I had the same job at the same place for nearly 40 years – a whole working life. I was lucky; I found a job which suited my ambitions, temperament, and values. But, like everyone else, I had short, holiday, and part-time jobs which taught me a great deal about the world of work. They helped me find my real vocation, passions and, more importantly, dislikes. They taught me about skiving, liberating stock, and what good supervision and management looks like.
I went to university too young; I was 16 when I arrived. When parents come to me now for advice about their children’s choice of course or university, I recommend what used to be called a “gap year” between school and university. I recommend the same between under- and post-graduate degree. The University of Life has a lot to teach one. Work, of all sorts, helps one reflect on, and understand, one’s personal preferences and strengths. It was expected by my parents (and, indeed, the society in which I grew up) that one spent the long summer university holiday (December to early February in South Africa) at work, saving some money for the year ahead.
At the end of my first year, I got a job in a local publisher warehouse at the other end of town. It was situated among light industry, including Nestlé chocolates and Gilbey’s gin. I cycled there in about 20 minutes. I do not recall how I got the job or what the pay was like, but I had some surprises. The first was that my boss was black – unheard of, and probably illegal in apartheid South Africa. The company (Shuter and Shooter) were very liberal publishers, printers, and booksellers with a big market in school books. The owners were educated, kindly, but shrewd progressives who had the opportunity in a small way to practise what they preached. My Zulu-speaking boss was called Gideon and was a confident and educated middle-aged man. He was firm but fair, slightly distant but very eager to show who was boss. I was impressed. He commanded respect and got it.
The second lesson was about rate-busting and productivity. One of my first tasks was to write the price of a huge pile of books in pencil on the inside page. That dates me; the year was 1971. It had to be clear and neat. I did as I was instructed and reported back to the boss in two hours. This caused consternation in the whole team. The job I had been given was for “the whole day”, perhaps a day and a half. I was clearly naïve and shocked but learned the lesson. I was a rate-buster. I slowed down, nattered to co-workers, began to understand how to be a “good worker”.
The third was about “skiving off”. One day, three of us were asked to deliver some books in the country. It involved driving the old delivery van to some rural outposts, a round trip of around 80 miles. We set off at 08:00 and had finished all our tasks at 12:15. We could not go for much of a “jolly” because the mileometer was checked. But we were not far from a lovely country town in the foothills of the great Drakensburg mountains. One of the group knew a hotel with a jolly outdoor pub. So we spent three hours drinking beer and later put in a claim for lunch. Drink-drive restrictions were unheard of. What a wheeze.
My mother wanted me to become a doctor. I expressed no interest. But, because she was the matron in the local hospital (Greys, Pietermaritzburg), I had a job for three summers as a male nursing assistant. The job was male orderly, expected to do a range of menial, physical jobs. On my first day, I had to “shave a male” (it was called a “nipple-to-knees”) and I carried an amputated leg to the mortuary. The job was very varied. I had to hold down patients having ECT. I enjoyed putting on, and cutting off, plaster on arms and legs.
But being located in A&E, it was a bit like being a pilot – long periods of boredom interspersed with emergencies. I had to deal with drunks, aggressive patients, and visitors who would not follow the rules. I witnessed great compassion and what looked like great callousness by the nursing staff. I learned how to protect myself from the events I witnessed: a patient “dying on the table”; a woman giving birth to a “child asleep”; and patients in wards who never had visitors. I made contact with people from very different backgrounds compared to my own. I saw what my father called “how the other half live”.
I certainly saw how hierarchies worked, from the surgeons to cleaners. Our tea room was for orderlies, painters, and other “skilled craftsmen”, who were in protected jobs in a whites-only hospital. We liberated “left-over” sandwiches from the doctors’ tearoom and swam in the hospital swimming pool reserved for nurses. After two months, I longed to get back to university, to spend time in the library and, yes, even to write essays. I found the hospital work both boring and emotionally taxing. It certainly confirmed to me that I was not cut out to be a doctor.
