PoliticiansвЂ™ ideas about the drug seem to reside in the 1990s, when cocaine was the preserve of city workers, PRs and journalists. It was where I watched my recreational habit of two decades tip into something more needful and compulsive. During the 18 months I was there, I took more cocaine than in all my years in London combined. The chicken shop represented a low point in my working life, but a high point in my drug-taking career. I always think of this job when I hear politicians railing against cocaine use by middle-class professionals. What have the authorities ever done for them? They are opposed to authority on principle. As time goes on, I start to think that maybe they just hate me. At first, I put this down to my being a woman. I donвЂ™t earn any more than the kitchen staff. I am the manager, though this is an entirely theoretical distinction. I donвЂ™t take the call, so am deprived of the only part of my job I truly enjoy: saying вЂњI am the managerвЂќ when customers demand to speak to the manager. IвЂ™m not sure what the basis of her complaint is whether itвЂ™s about the bookвЂ™s title, or the fact IвЂ™m reading at all. One night, a customer calls to complain after she sees me sitting at the counter reading I Love Dick.

ItвЂ™s like saying IвЂ™m working towards being a footballer, or a film star. In truth, my old life is receding so fast, the idea of writing a book has come to seem fanciful.

I tell myself this job is a stopgap, while I finish my book. Taken to anaesthetise yourself against the realities of your life, not so much Cocaine taken for fun is easy to give up. Once the bag is open, it is the only subject on the table. There is no need to specify what youвЂ™re talking about. Or just: вЂњHave you got that?вЂќ There are a lot of slang terms for cocaine, but frequent users rarely call it anything at all. вЂњHave you got that thing?вЂќ weвЂ™ll murmur to each other. As closing time approaches, we start talking to each other in cokeheadвЂ™s code, a register so vague it barely qualifies as language. ThereвЂ™s no time to sit around waiting for ibuprofen to kick in.Д¬ocaine is for the end of the shift, to propel us through the final hours and ease those psychic knots, the side-effect of working in a dirty, tedious, unrewarding job. We all suffer with sore backs, sore knees, sore calves the muscular burn that comes from spending eight hours on your feet without a break. Everyone smokes weed, for its painkilling effects. As minimum-wage gigs go, it isnвЂ™t bad вЂ“ it closes before 11pm, so we miss the post-pub trade, and get home at a reasonable hour вЂ“ but weekend shifts are still gruelling. My parents pressed me to go to university, precisely so I could avoid a lifetime of this sort of work. I havenвЂ™t had a job like this since I was a student. The town is so deprived it hurts, but people find the money for cocaine.

Others shed white flakes as I unfurl them. I lose count of the number of curly notes IвЂ™ve been handed at the till. At weekends, dealers send marketing texts, boasting about the purity of their packages, or offering cut-price deals. On certain estates, there are whole streets that stink of weed not a faint whiff, but a pungent fug that sticks to clothes and hair. He has racked up a line for me, on the shelf behind the cistern. It is a tiny movement, imperceptible to anyone else, but I know what it means. вЂњHe seems pretty happy.вЂќ My colleague meets my eye, and tilts his head towards the bathroom. вЂњThereвЂ™s a man out there, showing off his stab wound,вЂќ I say. I print the order out, and take it to the kitchen. But here, you have to act as if itвЂ™s normal, to walk around bearing the bruises of a recent fight. In my home town, people would pass comment. One of the first things I learned when I took this job was that it was considered very gauche to remark on a personвЂ™s black eyes and split knuckles. If words fail you, you call on other means of communication. Violence is part of the local vernacular. HeвЂ™s just telling his friend about his week. вЂњGot stabbed the other day, didnвЂ™t I?вЂќ He doesnвЂ™t sound upset. вЂњNow then ,вЂќ he says to his friend, whom he has spotted in the queue.

Middle class fancy