A long time ago, I took a part-time job in a high-street clothing store. It was late November, and amid the chaos of the Christmas rush I quickly discovered that nobody had the faintest idea what I was meant to be doing or whether I was actually doing it. One morning I overslept and queasily awaited the shrill phone call from a supervisor. It never came. The day passed.
More days passed. Days turned into weeks. The payslips continued to hit the doormat. If there was any faint paroxysm of guilt or shame at taking this multinational giant for £5.15 an hour while watching movies and eating toast in my pyjamas, then let’s say it passed. In early February, the cheques finally stopped. No words were ever exchanged between us. I haven’t set foot in the shop for almost 20 years.
