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They don't like me in this shop because I once wrote they were stupid for never having heard of Illy coffee beans.
I wandered round, picking up things, planning meals involving dented tins and big potatoes, wondering how on earth I would bring myself to purchase a bottle of wine that cost below my usual £25 benchmark.
And if I was going to do that, why not go the whole hog and pretend I was unemployed?
Now, at the end of my experiment living on the bottom rung of the ladder, I feel very ashamed.
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This is my grooming routine, month in, month out, and I have only just added up the cost: £800 every four weeks. My colourist will never forgive me; I now have the sort of jet black hair that would be at home on the head of an old hag).
I conjured up the sight of my mum's dressing table, with its sad little pot of Vaseline and flask of Yardley talc, her only beauty products. But that was not all: even the four-mile journey became a mission, as I figured someone on benefits would not have a BMW sports car; the insurance alone would be crippling. I walk the dogs for two hours just for fun, but this sort of traipsing felt altogether different.
I figured my 17 cats would have to stop eating fresh cod and make do with Whiskas.
How women feed children these days, I simply do not know.