I moved to London almost one year ago now, only weeks before the first night of riots poured out into its historic streets. I had no money (I’m still pretty skint), I barely had a room in a flat and I had just scored myself the worst job I’ve had yet in my life (not because of the job, but because of the venue) - working as a ‘pretty-girl’ (i.e., receptionist) at an exclusive members-only club, which paid me just above the minimum wage. It wasn’t the best time of my life and whilst I didn’t think that what the rioters were doing was fair, justified or productive, I’d like to think I understood why they wanted to rage.
One year on, I’m working in an advertising agency near St Paul’s Cathedral and the London Stock Exchange (LSX), I work hard to rent my own room and go on holidays and buy new clothes. On Tuesday I decided the hole that was about to develop in the crotch of my only pair of jeans would not be suitable work attire, so set out after work to purchase a new, only-pair of jeans. Pleased with a quick easy find (I only had to try on ONE PAIR!!), I strolled towards the gardens of St Paul’s to savour some dwindling shards of daylight and heard a man’s shout echo through Paternoster Square, just outside the LSX. Curiosity would not kill this cat.