This was the realization Madeline Wolfe made when she found herself in the mean streets of Tory Britain, mid-recession. With no contacts or references, there was not a lot on offer. Not to mention a surprising lack of demand for scuba-diving instruction. She could granny-sit for an agency. This involved doing the shopping and cleaning for some old person. A ‘sleep over’ from 8 p.m. to 8 a.m. paid extra and having to get up more than twice in the night paid double that again. If she made sure to give the old codgers plenty to drink as they toddled off to bed, she could just about make a living. Standing in a police line-up paid four pounds an hour. Or she could gel her hair, pierce her nose and loiter around Piccadilly Circus charging ten quid a photo to Japanese tourists. She could be a school dinner lady in blue cap, nylon overalls and beige stockings cooking pre-mixed, powdered potato. The pay was poor, but you got to take home bowls and bowls of left-over rhubarb custard. There was a service allowing ‘little guys to look like studs’.
