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A month ago, I was crying on the bus after my shift. Today, I'm writing this. I don't even know exactly why I'm writing it. Probably because if I don't, I'll either explode or completely break down. Or both at the same time. I'm not the type to complain. I never was. My dad worked at the shipyards in Newcastle until they shut them down. And he never moaned. My granddad worked down the pits; he lived through the worst times when the mines were closing. He never complained either. That's not how it works around here. You work hard. You keep your head down. And you get on with it. But last night, on the bus home from work, I cried. I was just sitting by the window in my hi-vis jacket, absolutely filthy after a twelve-hour shift on the roads, and the tears just came on their own. Quietly. I turned my head to the window and hoped nobody saw. I don't know if they did. I didn't give a toss anyway. Here's what brought me to that point. Who I am My name is Declan. I'm 41 years old and
