Before I left school
I changed jobs more often than a chav changes his white sports socks.

They were all part time or weekend jobs, but I had as much sticking power as Rod Hull on a roof.

A few examples:

Sunday morning paper round - 3 weeks (kept sleeping in)
Charity "magazine" distribution - 2 weeks, didn't do the third week (it was raining)
Stable hand - four weeks (only paid half of what they promised)

Then, when I passed the magic 16th birthday, I could get a "proper" job at last. The small local supermarket had a permanent notice in the window "Weekend Staff wanted". I applied and was given a job on the spot. £2 per hour, 6 hours each Saturday and Sunday. £24 quid a week - yeehah, I thought I'd hit the big time.

No. I. Hadn't.

I'd just landed a job working for the dirtiest of all the dirty old men. The manager asked me, after supplying my uniform of a horrible nylon waistcoat to be worn over my own clothes, to check the sell by dates on the frozen food. Which meant leaning way over, into the freezer.

Yes, dear reader, he'd positioned me perfectly for a damn good grope at my bum. Which he proceeded to help himself to.

Now even at 16 I wasn't exactly a shrinking violet (no, really) and I sure as hell wasn't putting up with that. I straightened up, turned around, and looked him in the eye. Called him a "dirty old bastard" and went into the back shop. I took off the waistcoat, dropped it on the floor, put on my coat and went home.

Time spent in shop? About 20 minutes, total.

When I told Mum and Dad what had happened, the debate on what to do raged for a good while. Mum wanted to call the police, Dad wanted to go down and beat seven shades of shit out of him, then burn the shop, then call the police.

In the end, my brother suggested calling the supermarket's Head Office and threatening to call the police. Dad pounced on that idea, phoned them threatening a sexual assault charge, and got a full month's pay out of them for me (not bad for 20 minutes). He also made damn sure they were going to sack the manager, and sure enough he disappeared shortly after. They could have just moved him to another branch, I suppose, but at least the teenage girls round our way were safe.

I never applied for another job there, preferring to continue my varied, if short lived, employment elsewhere.

Actually not quite on topic as I never uttered the words "I quit" and I didn't flounce out - I stormed out in a rage. Close enough, though.
(TheWeeWitch hasn't been here much recently .., Thu 22 May 2008, 14:40, 5 replies)

Never?
"I changed jobs more often than a chav changes his white sports socks."
(drunkenfud, Thu 22 May 2008, 16:00, closed)

Dam^
you got that joke in before me..

typically a chav does not wash, instead has a student wash of spraying the smell away with an all body spray of cheap deodorant
(Dan dan dan They tik urh jerbs!!!, Thu 22 May 2008, 17:17, closed)

they must change their socks
when they start falling apart, surely?
(TheWeeWitch hasn't been here much recently .., Thu 22 May 2008, 17:22, closed)

I sort of drifted off
when you said stable hand.

*goes to a happy place*
(Bazongaloid, Thu 22 May 2008, 20:33, closed)

al
you are a strange one ...

I spent my time as a stable hand either shovelling food into the buggers, or shovelling the result of the food out of their stables. In case you didn't know, horse shit smells a bit. (A BIT?)

I didn't have the tight jodphurs either - or the riding boots. Just jeans and wellies.

Although, if it helps, the jeans were very tight ... and to make you feel like a perv, I was 15!
(TheWeeWitch hasn't been here much recently .., Thu 22 May 2008, 20:51, closed)