Bought from Pulse, in Guildford, in 1986. A breathtakingly unflattering garment that should be locked in the 80s and buried in a deep hole. But it’s far too special for that: this is the first piece of clothing bought with money I earned myself.
The first day home from school, and my mother hustled me down to Sainsbury’s: “...they’re hiring for holiday jobs until Christmas.” The sensation was similar to being driven to hospital to have my tonsils removed: I don’t understand; what the hell is going on here? Clearly my parents had decided that this thing called "work" would be good for me.
Sat in a windowless corridor outside an interview room, I was panicked about the prospect of a medical examination; would they want to look up my bum? What was I thinking?
The first day home from school, and my mother hustled me down to Sainsbury’s: “...they’re hiring for holiday jobs until Christmas.” The sensation was similar to being driven to hospital to have my tonsils removed: I don’t understand; what the hell is going on here? Clearly my parents had decided that this thing called "work" would be good for me.
Sat in a windowless corridor outside an interview room, I was panicked about the prospect of a medical examination; would they want to look up my bum? What was I thinking?
Of course, there was no medical; and there wasn’t exactly a queue of people eager to be paid £1.31 an hour to walk round a car-park in sub-zero rain all day. So I got my first job; O Lucky Man. Christmas Eve, the misery finished, I cycled home with my father’s Christmas present strapped to my back: a cut-price case of 24 pork pies. Now that’s love.
At my grandmother’s annual Boxing Day lunch, I proudly told her of my ten days’ labour collecting trolleys at Britain’s then-leading supermarket.
At my grandmother’s annual Boxing Day lunch, I proudly told her of my ten days’ labour collecting trolleys at Britain’s then-leading supermarket.
“Isn’t that the job they give the mental defectives, dear?” she replied.
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