For this job I was to be the ‘glamour’ model for hourly hire to budding amateur photographers who came into the shop in Whitechapel Road. It was run by a middle-aged, smartly dressed man called onty, who was polite enough towards me but worked me hard. It was a weird set-up. I had to sit behind the shop counter and be on show as he offered my nude modelling services to his customers. If they took him up on the deal I’d be sent upstairs to the small dingy studio above the shop. As soon as the first photographer stepped into the room I understood what anny had meant in one respect: it was a good introduction as far as managing uncomfortable situations was concerned.

It was a seedy atmosphere and resembled the studio in the film Peeping Tom, all very 1950s with a gold-painted, wrought-iron, pink velvet-covered bar chair and a grubby, well-used sheepskin rug for posing on. As re uested, I’d taken some sexy lingerie with me to change into and there were awkward moments when the men obviously wanted me to strip off but couldn’t bring themselves to ask. After a few days I amused myself by toying with their discomfort, especially if they were ust there to ogle. It annoyed me that they thought I was too dumb to notice they had no film in their cameras. I could easily tell, simply because they failed to wind on after each shot or change their film. As I moved from one pose to another they’d be transfixed, staring at my boobs, pussy and bum with wide-eyed lechy looks and a sweaty brow, clearing their throats and making shifty, furtive little body twitches. I worked there a week and there wasn’t much downtime other than tea and lunch breaks. onty invited me back any time I wanted.