Working as a security guard and a bouncer, I’m trained in “restrictive intervention”. Anyone who gets too rowdy or too close is first asked to tone it down. If they turn violent, the bodycam gets switched on, and the attacker may find themselves folded up like a deckchair.
But there’s one bloke who makes all my training evaporate. He comes to my house every day. He wears grey shorts, a red top and carries a high-vis handbag. He’s the postman. And every time he shows up, I pray the envelopes he’s holding aren’t marked “Your bill is enclosed”.
In my job keeping people and property safe on a university campus, I earn £10.71 per hour. Working 16 12-hour shifts a month bags me an average £1,400, after tax. I’ve always been comfortable earning a modest wage. Since I began working at the age of 15, I’ve picked jobs based on two guiding principles: I don’t want to have to tell lies all day, and I don’t want to get work calls beyond the car park.