I stepped onto the stage, the weight of a hundred eyes pressing against me, each glance charged with suspicion or intrigue. My friends, scattered among the crowd, sent encouraging nods my way. I looked out at the assortment—police, youth workers, neighbourhood watch, shop owners—wondering how many were here to learn, and how many to judge. My hands trembled slightly, not from fear, but anticipation, as I adjusted the microphone.

I cleared my throat, letting silence linger before speaking. "I stand before you not as a criminal, but as a survivor of circumstance. My career as a shoplifter began not from malice, but necessity. £12.21 an hour—barely enough to scrape by, let alone live. The government says £14.80 is a living wage, but who among us is truly living?" Faces tightened, some nodding, others frowning. I picked up the syringe, holding it aloft. "Everyone thinks they're a hero, but heroes ask for fair wages, not chase thieves with bravado."

I recounted the thrill of slipping a bottle into a coat or boldly walking out with electronics in plain sight. "You see, there's an art to it, a dance. Sometimes you need subtlety—a gentle slip of the hand. Other times, it's brute force, running or even fighting your way out. And now, with prosecution thresholds raised, shoplifting has become almost routine for many." The crowd murmured, a few jotting notes, others shifting uncomfortably. I let my gaze linger on the surveillance images, highlighting the constant battle between thief and security.

I leaned forward, voice low and sardonic. "Over the years, I've taken over £100,000 in goods. But the market is cruel—I've only earned about £20,000 from sales. After food, cosmetics, and keeping up appearances, it's less than £10,000. The world wants bargains, not justice. So you see, I'm not living large—I'm surviving, just barely." A ripple of laughter broke out as I joked about selling stolen goods like a beggar, a salesman of desperation.

I offered a final remark, flashing a mischievous grin. "Thank you for listening to the reality behind the crime. But do check your wallets as you leave—at 2pm, the pickpocketing seminar begins, and opportunity waits for no one!" The crowd laughed, the tension finally ebbing into understanding. As applause scattered through the room, I packed my props, feeling the weight of shared stories lighten.

I loaded my briefcase into the boot, glancing around to ensure discretion. "No one needs to know how well these seminars pay—and besides, with thieves everywhere, even a shoplifter must take care." I drove away, the echo of laughter and enlightenment lingering, the story of my survival now theirs to ponder.