Confessions of a Reluctant Recessionista by Amy Silver Page A

white left from the bottle you opened last night, and that’s gone in the sauce.’
    I groaned dramatically.
    ‘Cassie, what’s going on?’ she asked, and I recounted the whole sorry tale.
    Jude, as ever, was full of practical advice. Over a surprisingly tasty dinner (Jude’s a good cook, but I’m always suspicious of anything containing tofu, quorn or any other weird meat substitutes), accompanied bysparkling mineral water (‘So much better to make plans with a clear head,’ Jude said, a sentiment with which I strongly disagree), she came up with the Recession Buster , a Plan of Action which I was to follow over the next couple of weeks.
    Recession-Busting Action Number One: Register with morale-demolishing temp agencies.
    When I tried to object she cut me off. ‘This is not an easy market, Cassie. I know you think that with your skills you should walk into another job, but I wouldn’t count on it. Things are tough out there.’
    ‘Jude, you’re a student,’ I pointed out. ‘How would you know?’
    She tossed me a copy of the Guardian . ‘ Jobless Total Rises to Two Million ’, the headline read. I must stop reading Metro , it really is useless. All right then, Office Angels here I come.
    Recession-Busting Action Number Two: Start counting the pennies (and stop having any fun).
    ‘You could start keeping a money diary,’ she suggested, ‘write down everything you spend every day and see where you can make cutbacks.’
    ‘Mmm,’ I replied, non-committally, fishing around in my bag for my mobile. There was a message from Ali asking if I was OK. Nothing from Dan.
    ‘It’s a really useful way to identify areas where you’re overspending,’ she said.
    ‘Yeah, I really don’t think that’s going to be necessary, Jude. I’m getting a pay-off, and I’m paid for the next two weeks, so I’ll be fine. You don’t haveto worry about the rent.’
    She opened her mouth to say something but thought better of it, instead spooning in a final mouthful of tofu.
    Recession-Busting Action Number Three: Come up with a five-year (yawn) plan.
    ‘This is starting to sound a bit Stalinist even by your standards, Jude,’ I said.
    ‘Nonsense. It’s just being sensible. It’s about time you figured out what you want to do with your life. After all, being a PA in the City wasn’t exactly your dream career, was it?’ she asked.
    True, but then I didn’t really have a dream career. I’d never given it all that much thought.
    ‘This could be a blessing in disguise, Cassie. It might be the ideal opportunity to move into a field which really inspires you.’ There was a long pause. ‘What does really inspire you?’
    Now there’s a question. I have never had a career plan. Beyond getting the hell out of Kettering and coming to London (or going to New York, I didn’t have particularly strong feelings either way) and earning enough money to keep me in shoes, cocktails and the occasional weekend in Paris or Rome, I really didn’t mind that much what I did. Unlike Jude, who was taking an MA in Cultural Studies at Goldsmith as a prelude to working for some anti-capitalist think tank whose name I forget, or Ali, who did maths at Cambridge in order to pave the way for making a lot of money in the City, I had never come up with a gameplan. I did a degree in business administration, mostly because my father insisted that people with degrees in business administration would never be out of work for long (about to test that theory, Dad), but I had never really pictured myself with a career. A job, yes, but not a career.
    ‘There must be something, Cassie,’ Jude prompted, fidgeting with the worry beads she wears around her neck, a sure sign that she was getting impatient.
    ‘Well, I’ve always fancied the idea of doing something in the media,’ I said, ‘or fashion, maybe. Or design. I like interior design. But then again, I think I might have a good head for business. And I like food, of course … and booze, obviously,