This was 2000, in the days before London’s employment agencies decided to deck out their premises with garish colours and wall-length photos of happy workers like a cross between Foxtons and the first class lounge at Heathrow Terminal Five, and even though this was a well-known international employment agency the waiting area was shabby, like a national health dentist’s office, with potted plants and stacked plastic in-trays.
I was waiting in the Strand branch, sitting uneasily on a plastic chair as people rushed busily past me. People still had smoking areas in offices then. It was 8 am on a Monday morning and the agency was busy supplying emergency cover for receptions and telephones across London. They forgot about me pretty soon.
I’d been at home since I left the hotel job. I’d been writing (the novel is still on a floppy disk somewhere, where it can stay forever as far as I’m concerned) and every day around 11am when the Evening Standard was delivered to the Woodgrange News around the corner, I would get 30p off my dad and go and buy it to look at the ads section, circling everything that seemed likely with a highlighter. I’d applied for every job I was half-qualified to do but got nothing other than interviews in a few seedy warehouses with even seedier bosses. ‘We’re really looking for someone more experienced,’ was better than ‘What do you want a job for with grades like that?’