It was just a regular Saturday morning when I woke to find the smiling face of Gary Barlow looking down at me. It was 1994. He was, of course, the lead singer and mastermind behind the worlds greatest band; Take That. I blew him a good morning kiss and ran downstairs, expecting my day to run as normal: eat my cornflakes; fight with my older brother about who gets to watch what Saturday morning tv; and then hit the city streets!

I lived in Gilfach Goch, a Welsh mining village made up of about a thousand people, of which half were my family. I happened to live in the beating heart of the village, the central hub, the C.B.D. My house was but a stone throw away from the village grocery shop, post office, and beloved chip shop. ‘The City.’ That’s actually what we called it. Oh, not forgetting Jean Palmers, where you could literally buy EVERYTHING in the whole wide world from the front room. What more could you want when you lived in a village that was and a half miles long, and the one road in also happens to be the same road out?!

I was yet to know that this was to the day I was to be told the single, most terrifying piece of information that ANY child in the valley could hear. Thanks to my brother kicking a football directly at my head and me therefore locking him in the shed, my mother called me to the kitchen and yelled:

‘Alyson Evans, that’s it! I am sending you to The ‘omes.’

The Homes? Me? I froze, absolutely terrified. The homes. Where the naughty children of Gilfach Goch were locked up for life and made got scrub blood off the floors, and all you were given to eat was bread and water. Bread. WITHOUT. BUTTER! This couldn’t be happening. Not to me. I was the angel of the family, I was the favourite. It wasn’t fair! At any moment I was going to be sent away by my ear and I wouldn’t know when I’d see my family again.

I went to my brother, as he was very experienced with the threat of the Homes. So much so, in preparation he would to sneakily make jam sandwiches and a bottle of orange squash and hide them under his bed. I panicked. Realising I didn’t have time to make jam sandwiches! That’s when he said: ‘Stop crying! Remember the plan.’

That’s right – the plan! Every child that had EVER been born in Gilfach Goch had been taught it. Us kids of the valley may disagree, but when it came to The Homes we were all in. We were united. The plan had been passed down from generation to generation, with its core purpose supporting those who were locked up. The mission: Jam sandwich deliveries. Being locked up and made to scrub blood off the floors us kids could handle, but eating bread with no butter was completely out of the question. The plan was so serious that me and my friends would even rehearse.

Step 1: Meet down The Line. The Line’s the old railway track cut into the side of the mountain. It transported coal when the pits were open, and it runs all the way along the side of the valley. On one side of The Line the sloping streets of Gilfach, the other, the drop down to the mountain’s base that led to the river.

Step 2: Sneak some food from our kitchens. Last dress rehearsal, as well as jam sandwiches, our combined collection make a food parcel that consisted of a kitkat, a wagon wheel, and bag of prawn cocktail crisps.

Step 3: Follow the tracks along The Line towards The Top (that’s what we called the top of the valley) and into the woods, a dark, dense collection of oak trees, that could tell many a secret. I was yet to know that it was there I would have my first snog with Gethin Thomas at an age I would not like to admit.

Step 4: Cross the river – think less Murray River, more creek. Luckily the older kids like my brother regularly maintained the stepping stones that took you across.

Step 5: The most dangerous part, as what stood between the river and the Homes was…Gochy’s Farm. Gochy was the meanest farmer around. He hated children in his fields so much that if spotted, he would chase you on his horse, with his whip.

Step 6: As soon as you reach safety on the other side….. whipped or not….right on the edge of the valley at the top of The Top, near the slag heap, there stood a big, pink house. You have arrived. The Homes.

Now, in Gilfach our terraced houses were all squished in. We didn’t need to catch up with our neighbours on what their news was as we could just hear every cough and sneeze through the walls. But this house stood alone. Away from any other houses, it was all by its self. Of all the times we sneaked there, we never seen anyone go in or out, and no one ever seemed to know who lived in this house. Now, considering that all our parents AND our parents parents were Gilfach Goch born and bred, this was a very suspicious thing. The sacred food parcel was to be passed through a designated window downstairs, right next to the bins. And then your job was done.

I ran upstairs to my bedroom to tell Gary. I had no idea how I was going to break the news. As I sat there, clutching his face into my bosom (I had a Take That pillow) I looked out of my bedroom window at the familiar sight of green hills, sheep and Jean Palmers house/shop. I wondered when I would see this view again.

Assigned to my fate, I left my bedroom for the last time, and made my way downstairs.

‘I’m ready,’ I told my mother.

‘For tea? The chip shop don’t open for another hour, love.’

Argh! Of course it was chip shop night.

‘No mam. For The Homes.’

‘The what? Oh, that’s right,’ my mam said, ‘I forgot, yes. The Homes. Look, I called them and they said you don’t have to go but if you’re naughty and lock your brother in the shed again, then I’ll have to send you. OK?’

I couldn’t believe it! I was free! I wrapped my arms around my mother!

‘What’s the matter with you?’ She asked.

‘I didn’t know when I would see you again!’ I said. ‘And I can’t EVER imagine that!’

And from then on I never locked my brother in the shed again, even though the balls to the head continued.

It’s funny – this story rings a bit true now. Not that I’m 9, or being made to scrub blood off the floor. But not knowing when I’ll see my family or Gilfach Goch again. They’re all still there. I spoke to my brother the other day. He’s 40 now. Work seems pretty tough at the minute. He’s an undertaker. Said they’ve started to store bodies in a refrigerated meat factory, cause there’s no more room in the morgues. And my poor parents haven’t been out for months. So far 20 people in my village have died, my dad said.

I suppose we’re all a little bit in The Homes currently, aren’t we. And I suppose I never knew the power of a delivery of jam sandwiches to make you feel like someone was thinking of you, until now.