During my time at St John’s College, Oxford, I rarely felt the pinch. The college and university hardship funds were exceptional in offering me interest-free loans and grants to make up for the financial deficit I’d been left with by the Student Loans Company.
Three years, and almost £50,000 worth of debt later, and I’d graduated with a high 2.1 in biological sciences from one of the best universities in the world.
My first step into adulthood was to move to London and declare myself self-employed. I’d never really had a “proper” nine-to-five job, and student life at Oxford hadn’t prepared me for one. Sporadic lectures, tutorials and essay deadlines mean that Oxford students are forced to become proficient at managing their time effectively, just to stay afloat.
While at university, I became heavily involved in Oxford’s theatre and film societies – I thrived on the variety that came with juggling creative, administrative and academic work simultaneously, and I had no intention of deviating from this lifestyle beyond graduation.
I describe myself as a “freelancer” for just about anything – a child of the so-called “gig economy”. During my first year in London I made less than £10,000. My three main source of income were academic tutoring, extra work for film and television, and voluntarily infecting myself with malaria for a vaccine trial.
I lived in an abandoned old people’s home in Hampstead as a “live-in guardian”. Guardianships are short-term accommodation agreements between vacant property owners and “guardians” who occupy the property to keep it secure, by coughing up cheap rent to effectively squat there legally. It cost me £435 a month, including bills and council tax, meaning I could work for a few days a week and spend the rest of my time writing and developing my own projects.
Film extra work paid at least £100 a day, tutoring was up to £45 an hour, and a two-week visit to the malaria clinic earned me £1,750, equivalent to four months’ rent.
My fellow guardians and I strived for a life of “luxury within our means”: we cooked delicious ethical meals using the cheapest veggie ingredients, and prepared lavish breakfasts of freshly baked bread pillaged from nightly dumpster dives behind Paul’s bakery. Our home was decorated with beautiful antique furniture acquired from Freecycle.
No, we couldn’t afford to flash the cash on pricey post-work drinks and West End shows, but a beer on Hampstead Heath and a standing ticket at the Globe theatre (£5) were plenty enough for us. I look tentatively towards the future. In October, I’ll be returning to Oxford as a part-time master’s student, supporting myself with freelance film work juggled alongside formal academia. The ultimate aim is to end up in a career where I’m able to communicate my academic research and ideas to a mainstream audience, but I’m realistic in understanding that this is unlikely to pay off my student debt, or buy me a home any time soon.
I’m firm in my belief that those with more, will tend to spend more – that’s how the economy functions. Businesses need customers to hand over their money and are less interested in the small fish who don’t have much to begin with.
I therefore resign myself to remaining a small fish, and spend my time trying to slip through the net of big business. It’s exhilarating. I’m much happier dedicating an hour of my life to learning how to save £10 by splitting up a train ticket than working to earn that £10, just to have to spend it again. The position that the world now finds itself in is due largely to the consequences of capitalism and the wastefulness that comes with it. If I can avoid contributing to that process and still live in comfort, then sign me up.