Grape picking
Terrible job on an island near Bordeaux, picking grapes for one of the best harvests in those times (if you get any watery 1986, it was probably my fault). Crap pay, accommodation in dorms in dirty huts, belongings occasionally "borrowed" by gieving thippos, but free food, and as much wine as you can drink.

One night, dinner: decent food, a couple of glasses of wine. Afterwards, the other pickers sit down to play the nightly game of blocking out the day's work ahead. One person stands up, downs glass of red in one, sits down, and its the turn of the person to the right. Off we go. Many rounds are done.

Comes to later on. There are two of us left standing, or rather slouched, red-stained lips, totally unable to drink any more. Come to a slurred arrangement that we have both won. I stagger outside into a very dark French night. Attempt to stumble the 200 metres to my hut. No good, can't see a damn thing (not sure if the darkness is entirely to blame for this). Decide to sit down and think things through.

Next thing, it's morning, six-ish. Brightest sun I have ever seen- open eyes slowly. Throbbing head. Try and figure out where the hell I am. No idea. Look up. Come face to face with a large rat sitting staring at me inquisitively.

Middle of a wheat field. Half a kilometer from the hut.

It was not a productive day's grape-picking...
(groover j lazerus, Sun 31 Dec 2006, 14:01, Reply)