Shoes resoled until the leather uppers shredded and tacks pierced young feet jumble sale cardigans recycled for knitted school jumpers socks darned so many times, they ended up close to ship of Theseus-like, few threads from the original garment remaining. My childhood, spent growing up in the suburbs of Liverpool in the 1970s as part of a household financed solely by the paltry wages of a factory floor worker who had overextended simply by buying a house instead of renting, was punctuated by periods of not particularly discreet poverty by the 1980s. I can identify with much that the author says. I went through a mix of emotions recently when I read The Melancholia Of Class: A Manifesto For The Working Class, Cynthia Cruz’s highly personal polemic published this month by Repeater.
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