I had a friend in my honours year who became a school teacher and school counsellor straight after graduation. He was older than us (early 30s), English by birth and upbringing, and rather eccentric. In retrospect, I would diagnose him as a vulnerable narcissist, with a few schizotypal tendencies. He lived in a shabby caravan and (as I discovered from the website of his wife) went on to a variety of jobs (HR, teaching) but ended up as a “pastor” in a local church and having six children. He suddenly left his job, telling me about it a few days before resigning. It was my old school and I knew people there. It was a relief for them that I could easily slip into the role – a win-win.
I had two roles: I was a school counsellor and taught English. I was not very good at either. I learned probably more from the boys than the teachers. Most of the teachers were totally committed, many being obsessed with sport. Apart from a short time at university, they returned to the “total institution” nature of the school. They liked the structure, the rules, and the predictability of everything. I did not.
I got to know a few of the “problem boys” quite well because of my job. I diagnosed and helped a few dyslexics, at which point I found I was marginally dyslexic myself. I wanted to test the boys on a range of psychological tests, but the headmaster resisted this I coached cricket and tennis, without much enthusiasm or skill. And I certainly was not an inspirational English teacher. I had done one year at university and never enjoyed it, except for poetry.
Interestingly, all the senior staff (head and two deputy heads) were maths teachers, but the heroes were those who coached the first fifteen rugby team. I saw how the game worked: become head of a discipline, leave for a rural school as deputy head, and return to a bigger, better cosmopolitan school in one’s late fifties. Perhaps pick up an education degree as you went. It wasn’t for me.
Some of the children were delinquently obstreperous. I hated marking essays and I wasn’t sporty enough to fit in. I was not a happy student in Glasgow. I did not enjoy the course, which did not challenge me, and, as I was about to go to Oxford the next academic year, I guessed I would certainly need quite a lot of money to enjoy myself in the city of dreaming spires (or spiralling dreams, as we got to call it).
I worked out that I could easily do evening shifts and set out to get a National Insurance number, a basic requirement for work in the UK. My hall of residence was in the centre of town and I saw an advertisement for a “security officer” at the local railway station dining area (Glasgow Central), a five-minute walk away. My hours were 18:00 to 23:30, which suited me just fine. I could go to lectures, and then walk to and from work.
The place had two bars, each staffed by two people, and a “restaurant”, which had three people (all late-middle-aged women) in the kitchen and two serving at a counter. One lesson involved understanding the power of friendship at work. What I learned from the kitchen ladies was that, after a recent political change in tax, insurance, and social security, each would have been financially better off quite legitimately staying at home and claiming benefits than coming to work, often at anti-social hours. But work gave them a structure to their lives, and a friendship network. Interestingly, I witnessed the same thing as a student at Oxford. The psychology department was very large and designed as a hotel. There was a cleaning staff of around eight people and I befriended two, who were responsible for my section: Betty and Fred. Fred had been in the Great War and had been a head gardener somewhere nearby. A lovely man – warm, kind, and deeply respectful. A new manager had looked at the staff and noticed that most were in their 70s and some in their 80s. He “suggested” they retire. I had never seen a grown man, an old soldier, weep. He pleaded to stay but was refused and died less than a year later.
Work is good for you. I had understood the social function of work. Understood why people worked even though worse off. Perhaps unexpectedly, the bouncer job required that I join the National Union of Railwaymen. Soon after I joined, there was a strike concerning “flexible rostering”. I had tended to be antagonistic to a number of rail strikes, being a “helpless victim”. However, when I learned what this was about, I joined my fellows and the station was practically closed. The issue was that staff had to be flexible with regard to their work timetable. This meant you could never plan ahead, as you had no idea which days you were working in the next month. Good for the managers, sure, but not the staff. The strike worked.
Thirdly, I learned something about “ladies of the night”. The station was a “pickup joint”. The ladies were divided into three categories, according to their charges. The cheapest could be literally physically removed, the most expensive charmed away. The really difficult ones were those in the middle group, particularly if drunk. They would shout at me from being a ‘horrid Sassenach’ or a customer who did not pay for their services. I had to learn how to be firm and persuasive.
