Alfie's story.

My name is Alfie.

I'm nine years old and everyone would say I have a pretty normal life.

In my last school report, my teachers wrote that I was a happy, confident young lad.

I have lots of friends.

I do well in most subjects, and I don't get wronged half as much as some of the other kids do.

But the thing is those teachers would never guess how I really feel inside.

It's funny how you never know what's going on inside a person's head.

Most days after school, I go home with my mate Harry.

We both love Newcastle United and he has this huge bedroom full of magpie merchandise.

There are shirts, signed footballs, posters, the lot.

If it's not raining, Harry's dad drives us to Saltwell park and we kick a football about together, or the three of us go down to the quayside where you can see the giant shadow of St. James' Park in the distance.

When it gets dark, Harry and his dad sometimes invite me to get fish and chips with them.

I love the hot chips, doused and vinegar, so tangy they make my eyes screw up.

But sometimes they don't get fish and chips - maybe Harry's mam is cooking something nice for them back home and I have to say goodbye.

I walk home slowly, dragging my feet and taking the longest route that I can think of.

I've never actually invited Harry round to my house.

I live with my mam and dad in a flat in Gateshead, but they aren't actually around that much.

Since mom lost her job, they both prefer going down the road to the pub, or spending the night at their friend's houses.

When I get in, the house is normally empty and dark.

It's so freezing that sometimes I don't even take off my coat.

Our electricity has had to be cut off because we can't afford to pay the bill, so there's no light that turns on when I open the door to our empty fridge.

Mam hates it when I tell her there's no food in the house, it makes her really angry.

So I keep quiet and try not to think about my empty belly.

There's a streetlight outside my bedroom window, so I get into bed really early and use the glowing orange light to do my homework or write stories.

In my stories, I imagine that Harry and I have been called up to play for the Toon.

It would never happen.

People from round here never grow up to do exciting things like being footballers.

But when I think about the possibility, my heart swells with pride.

When I wake up the next morning, the streetlight has gone off and my notepad has fallen down the side of my bed and onto the floor.

My mam is asleep on the sofa downstairs and she doesn't wake up while I get into my uniform and slip out the front door.

It makes me a bit sad when she doesn't say good morning to me or even notice that I'm there, as if she couldn't care less whether I went to school or not.

I know I act confident and chatty, but I definitely think some of my teachers know that things aren't okay at home.

When I don't turn in my homework, because we needed to use a computer to finish it, or the light outside was too dim to work, they don't ever ask why.

They just shake their heads and tell me to bring it tomorrow.

It's as if they're scared to ask about it because they wouldn't want to have to deal with the answer.

Maybe they're hoping that another teacher asks me first.

I wish someone would teach my teachers what to do when they see somebody struggling.

When I arrive at school in the morning, I head for the breakfast club, wolfing down three slices of toast with butter and jam, and two glasses of orange juice.

One of the teachers on duty jokes that I must be growing fast.

He looks like he might ask me if I'm all right, but his mouth just opens and closes again like a fish in a big fish tank.

At the weekend, I go with my mam and dad to the food bank on the edge of town.

The people there are really nice and they give you bags of food when you can't afford to go to the supermarket.

We stock up on tins and bread and biscuits and juice, and one of the ladies gives us some advice about getting our electricity turned back on, so we can have milk and cheese and butter next time, too.

I think my parents feel embarrassed about having to go there instead of to the shops like everybody else.

We don't talk at all on the way home, and by the time I come back from playing out with Harry, the house is dark and empty again.