Hold All Tickets

The teenager is in a pickle.

She wants money. Needs folding stuff. ‘Tis the season for shopping, after all. So much to buy, with no dosh to do it.

Even at this early stage in life, it’s clear the eldest daughter likes the finer things in life. A taste for the fancy stuff.

Like most girls her age, she has a passion for fashion. Apparently, one cannot have too many pairs of cut-off shorts and coloured singlets.

It is a constant source of frustration to her, that we rarely support these endeavours. She hears the word ‘no’, constantly. I’m thinking of having a card printed with it, just to save my voice.

At one stage, a suggestion was floated that she might like to do a more around the house, in exchange for an increase in handouts. We all had a hearty chuckle over that one.

What she wants, is a part-time job. Something easy, that pays plenty.

Forget Maccas. She has her sights set on a position in retail. The best of both her worlds. Cash, and cheap dresses.

Sadly, it won’t be happening just yet. She’s not old enough. Those pesky labour inspectors put a stop to sending kiddies her age out to the sand mines.

Things only got worse for the poor girl. Stories from the old days were about to be told. My first two jobs. Both spectacular failures.

My first foray into gainful employment was in a delicatessen. Don’s Deli. It happened to be next door to our local pub. Even then, I was drawn to such establishments.

Much of the trade came from those leaving the hotel. Blokes grabbing something for the missus on the way home. A little extra if curfew had been broken.

The owner had an impressive display of meats carefully displayed in his glass-covered cabinet. All different kinds. From across the world, apparently. This posed major problems for his new employee.

In our house, there were two types of cut meat. Devon, and ham. With a definite leaning to the devon. I hadn’t seen or tasted anything else.

It seemed to frustrate the customers, and Deli Don, when I constantly mixed up orders. Or stared blankly at Mrs Smith, when she asked for six slices of the Hungarian salami. Are you sure you wouldn’t like some of the devon instead?

I left the deli world soon after. Around the time that we found the boss was actually known as Dirty Don. And it had nothing to do with the shop’s hygiene practices. More about his interest in enticing staff members into the cold room.

Just when it looked as though I would return to poverty, a mate offered me a chance to work with him. You’ll love it, he promised. Except the smell.

My position at the seafood wholesale place involved some complex tasks. Like putting ice on the fish. Lots of ice. And putting ice on the oyster trays. Lots of ice.

I also discovered that prawns have spikes. There is a method to grab them, and avoid having your hand punctured. I am still unaware of what that method is.

This meant that I would wander around the shop floor, with blood dripping from ripped fingers. The Health Inspector would have had a field day.

It wasn’t all hard toil, however. I still found time to drop the odd prawn in the gumboots of my co-workers. They would fester for the day, leaving socks with a stench that Kenny would have been proud of.

Hosing was also an important part of the job. Nice clean concrete floors. On the odd occasion that I took charge of the nozzle, I would make sure my colleagues got a thorough soaking.

Not sure why, but I didn’t last long there either. And that was just fine. School was nearly done, and I was about to enter the world of radio, where they actually paid people to come up with such tomfoolery.

None of these tales impressed The Teenager. Although she did seem to appreciate the gumboot trick.

We’ll keep sponsoring her a little longer. At least until next year. Then she can chase that dream position.

One thing is certain. She’ll be way more comfortable that I was in those early workplace days. After all, she wouldn’t be seen dead in devon.

This entry was posted on Tuesday, December 20th, 2011 at 7:29 am and is filed under Uncategorized. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.