Кадр выше наш. Полное медиа с Facebook запрошено — подставим его сюда, как только приедет.
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I wasn’t going to post this. Honestly, I still feel a bit weird writing it. But after what happened this week, I can’t really keep it to myself. Maybe somebody else in Manchester is sitting there tonight with the same knot in their stomach that I had. My name’s Sarah. I’m 36. I live in Manchester, and I’ve been working as a care worker for just over 8 years. Early mornings. Late shifts. Getting buses in the rain. Helping other people get washed, dressed, fed, comfortable. It’s proper honest work. But lately, honest work hasn’t felt like enough. Rent went up. Food shop got ridiculous. Council tax was behind. Energy bill sitting on the side unopened because I already knew it was going to be bad. And my little boy, Alfie, needed a new school uniform. He’s 9. He didn’t make a fuss. He just looked at his old trousers and said: “It’s alright, Mum. I can just pull my jumper down.” That absolutely finished me. I laughed at first because I didn’t know what else to do. Then later that night, I sat on the bathroom floor and cried so quietly I could barely breathe. I had £184 in my Barclays account. Rent due Friday. Council tax letter on the kitchen table. Electricity nearly gone. And I had a shift the next morning where I was supposed to smile and look after everyone else. I kept thinking: How am I working this much and still this close to being completely skint? During my break the next day, one of the women from work mentioned an app in our WhatsApp chat. She sent a screenshot of a withdrawal. £6,200. I’m not being funny — my first thought was: Yeah, right. Dodgy as anything. I don’t trust stuff like that. Never have. But she wasn’t some random person online. I work with her. I know her. She said: “Don’t put loads in. Seriously. Try £20 or £25. If nothing happens, leave it. If it goes up, withdraw. Don’t chase it.” That stuck with me all day. I came home after my shift. Made Alfie beans on toast. Put him to bed. Then sat there i
