Then, there is my secret CV. After I gave myself a performance evaluation, I started to think about every single step I have taken to get here. About what I’ve endured, and what I have learned.

I didn’t go back home when StarLook Magazine closed, the week before Christmas 2016, and the day before payday. I went to Craigslist and Gumtree, and I hostessed and waitressed for men who were far creepier and skeevier than John from The Gentleman, and I paid my rent. I have also paid my rent selling ‘used’ underwear on Craigslist. In an hour, with a cheap multi pack of knickers from the market, and a pot of yoghurt, I could make more money than I’d earn in a whole shift at the Sports Grill, including tips. Although I was quite relieved when Craigslist shut me down, once and for all. I think the staff at the post office knew I was up to something, and I was starting to feel sick whenever I smelled yoghurt.

I will never, ever be glossy. I will never feel like a person who doesn’t have to work for her place in the world. But maybe my worth is in the work. Not that anyone should have to sell their underwear to collectors in order to keep a roof over their head, but I have proved, over and over again, that I can cope. ‘You got this!’ claims my least favourite meme, usually proffered when something terrible happens concerning something I have demonstrably not got, like work, or rent money. ‘You got this!’ means ‘Sort yourself out, I’m not getting involved’.

I believed this job would transform me, validate me, turn me into a person of worth. That I was finally allowed to think of myself as a ‘real’ writer, with permission from my payslip, christened by an email signature. But I’m an asset to The Know because of everything I learned before I arrived. Not because of what they have conferred upon me. They can take the job title away from me. But they can’t steal anything else. I think of Louise, who feels hopeless because she feels so helpless. I’d swap flats with her, in half a heartbeat—but not lives.