I can’t believe we’re debating who counts as a working person

Yet in the UK, the definition is being stretched to include people who aren’t necessarily clocking in every day. We’re seeing a strange attempt to expand this label to cover people whose income is mostly passive, derived from property, stocks and shares, or other investments. It makes me wonder who benefits from this new spin on the term? Because it feels like an attempt to blur the lines on class and obscure who actually relies on work versus wealth to get by.

In my own case, I consider myself a working person, plain and simple. My financial security depends entirely on my self-employment – I don’t have a side income from assets or properties, no secret portfolio adding to my monthly income.

I’m fortunate to have built a stable career that provides a comfortable living, enough to cover the essentials and pay for childcare. But equally I wouldn’t say I’m “working class” because my income is higher than the average working-class wage, and I don’t face some of the harsher constraints that many people in that category do.

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I’m in a comfortable position, but that comfort is still tied directly to the work I do. I’m one of many working people whose wellbeing depends on my income, not on wealth I already own. And that’s a crucial distinction.

Yet here in the UK, we’re witnessing a baffling phenomenon. The straightforward notion that working means earning your income from a job is being twisted to suggest that those with a substantial passive income – whether they’re landlords, investors, or high net worth individuals – should also qualify as “working people”.

We’re asked to see wealth from assets as if it’s in the same league as wages from a nine-to-five job. In the debates surrounding Labour’s first Budget in more than a decade, there is a willingness from part of the commentariat and the political exchequer to include asset-based income in the “working people” category. It’s gaslighting; an odd distortion that muddies the very concept of work and blurs critical economic distinctions that affect people’s lives.

To illustrate, let’s talk about property. If you own multiple properties and rent them out, it’s not the result of a full day’s labour that is paying the bills; it’s your tenants. They’re effectively covering your mortgage and, most likely, helping your properties appreciate in value with each passing year.

Many landlords even hike rents annually without necessarily investing in the property itself (anyone who’s lived in a rental knows that), yet their wealth grows as the property market does. So, wealth builds upon wealth in the housing market without any work being done.

For tenants, however, it’s a different story. Each month’s rent payment feels like a reminder of the gap that grows between them and the possibility of saving for a deposit to buy a home. And while landlords reap the gains, tenants just watch money flow out, seemingly getting them no closer to stable ownership.

The system is designed so that owning assets, not working, becomes the path to wealth – a striking difference that is obscured if we casually blend asset income with wage income under the same “working person” label.

It’s hard not to see this as part of a bigger picture, a distinctly British quirk. Land ownership in the UK has been a historical marker of class and privilege for centuries, and despite social changes, the legacy lives on. The UK’s class system has long been anchored by land and wealth accumulation among the elite, and today it has expanded to include the upper and middle classes reaping the rewards of a booming property market and investments.

British society seems to maintain a sort of reverence for wealth derived from property ownership, as if it’s a symbol of economic self-sufficiency.

In France, class and wealth are often discussed in starker terms. There, the dismantling of the aristocracy during the Revolution helped create a more defined separation between work-derived income and asset wealth.

French policies have historically showcased more redistributive tax structures – even though recent reforms under president Emmanuel Macron have resulted in a situation where €1 million in dividends is now taxed significantly less than €1m in wages.

In the UK, though, Margaret Thatcher’s “property-owning democracy” narrative has been so deeply ingrained that property is almost venerated, making it difficult to even challenge the idea that the interests of landlords and wage earners should somehow align. Much of this muddled narrative around who is a “working person” comes, I believe, from Britain’s enthusiastic embrace of neoliberalism.

Thatcher-era policies on deregulation and privatisation, and an emphasis on asset ownership, reshaped public attitudes and made property and investments symbols of economic success and independence. Suddenly, the idea of work wasn’t just about a job, it was also about personal investment portfolios, growing property values, and “economic self-reliance”.

This became an accepted sign of progress, a reflection of Thatcher’s belief that owning assets was the ultimate sign of personal responsibility.

As a result, there has been a lasting cultural shift in the UK. Income from shares and property has somehow gained legitimacy as a form of “work”. This viewpoint persists, meaning that investors and landlords are often treated as if they are just as economically vulnerable as workers, when the reality is much different.

This confusion over class boundaries is more than just a linguistic quibble; it has real consequences. Presenting the interests of wealthy asset-owners as aligned with those of working people makes it harder to support policies that genuinely aid the working class. Instead, we see policies that sound progressive but, in reality, reinforce the wealth of those at the top.

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For instance, resisting higher taxes on capital gains or tightening up inheritance laws is often framed as “protecting working people”, despite the fact that it benefits only a small percentage of the population.

All of this brings me back to my original question: why do some people seem so eager to obscure this basic distinction between work and passive income? I keep coming back to the same answer: the system is designed to maintain the advantages of those already holding the wealth.

It’s baffling, because it seems that even the simplest arguments about inequality get swept aside in favour of a narrative that suggests all income, no matter its source, deserves the same protection and consideration.

It’s no wonder that we’re facing a housing crisis, with rising costs for working people and increasing wealth for those who simply own assets. This distinction matters because it exposes the imbalance in our system and highlights who truly benefits from economic “growth” in this country.

And the first step to addressing it is, I think, to stop pretending that all income is the same.

This absurdity makes me think about the debate in France over how inheritance is taxed. Many people feel threatened by the idea of increased taxation on money passed on from one generation to the next, because they feel betrayed, after all these years grafting to build something to leave to their children.

But the reality is that the overwhelming majority of families won’t amass enough wealth to be significantly affected by such taxes. In fact, research shows that the biggest inheritors pay far less tax proportionally.

In both cases, this disconnect creates a misunderstanding of the issues around wealth and taxation, fuelling a misinformed outrage that misses the bigger picture. Ultimately, this mindset only serves to reinforce the status quo, at the expense of the majority of people.