Mrs P and I took our daughters, Shiana and Mischa, to Liverpool recently and we all loved it. We went on the Magical Mystery Tour (highly recommended) and ended up in the Cavern Club.
I went to the toilet. There was a bloke working in there, one of those fellas who squeezes a drop of soap into your palm then gives you a paper towel when you’ve washed your hands.
He’s singing:
“It’s been a hard day’s night…”
“Has it?” I ask.
“Yes,” he says, with a tired resignation and sounding like his night was more embryonic than young.
“What time did you start?” I ask.
“2pm.”
“What time d’you finish?”
“3am,” he says, looking and soundly thoroughly depressed at the thought of it.
“Every day?”
“Eight days a week!”
“Ah, very good,” I tell him. “Well played, my friend. I set you up, you get the laugh! Nice work.”
His job reminded me of some that I’ve had that were less than satisfying, among them: clearing up rat poo for no money, shifting boxes and pallets and all kinds of products – from bottled water to long industrial rods of steel – in sweltering or freezing-cold warehouses for not much money, and clearing up rubbish on weekend afternoons for a tenner at a couple of outdoor markets.
Deeply unpleasant work that probably helped to build my determination to do something that I could be proud of, and where I was in control.
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