On teenage employment

I was remembering this week all the jobs I had as a teenager. I don't actually know why I got thinking about it...it may have been the rain...my umbrella that jogged a memory of one job at a chintzy handbag (purse) shop where I worked for about 4 weeks. Just long enough to get my store discount and buy my mum a really pretty umbrella for her birthday. Then I quit. That was the story of my life. Work for a few weeks, then quit. (I actually had very noble intentions. I desperately wanted to work, in fact I had a great work ethic. I just kept having panic attacks. So I would quit.)
Anyway, my first job was at this dodgy indoor market, that I think only exist in Essex. That was over Christmas when I was 15 (actually I was working illegally since 16 was minimum employable age. Cash in hand and some sweet flared jeans with suspenders attached and no one was any the wiser.) This job taught me how to add up (in my head - no cash register- easier to run a dodgy market stall) a number of items that ended in 99 pence. Since I am convinced that have mathematical dyslexia (dyslexia can run in familys and can often switch male/female and language/maths with each generation) these calculations were no small feat.
When I was legally able to work, my first proper job was at "Words" a small card and gift shop. The woman who owned the shop, on my first day was wearing odd coloured shoes. She also sent me home one day for wearing long shorts. (Aparently the shorts weren't professional looking. For what I made, I don't think I had to look professional!) The job basically consisted of a lot of dusting, polishing brass door plates, and organizing greeting cards. But, alas, after a few months, the panic attacks got the better of me and I left. Then there was the pharmacy that during the interview the manager took my hands and looked at my nails (??!!) and declared that I had major vitamin deficiencies. And that I needed a tonic. English people love to tell you that if you are looking a little peaky you need a tonic. (Think Mary Poppins and the medicine she feeds to the kids with a spoonful of sugar. No one actually finds out why they need the medicine. It was probably a tonic for every nondescript ailment a child, or adult can be suffering from.) The pharmacy guy freaked me out and I turned the job down. I waitressed at Pizza Hut which was a horrible experience. You had to clean tables before you could even serve food. Then, once you had taken a 6 week training course you could become a server. Except...the idea of sitting in a meeting for 6 weeks (once a week of course) absolutely terrified me. (the dreaded panic attacks.) Oh, and the manager had this weird flirty, suggestive thing going on with all the female wait staff. (It was quite suggestive.) And that scared the shit out of me too. English employers/management at the time just didn't think there was anything wrong with hitting on your staff. So, after a couple of weeks I quit Pizza Hut too. But even now, I can never go in one and hit the salad bar without remembering how to re-stock that salad bar.
After Pizza Hut, came the handbag shop. And after that I worked for Wimpy (a smaller hamburger chain, kind of like Burger King, but you sat down and were waited on). I just hated the smell of fried food that followed you home at the end of the day. So I only worked there for 6 weeks. I guess as I got older and I kicked the panic attacks and I was able to hold down a part-time job like a normal teenager.
But my best job story ever was while I was waiting for my visa to move here. The mushroom farm. Oh dear God, possibly the worst job that I have ever had in my life. First, here is some mushroom trivia. Mushrooms grow overnight in big wooden beds that literally look like bunk beds. So, you pick them very early in the morning. You have to climb up these beds (workers insurance?!) and reach over compost/manure type soil to pick white or portabella mushrooms. You have a small paring night and you just fill up as many of those little blue mushroom cartons as you can in one morning. Now, here was what bothered me ('cause the previous stuff was all hunky dory), you had to dip all your equipment at the end of your shift (basket for holding cartons, and knives) in a huge vat of chemicals. (Red flag #1) Chemicals that killed the mushroom mites. (WTF? Red flag #2) Mushroom mites are tiny, little creepy crawlies that are hard to see, but live in the mushroom beds. When I finished, I would ride my bike home and shower. I would lay down to nap and just feel those barely visible mites crawling all over me. So, I ended up leaving that job also. However, what was really sad was that the women I worked with had barely any education. They all had to make money somehow, and mushroom pickers were in high demand. When I asked someone exactly what the chemicals in that big old vat were, they shook their head and told me they didn't know. But they were sure the chemicals were safe. Why else would the management let them use the dip?