Striking Joker
🛑 My name is Olivia. I'm 35. I live in London, in the Croydon area. I rent a room. Not a flat — a room. In a house with two strangers who, like me, can't afford their own place. I work as a checkout assistant for a supermarket called Tesco. The job runs from 6am to 11pm. I do evening shifts. From 2 to 10. Sometimes till 11 if it's inventory night. About £11.44 an hour. After tax — around £1,550 a month. Sounds alright? It's not. Here are the expenses. Room rent: £800 (includes bills but no broadband) Broadband + phone: £65 Oyster card for travel to work and back: £130 Food: £250 (I barely eat meat because it's way too expensive at Waitrose or Marks & Spencer) Subscriptions: £9 (Amazon Prime Video — the only thing I have, and even that I share with a mate) Clothes and shoes: £25 (Primark or charity shops, everything) Medication: £15 (paracetamol and allergy pills) Unexpected: £40 Left: £220. Feels like £220 is decent money. It's not. Because £220 is what covers everything I forgot. And everything that will happen tomorrow. And tomorrow always happens. I've been on my own for three years. Since I split up with my ex-husband Nick. He was alright. Didn't hit me. Didn't shout. Just stopped noticing me. I became like a fridge — it's there, but you don't see it. I walked out on my own. Since then — I'm proper on my own. In the evening I get home at 10:30, if all goes well. If it's a brutal shift — 11:30. The house is old. Doors creak. My housemates are lads who couldn't care less. They blast music at 2am. I don't complain — I'm dead scared they'll hate me. And I've got nowhere else to go. I go into my room. 9 square metres. Bed, wardrobe, desk. On the desk — a 2017 laptop that takes five minutes just to boot up. I put the kettle on. Drink tea without sugar. Stare at the wall. And think. I think about being 35. No savings. If the laptop breaks — I'm knackered, can't replace it. If I get ill and miss three days — I can't pay rent. If a housemate says I walk too loud — the la
