Waking up early, before the sun. I remember when I was in Singapore still, a child, and waking up at six for school. We were small, and so sullen—still asleep, really—at the breakfast table. At six in the morning in Singapore, the humidity of the day hadn’t settled in yet. At six, I seem to remember, the sky was still a soft blue, and you forgot that in a matter of hours the muggy, tropical heat would creep in, and seep into everything—papers, the sharp creases of our pinafores. I remember that when we came back from school in the afternoons, we were crumpled, and smelt faintly of sweat, of pencil-smudged books, of canvas shoes and concrete floors.

I was awake early yesterday and I am awake early today because these days I am a contributing member of society. A contributing member, at eight pounds some per hour, standing all day in front of the scanner-copier at some new-media place in Camden. I’m not saying anything about my nimble Oriental fingers or anything, but every time I showed up at my supervisor’s desk having completed scanning a thick folder of contracts, she’d say: “Wow! That was quick!” or “You’re really whizzing through it!” or “Bloody hell!” I wanted to say, “You are kind, but this is monkey work.” I’m not not-grateful for work, I just wish it were work that meant something.



An hour for lunch brought a stroll down Pratt Street to the Camden Cafe: wood panelling halfway up the textured green walls, the grill tucked into a side corner, an arcade game in the back. A single elderly man in a low, flat cap. A woman with black hair and black eyes who flirted with the short-order chef. She sounded young but her face told a different story. Her smile was wide, and true. Two pounds forty for a veggie burger and a Ribena, and feet up against the moulded plastic chairs.