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Amy Winehouse inspired me to quit a soul-crushing job
EntertainmentMusicMusic News•November 7, 2026 at 12:00 PMNational

Amy Winehouse inspired me to quit a soul-crushing job

By Emily Phillips•The Guardian Music

I was driving to work feeling miserable when Rehab came on – and I realised there’s more to life than a steady wage in a job you despiseAt 6am on a bleak October morning in 2006, I was driving down the North Circular in London to a job I hated. I usually kept the radio low, a background murmur to keep me focused on the road. But that morning I turned up the volume allowing the buoyant bassline from Amy Winehouse’s Rehab to reverberate through my Ford Ka. As Amy’s rich voice conveyed the depths of her despair, I stared blearily at the empty road ahead and wondered how I’d taken such a wrong turn.It was a disorienting time for me. Two years out of uni, I’d accepted a job in the back end of London’s Docklands area, in a freezing cold, windowless office, staring at four giant screens to check whether any of the world’s stock exchanges had technical faults. My shift pattern meant I would wake at 5am, then endure a male colleague relentlessly monitoring me – the way I had to monitor those blinking screens. From two desks behind, he would send me Myspace messages with inappropriate observations about how tight my outfits looked. Continue reading...

I was driving to work feeling miserable when Rehab came on – and I realised there’s more to life than a steady wage in a job you despise

At 6am on a bleak October morning in 2006, I was driving down the North Circular in London to a job I hated. I usually kept the radio low, a background murmur to keep me focused on the road. But that morning I turned up the volume allowing the buoyant bassline from Amy Winehouse’s Rehab to reverberate through my Ford Ka. As Amy’s rich voice conveyed the depths of her despair, I stared blearily at the empty road ahead and wondered how I’d taken such a wrong turn.

It was a disorienting time for me. Two years out of uni, I’d accepted a job in the back end of London’s Docklands area, in a freezing cold, windowless office, staring at four giant screens to check whether any of the world’s stock exchanges had technical faults. My shift pattern meant I would wake at 5am, then endure a male colleague relentlessly monitoring me – the way I had to monitor those blinking screens. From two desks behind, he would send me Myspace messages with inappropriate observations about how tight my outfits looked.

Continue reading...

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