what it meant to be a topshop girl

and how my first ever job there taught me more about the world of work than any other job has since.

It was September 2010. Instagram was about to land in our pockets, everyone was obsessed with Angry Birds and Lady Gaga had just worn that meat dress to the VMAs. And I, after months of relentless pursuit (okay, begging), had just landed myself my dream job as ‘The Saturday Girl’ at my local town’s Topshop. To misquote almost every character in The Devil Wears Prada, ‘a million girls would’ve killed for that job’.

Up until this moment, on any given Saturday through my teenage years, you would’ve found me in that Topshop. It didn’t matter that I had very little money to spend there (though what money I did have, was indeed spent there) – I always found reasons to set foot inside.

I loved the anticipation of walking up to the windows, wondering what would’ve changed on the mannequins that week. I loved discovering that the new Nice Going Out Tops had arrived, along with a new colour of Leigh skinny jeans. I loved that the store manager, Debbie, knew me by name, and a few tiny little details about my life. And I loved that to me, it felt like there was so much more beyond this store – it was an elite club, and I desperately, desperately wanted a membership.

So, immediately after my sixteenth birthday, I began my mission. ‘Do you have any jobs going?’, I’d ask Debbie, who was already very aware of my burning love for her store, and everything I thought it stood for. ‘Not at the moment, love,’ she’d say, ‘But keep checking! We might soon!’

So I did keep checking. I kept checking on Saturdays, with new printouts of my CV that featured different fonts, different colours and different adjectives to describe myself. ‘I can be REEEAALLY flexible,’ I’d say, only able to offer up my whole Saturdays, whole Sundays and after school from 4-6.

And then one day, I asked ‘Do you have any jobs going?’, and Debbie said yes. Her Saturday Girl was leaving, and she had a four hour contract to fill.

I could hardly believe it. I’d spent so long asking if she had any jobs going, that I hadn’t even thought about what I’d say if she said yes. I somehow managed to push a ‘Could… Could I maybe come and interview for it?’ out of my brain and she laughed and asked me if I could come by after school for a chat.

Fastforward a week, and I was the Saturday Girl. My dreams had come true. I’d spent the duration of my interview talking at (not to, or with) Debbie about my love for Topshop, my passion for fashion (read: wearing a black 2-for-£7 black vest over my school shirt and tie) and my interest in people. I had the two things she needed from a sales assistant: a genuine love of the brand, and a mad desire to make everyone else feel the same way.

And so I inhaled the Topshop life – from the inside out. From the moment I first put on that coveted lanyard, I was determined to become an expert and after a few weeks, I knew product lines, season codes and item references off by heart. I could predict what would go into the sale, I could guess a price-point without looking at the tag and above anything else, I could sell – so much so that I won a competition to represent my region at a big meeting at Topshop HQ on Oxford Circus. Honestly, the honour of my career.

I took every minute of overtime I possible could. I didn’t take any days off for my birthday (I actually got the time of my shift wrong on my 18th birthday and turned up at 9am, only to realised that I wasn’t needed until 1pm. I sat in the staff room watching Friends on VHS). On nights out in town, women I didn’t know would recognise me and say, ‘Aw, you’re The Topshop Girl, aren’t you?’ and then we’d be best friends for the night – and best friends the next time they came into the store.

Maybe you think this is all a little bit sad. After all, I was just selling clothes to line Phillip Green’s pockets, right? But for me, Topshop represented something so much more than the smaller, slower pace of life found in South Wales and for the first time in my teenage years I felt like I found my place – on that little shop floor.

It was the place I navigated my first breakup. It was the place I navigated my parents’ divorce. It was the place I navigated the ruthless mean girls who bullied me in school (Debbie actually banned one of them from coming in). While all of those things felt like they were breaking me in my real life, I could find solace in my Saturday morning performances on the shop floor of Topshop Bridgend, with brilliant, kind women who showed me the value of inter-generational friendships and perspectives.

And then the store closed down. The area manager came in one evening and told Debbie that the store was no longer making enough profit to match the rent of the building. Head office no longer saw value in Topshop Bridgend. We had a month left, and then it would all be over.

All of us who worked there were distraught. From full-time managers, to supervisors who’d been there for 10 years to part-time Saturday girls – that little Topshop store represented something so much more than just a job for us all. We were a little family who had formed friendships with people 30 years older and younger than us. We shared all our secrets, heartaches and stories. We knew what it was to care about our teammates, to never let anyone down and to work together towards shared goals and targets.

But most of all, I learned then that things aren’t forever, and even the shiniest, sparkliest, rarest coin that’s of significant value to one person will eventually have its value decided by someone else. My first ever job was my best ever job. And at 16, it taught me more about myself and the world of work than any other job has since. That lanyard of mine hangs above my desk, along with various medals and memorabilia from other achievements. And honestly? It’s the one I look at the most.

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