My first job, at the age of 16, was on the twilight shift at weekends, stacking the shelves of a huge wholesale store called Makro. 7 hours per week, after closing time at the weekend, replenishing everything from cleaning products to whisky. I still have some vague memories of the smell of a dropped crate of beer, scented toilet paper, the chink of glass bottles, the rustle and thump of a family sized bag of crisps flying through air, the beep beep beep of a reversing forklift truck and the ever-present rattling trundle of the ‘dogs’, our affectionate name for the pallet trucks that were always at our heels.
I remember one or two of the faces, a couple of the names, a balding older guy with a grey moustache who drove the forklift. I can’t remember any of the managers who were charged with organising a bunch of unruly teenagers into some semblance of a functioning team. We must have been a nightmare. It was my first taste of independence. Earning my own wage, albeit a pitiful one, less than £5 per hour, maybe even less than £4, a flavour of what it means to go out to work like an adult. It felt like a badge of honour to wear as I returned to school on Monday having worked for my living over the weekend. I still needed to be dropped off and picked up by my parents of course.
During my school holidays I passed through several very forgettable temporary clerical assignments. So forgettable in fact that I was only reminded of the fact when I came across a reference that I took with me to Australia just in case I might need it, although perhaps I shouldn’t have bothered…
‘He compiled a catalogue of training videos (VHS for those of you who remember), which comprised sorting them out from a box and relocating them into a cupboard and typing a list of titles and subjects which made it easier to identify which video was which.
I would willingly employ him in a similar capacity.’
Needless to say, I avoided office work like the plague on my travels.
The last job I had the pleasure of experiencing before leaving the UK and my adolescence behind was ‘Forecourt Customer Assistant’ in a motorway service station. Highlights included checking the sell by dates of prepacked sandwiches, plastic wrapping the top-shelf magazines and arranging them out of reach of cheeky children, dealing with an angry truck driver who emptied his fuel tank onto the forecourt floor because he put the wrong fuel in, and attempting to understand a busload of Glaswegian football supporters. Another job I was never to repeat. It was also one of my father’s first jobs, one he held on to for a number of years as he paid his own way through his professional education. My three months of overtime, the occasional double shift and hugely reduced social life paid for a big holiday.
Stuart Westwood 