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My name is Julien. I am 27 years old. I live in Manchester. I work as a hospital porter for the NHS. Twelve-hour shifts on my feet, endless corridors, the smell of antiseptics, and absorbing the pain of others, day in and day out. When people find out where I work, they usually smile: — "You work for the NHS? That’s brilliant, mate. You do a noble job, plus the pension and steady pay must be decent, right?" If only they knew. The reality is that for the past year, I have been stuck in a total dead end, a quiet sort of despair. My tiny flat on the outskirts of Manchester costs me £850 a month. Then there’s the Council Tax and energy bills, which have absolutely skyrocketed since the crisis. National Insurance, taxes, the endless stream of bills. By the end of the month, I have nothing left. Absolutely nothing. Last week, a few mates from the ward asked if I wanted to go for a quick pint at the local after an exhausting shift. I forced a fake smile and lied: — "Sorry lads, promised my mum I’d help her sort out her garage." — "Next time for sure, I’m on a night shift today anyway." The truth was far more humiliating. I had exactly £10 left in my account to last me until the end of the week. In Tesco, I stood frozen in the aisle with the calculator open on my phone. I was counting every single penny. I had to put a block of proper cheddar back on the shelf and grab the cheapest 'Essentials' brand of beans, just so I wouldn’t go into my overdraft. And yesterday, my only work fleece — the one I wear on every shift to keep warm — ripped. Right along the seam on the back. I was sitting in the hospital changing room, trying to stitch it back together with old thread, knowing full well I couldn’t afford to buy a new one. Every penny counts. That night, I couldn’t sleep a wink. I lay there staring at the ceiling, with a heavy, suffocating weight on my chest. I opened my Barclays banking app. The balance showed a miserable £28. That was the price of my sl
