A decade ago I was renting a tiny room in a small flat in north London. I had moved to the capital to study for a Master’s degree and I was living with strangers, while working two part-time jobs to bring in some money.
For one of my jobs, I worked in a pub down the road. The work was fine - waitressing and pulling pints - but the hours were long. The manager would frequently harass the female staff with inappropriate comments and groping, but there was nobody to complain to. Over time, I became increasingly anxious and reduced my hours, finding extra work in a nearby independent bookshop.
A couple of days a week, I would categorise old books and add them to an online system, as well as minding the shop when the owner - a kind if eccentric man - was out. The shop was a mess. In each room, piles of books rose from floor to ceiling, which made moving around a challenge. Layers of years-old dust coated everything. In so many ways, it was perfect.
