-three. Head chef at that very restaurant. Hair tidy, apron pressed, shoes sturdy. I make sure no one leaves hungry. Kids, grannies, mums-to-beall served with a smile and:
“Eat up. No judgements here.”
The suit man still pops in. Tie looser now. Sometimes we share a cuppa after closing.
“Knew youd go far,” he said once.
“You gave me the start,” I replied. “The rest? I did hungry.”
He chuckled. “People forgethunger doesnt just break you. It can *drive* you.”
And Id know.
My story began with leftovers.
Now? Now I cook hope.