I also learned how tedious and menial certain jobs were. I learned that dealing with members of the public was no fun. I learned again that everyone was “on the make” in a small way, exploiting what opportunities came their way. I was a foreign student. All my friends were on student grants which were, I thought, incredibly generous. But I had no source of income and no capital, except for what I saved. So when some “part-time / occasional” lecturing jobs came up I jumped at them. I gave lectures to firemen, nurses, occupational therapists, policemen, and supervisors. I learned first how different this was from academic teaching; they did not want theory, evidence, critique, but some pretty straightforward ideas and skills.
I learned the power of anecdotes, stories, and case studies, which was harder for an inexperienced 25-year-old. I learned that, for some, training was a punishment, while for others it was a reward. Some were sent on a course (because they had low EQ or motivation) to miraculously acquire some skill in three hours. Others were let off the tedium of the job to be amused by an aspiring academic. I learned that you need a rich mix of lecturing, discussion, exercises, videos. I got better and became a sort of part-time lecturer at what was then Rewley House, in Oxford.
Many of the people on the course were “general workers” (yes, that was their title). But I remember one event best. I got better and was trusted to do a day-long course. It was in Banbury and the pay was excellent. I hired the departmental van and got there early. My class were night-time supervisors at the local biscuit factory, and the course ran at a central hotel. I soon learned that the day was seen as a “jolly”. There were about 12 people and my topic was supervisor skills. Tea was brought on a trolley, as was lunch. To my surprise, two trolleys were brought in at 12:30 – one food, the other booze – beer, wine, spirits. I had negotiated with the group that we had a shorter lunch and finished earlier. Everyone tucked in and most took a bottle of beer.
After lunch I showed a video, one of those wonderful Video Arts John Cleese films. After a few moments, one delegate went up to the trolley, poured himself a generous whisky, and joined the group. Clearly, he was used to “watching the box with a bevvy”. A few joined him and I did not know what to do, so ignored the issue. The course finished around 16:30 and I left immediately, as it was a difficult drive. I later discovered that after I left they had all stayed and drunk the trolley dry, so wiping out all profits for the university. Naturally they rated the course as excellent.
I learned the idea of “edutainment” and that people want stories. I know the plural of anecdote is not evidence, but I have seen how a number of well-paid gurus perform with bravado and bluff. It was a useful skill.
I got my career position (1981) at a time when there was a serious financial situation, particularly so at universities. A number of my very talented colleagues could not get jobs. A few resigned from their academic jobs soon after they took them up, disillusioned with the academic life. They started business consultancies and they needed “contract staff” or “associates” in busy periods or for big projects. It was ideal for me and for them. They liked the fact that I was an academic with a PhD and the daily rate was about what I got a month as an academic. I had this type of relationship with different groups for many years.
It often involved exotic travel, as one group specialised in airlines. I travelled to Hong Kong over 100 times (nearly always in a first-class seat) and New Zealand half a dozen times. I was an associate of three different consultancies, all doing well, so I was kept quite busy. There were essentially three types of assignments: on-stage, inspirational lectures; day- to week-long training courses; and individual assessment and coaching exercises.
I certainly learned that the academic training I had was of little use. Consultancies used tests and procedures that had been shown to be unreliable and invalid. They seemed quite uninterested in evidence, particularly if it went against the zeitgeist, or clients did not like it. This made it difficult for me. I was teaching students the importance of test validity, but learned that if the client wanted a particular well-known yet discredited test, they got it. I learned that giving an upbeat keynote business conference speech was rather different from a lecture. The lecture was slide- and reference-heavy, full of doubt and critique. A good keynote must be inspirational, which means making statements and promises that are upbeat, simplistic, and perhaps evidence-free.
I learned that many businesses want magic dust. They want a “culture change” in a few months with no pain. They want on-the-spectrum technical managers to acquire emotional intelligence after a couple of hours of coaching. They want the organisation to have a “resilience sheepdip” to reduce job stress, and absenteeism will dramatically decrease. I learned that the client / customer is king, as they paid your salary. I learned also that they differed dramatically in terms of insight, sophistication, and expectations.
It is not easy to find that sweet spot between what you are good at, and what organisations suit you best. The more early experience you get, the better. As Bill Gates says, “Life is not fair – get used to it.” So, while at school and university, do holiday jobs. Think of it as vocational guidance. Of round and square pegs and holes. Postpone university, so that you can gain some real-world experience before studying. If you can find an activity that
