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Yesterday I caught myself doing something a bit daft. I’m standing in the kitchen, kettle rattling away, a mug of ordinary Tesco Earl Grey in my hand — not some fancy hotel tea, just the basic stuff. And I’m watching the steam, staring out the window at the grey London sky, thinking: “Lily, have you seriously spent the last three years living like you weren’t allowed to just breathe?” I’m 34. I live in Golders Green, North London. I work as a care assistant. I go from house to house looking after elderly people. Getting them out of bed, helping them wash, making breakfast, tidying up, putting the radio on, reading them the news, and sometimes just sitting beside them because they’re scared of being on their own. Some people think it’s an easy job. It isn’t. It’s the sort of job where you come home and it’s not just your back that hurts — it feels like everything inside you is knackered. I rent a tiny one-bed flat for £1,200 a month. Which, by London standards, is supposedly “not too bad”. Yeah, right. Makes me laugh. After tax I bring home about two grand a month. And somehow the money’s gone before it even feels like yours. Rent. Bills. Food. Travel. Debt. That’s it. Cheers, Lily. See you next payday. Over two years I ended up with nearly £14,000 of debt. Credit cards, overdraft, payday loans — the full British starter pack. The sort that makes your eye twitch every time your phone buzzes. The pandemic absolutely finished me off. My hours got cut, families were scared to let carers into their homes, then the cost of living went completely mental. Electricity bills became one big joke without a punchline. I wasn’t borrowing money for handbags or holidays. I was borrowing money to pay rent and buy food. Sometimes I’d be on the Tube heading to a client and genuinely feel like I was about to burst into tears somewhere between Golders Green and Tottenham Court Road. The doctor called it burnout. Tablets to sleep. Tablets to wake up. Tablets ju
