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jearspeentersbest.website
My name's Sophie. I'm 23. I live in London, in Croydon. I rent a room – not a flat. A tiny room in an old house with three strangers who don't even say hello. I work at McDonald's. The one on North End Road, near Croydon town centre. 24 hours. It always smells of frying oil. Even outside. You walk to your shift and you can already smell it. It gets into your hair, your skin, your clothes. My uniform smells of fryer oil even after I wash it. I wash it twice a week. No point. I work the till. Sometimes drinks. Sometimes drive-thru. Sometimes the kitchen if someone doesn't show. And someone never shows. The turnover at McDonald's is mental. People come, work two weeks, and leave. I've been there a year and a half. That's some kind of record. £11.60 an hour. After tax – about £1,300–1,400 a month. Sounds alright? Not for Croydon. Room rent: £600.�Council tax: £85.�Internet and phone: £50.�Bus to work and back: £70.�Food: £220.�Subscriptions: £10 (Netflix, and I split it with a mate).�Clothes and shoes: £20 (charity shop).�Medicine: £15.�Emergency buffer: £30. Leftover: about £250–300 a month. £250. That's £60 a week. Eight quid a day. Eight quid – that's the bus there and back (£5) and maybe a sandwich. Or food for the day. Not both. I'm not moaning. I'm just saying how it is. My dad's always been a massive Tyson Fury fan. As long as I can remember, he was always getting his mates round to watch his fights. Popcorn, beer, some stuff on the grill. I was little, didn't understand boxing, but I remember them all screaming at the telly. Mum used to shout at them for being too loud. Dad used to say: "It's Tyson, for fuck's sake! You can't watch him quietly." Once, when I was about twelve, Dad took me to the stadium. A Tyson fight. I can't remember who against. But I remember the atmosphere. Huge arena. The noise. The lights. And him – in the middle of the ring, massive like a mountain. I remember thinking: "That's a real bloke. Just like the rest of us, but different." From
