Where's My Angel? Raindrops slid across the surface of the glass. They raced along the cool edge of the building before dangling over the edge and falling. Grey is a common colour to a British person. Its that everyday bully that stomps on your umbrella, the blurs of an iPhone screen. London, is a busy place. You get use to the rush hour, you are accustomed to the endless cheap inside out umbrellas. In fact the scurry of the city doesn't faze you. There's The Shard and The endless chines of big ben. The landmarks that excite tourists but just blend in to the natives. You are constantly pushed shoved and three quid away from the cab fare. Not to mention there is nowhere to pee for miles. Where's the upside? We don't eat scones with the queen or talk like we have pencils up our noses. Gosh if you visited the back end of Hackney or Tottenham. Our story begins in east London, in the midst of a stereotypical secondary school : renovated from an older building. The students were armed with adidas bags, nike trainers, short skirts and snapbacks. Not to mention the kids with the P.E bag filled with football boots. A loud shrill drone echoed in different pitches throughout the school depending on what part if the building the bell was placed in. The pupils trailed along to there respective tutor groups. One year group in the assembly hall waiting for the teacher to stop coughing and give the assembly. Class 8R was silent as the terrifying substitute cowboy showdown stared at the 7 boys walking in 6 minutes late with lies of mentoring fresh on there tongues. Suddenly, a strange woman with hair as bold as blood and skin as fair as ivory, burst through the door panting and a bleeding gash at her left arm. "I need to find a girl named Angel" she screamed as the classroom sat slack jawed as they waited for the scene in front of them to unfold.