I hadn't temped properly until I moved to London, but I'd just finished drama school and needed something I could earn a wage from when I wasn't acting; something I could pick up when I needed it and drop when I didn't. Something low stress. Something flexible. Something easy, you know? "Don't live to work, work to live" — Noel Gallagher, apparently.
If you asked AI for feedback on my temping CV it would send its deepest sympathies. I've dog-walked and dog-sat little dogs, big dogs and designer dogs that aren't really dogs at all. The one thing they've all had in common: undisclosed behavioural problems. If you're telling me your dog trying to crush another dog's head in its jaw is 'just him saying hello', maybe your dog needs therapy. And I need a healthier hourly wage.
I temped in a shoe shop where the stockroom was spread over four floors. We were only allowed to get two pairs of shoes at one time. If people aren't sure what shoes they want, that's a lot of steps. I was the bearer of a lot of fake bad news ("Sorry, we don't have that size/style/colour/anything you liked in fact"). I wasn't a good fit.
There've been temp jobs serving at events, working behind bars, in hotel room service. Jobs in the City on reception, team assistants, PAs, EAs, recruitment and HR administrators. Remote jobs doing data entry and database cleaning (while also cleaning my flat. And watching Murder She Wrote. And selling my worldly possessions on eBay. Let's hear it for remote working!)
The thing about temping in London is there are SO MANY TEMPS. Someone's always ready to 'hit the ground running' if you aren’t asked back. And someone else is waiting behind them. I was once terminated (their word) from a three-week placement after one day because I had my headphones on when I came back in from lunch. That was the reason they gave the agency. "The lazy slug didn't de-bud! Terminate her!"
I learnt quickly (though regrettably not quickly enough; RIP to all early terminations) that being a continually-employed temp in London means you need to be all those things we lie about on our CVs: Enthusiastic! Team Player! And most importantly: Happy to Help! Which is quite rich really, considering most offices work on the shared understanding of "I wouldn’t be here if I had a choice" and "Do not under any circumstances ask me to help out with your workload. Are you stupid? I barely care enough to do my own."
So, to keep your job, and to get your money, and to not have to lie to a new recruitment agency about why you don't have references from the old ones, you teach yourself how to reprogram a customised Miele washing machine at the boss' son's girlfriend's house. You book the company-wide week-long ski trip without being given access to staff calendars or a company bank card. You remove dead pigeons from the building's guttering – footstool's in the stationery cupboard.
All while telling them what a great place it is to work. All for £14 an hour (don't scoff; this is above London Living Wage).
One particularly drab, muggy morning in September — two months deep into what was meant to be a two-week placement (I ended up staying for over a year WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME) — working as concierge at a luxury apartment building, I find myself in the basement, Takeshi's Castle-ing through the pipes in the boiler room. I'm headed to the door in the far corner which leads to the outside recess of the building. It's two floors below the pavement, and in the narrow alleyway outside there's a metal staircase, about the width of a bendy ruler and with a perfectly vertical incline, which leads to another slightly higher up recess round the front of the building.
There are windows along the length of this higher recess, which look into the office renting out the lower ground floor. I am here because of them.
The staff in this office have very generously called the building owners (my bosses) to let them know there was a young man who had been sleeping in the recess, and while he has since been moved along by the council, he's left behind some waste. (Yes, it is exactly what you're thinking.) It's not nice for them to look at while they microwave their leftover pasta bake at lunch; could we get it moved?
No, they haven’t tried the council again and they're more than happy to give that a go (when they have the time) but might it just be quicker if The Temp cleared it? My bosses agree. There's a viewing in the penthouse that morning and the mess needs to be gone by then.
OK I say. I could try… But do we all remember that I'm on crutches at the moment? And I've got that leg brace on, which goes from my thigh down to my ankle? I might actually not be that quick after all ha ha ha ha ha!
(Snapped ACL, waiting for surgery.)
Ah yes your leg. Of course. Ask the cleaner to do it.
But, she's in her 50s, five-foot-nothing with severe back pain. I'm not sure I could ask her to climb the ladder… it is quite steep. And we aren't actually sure what else is in the bags... it might not be safe? There might be needles.
The viewing is mid-morning, could you ensure it's gone by then — thanks.
So, here we are — me and the cleaner, having hauled ourselves (and each other) up to the top recess, flinging the waste we've carefully put into black bin liners, up onto the pavement above because we can't manage it back down the ladder.
It feels like that fairground game where you try to toss the rings over the bottles. Neither of us being fantastic throwers, or in the best physical health, the waste making it up and over the railings isn't at a 100% success rate. There are things in my hair, and my clothes are filthy.
But prospective buyers of a multi-million-pound flat won't mind that the wet-faced, stinking concierge looks like she's just been surfing landfill — as long as those pesky recesses are cleared, am I right!
One of the bosses arrives early for the viewing, giving himself plenty of time to wildly tidy the (already pristine and exceptionally barren) reception area. There is sadly, though unsurprisingly, no mention of the recesses looking gorgeous. In his titivating, he picks my crutch up from where it leans on the desk beside me and takes it over to the sofa in the far corner of the room. Bending down, he slips it underneath, out of sight. And looking back at me, his arm still under the sofa, nudging it back further, says: "You don't need this out do you?".
When temping was especially challenging (read: chronic), I would call my mum and my good friend, playwright Isley Lynn, to complain/cry/laugh about the week's trials and tribulations. My mum suggested I write it all down in something she fondly titled my 'Little Black Book', which I did. Then Isley suggested we write a play.
Jobsworth, (co-written with Isley), is a culmination of my lived experiences temping in London; the chaos, the instability, the absurd demands, the pressure to please and the scramble to hold onto your place in the world. It's about the things we do to survive debt, the cost of living crisis, and to protect the people we love most.
It was an honour that Jobsworth garnered such an overwhelmingly positive response at the Edinburgh Fringe last year; sold out shows across the month, glowing reviews and — most rewarding of all — audience members generously sharing their gross workplace stories in the bar afterwards. I'm yet to meet someone who watches this show and doesn't, at least once, think: "ME TOO!"
It seems we've all yearned for that sweet victory at work. A day of infernal triumph. The final reckoning. This play is a love letter to everyone working their proverbial off, with their boss' shoe firmly on their coat-tails.
Temping in London is competitive and fierce and ironically comes with just as much juggle and uncertainty as pursuing a life in the arts.
Has it given me something low-stress? Something flexible? Something easy? It has not. (Sorry Noel.)
But it has given me Jobsworth — an hour and 20 minutes of catharsis; a purging of the prickles of my temping career, and a safe place to revel in the downfall of that smarmy boss we all love to hate.
Jobsworth, Park Theatre, Finsbury Park, 19 November-6 December 2025.
