They were living proof that in a few years our irrelevant lives could blossom into something fabulous. Their make-up was heavy, their jeans were tight and their tops were the ones from Miss Selfridge that we couldn’t afford. They were often only going to sections of the estate that they had designated as theirs but those darkened corners next to the garages were strictly off limits to anyone not in their clique—least of all their little sisters and their pathetic friends. To them we were a constant reminder that they’d only recently progressed from being losers themselves—they didn’t want our desperate attempts to be cool to stink up their lives. Whilst they went to underage drinking bars and illegal raves at the weekend we had to be content with recreating their looks in our bedrooms and making up dance routines to their mixtapes that we’d never perform on an actual dance floor.