It didn’t take long, but Brixton feels like a different part of London. This is the real thing: the edgy, urban bustle and grime of a city.There will be all sorts of possibilities here, I tell myself as I emerge from the steps of the Underground, jostled by a crowd of hurrying commuters. But as I trudge up and down the high street, going in and out of countless shops and restaurants asking for work, I begin to realise that getting a job isn’t going to be easy. I leave copies of my CV with uninterested managers, even though I’m sure I’ll never hear from them. My feet ache; I’m hungry and thirsty; I wish I could have a cup of tea or coffee, but I can’t afford it.The spicy smell from a Caribbean fast-food shop makes my stomach rumble. I go past a dusty-looking second-hand bookshop, thinking that I might come back later to browse. There are a couple of men leaning up against the wall of a hairdressing salon, cans of lager in their hands. I feel them slide their attention towards me.
