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My name is Amelia. I’m 30 years old. My sanctuary is Stratford, which is virtually on the very outskirts of London. I don’t even rent a studio; I just rent a basic room in a multinational house share packed with immigrants from all over the world. I share this place with strangers who, just like me, simply don’t have the money for proper, separate accommodation. I managed to get a job as a carer at a local care home. I work the late shift, from two in the afternoon until ten at night. When we're snowed under and work is piled high, I have to stay behind until eleven. My earnings are exactly the national minimum wage. After all taxes are deducted, I take home about £1,600 a month. Do you reckon you can live properly on that? No bloody chance. Here is where my entire wages vanish. Clothes — £40 (я dress strictly in charity shops). Groceries — £350 (I hardly ever buy meat, there’s never enough money for it, so I shop at the cheapest Lidl and Aldi). Mobile and data — £60. Rent for the room — £850 (bills and council tax are included, but there's no internet). Chemist / Pharmacy — £35 (I buy painkillers and antihistamines, there's no private healthcare insurance from the firm). Pocket money — £50. Subscriptions — £25 (going halves on Netflix with a mate — it’s my only entertainment). Travelcard for transport (Oyster card for the zones) — £140. Leftover cash — £50. Some might think £50 is at least a bit of a nest egg. But it’s an illusion. Because that money instantly disappears on unexpected expenses. On things that are bound to happen tomorrow. And every new day always brings surprises. I’ve been surviving on my own for three years, ever since I left my husband, Ethan. He wasn’t a tyrant. He never raised a hand to me or caused scenes. It’s just that at some point, I became completely invisible to him. I turned into a piece of furniture — something that stands there but nobody notices. In the end, I just packed my bags. Since then, I’ve relied solely on m
