A recent post from Brenda Shaw reminded me of the experiences I had with workmates in the days when I worked for employees, and not for myself.

I had always wanted to train to be a vet but my mother’s decision to emigrate to the USA,  meant I had to leave school at 15 and earn some money.  On my last day of school I was told to have a job, before I went home and this I did.

School leaving in Lancashire had no ceremony only an assembly of the whole school, singing a hymn, hearing a blessing for our future and then it was out the door and get on with your life.

Living in a small town, everyone knew where jobs were available so I found employment at the first place I applied.  It was at a factory where we made cellophane, complete with a tear tape, for easy opening of cigarette packs, vending machine sandwiches and other pre-wrapped items.

I was expected to learn every job in the factory so I could fill in at any position.  In those days there was no such thing as inappropriate sexual behaviouri n the workplace.  So a guy looking for a quick grope, in a dark corridor was thought of as “as bit of a lad” and nobody ever thought of complaining , or you would be thought of as a trouble maker, so getting from one part of the plant to another was something of an adventure.

These were the days of women wearing dresses and before the advent of panty hose, so groping could get out of hand in a hurry.  Quite a wake up for a fifteen year old who had led a rather sheltered life up to this point..  The guys with the roving hands would strut through the factory making obscene gestures which the older women thought were funny, the blushes of young girls were a cause of derision so you soon learned to go along with the sniggering, even though it felt wrong.

Later in life I trained to work in commercial cooking, starting with several years in a private hospital for mentally challenged adults.  The head cook was really into practical jokes and lots of them were directed at me.  I once drove all around town doing various errands until a policeman pulled me over and asked me about the ladies underpants hanging on my licence plate.  They had been liberally spread with peanut butter around the crotch and displayed beautifully by hanging from my rear plate.  I guess I had just not approached the car from the rear, so had not seen the display.

Another time I went into the bank to deposit my cheque and, as I pulled out my wallet, I showered the counter and floor with sugar.   She had poured a generous amount of sugar into my purse.  It took me ages to get rid of the sticky stuff from my purse and the bank workers were none too thrilled.  We had a staff washroom which the residents would sneak into from time to time.  One day there was a huge, wet, brown sock hanging in the bowl and over the toilet seat.  Needless to say, at first sight it did not look like a sock and, the first staff member to discover the horror shrieked at the sight.  Eileen’s fit of giggles soon gave away the culprit.

My next job was at a large facility for assisted living where I cooked breakfast and lunch for 85 seniors.  They were a lovely bunch and I really enjoyed them.  They were so appreciative of the prepared meals and always had something nice to say to me.  The meals were served cafeteria style so the residents pushed their tray along a rail, while I dished up whatever they liked, if they didn’t walk well, it was carried to their table by one of my helpers.

One elderly gentleman took a real shine to me and every morning he held out a closed hand, for me to take whatever was inside it.  It was quite often a candy but now and again he would surprise me with a caterpillar or a fake eyeball.  He had a walker so one of us had to carry his meal to the dining table.  One lunchtime, I got my own back for all his jokes, I placed his covered plate in front of him and when he raised the cover he found two raw chicken feet and plastic dog poop.  After that he either gave me a candy or a flower.

The head cook was a bit of a tartar and she made the rules, one being that no-one was allowed into the dining room before a particular time.  While they waited to be

allowed in, the residents sat in the hallway and I could hear most of their conversations.  The main subject of choice, every single morning was bowels, or the movement of same.  We in the kitchen, all being young and healthy, thought this was hilarious and made much fun of the subject.

Years later, when we owned the motel, two of our winter tenants were very reluctant to leave their room while I cleaned, however, I insisted I get an hour in the room.  They used the time to go grocery shopping.  They had a wall calendar that had something entered in every day, strange for people who never went out.  One day curiosity got the better of me and I brought my glasses, the entries read…bowel movement, bowel movement, good bowel movement and so on, every day of the month.

To this day Dave yells at me to “mark the calendar”, after a trip to the bathroom, luckily bowel movements are not a problem for either of us but I shudder to think of the day when it is an event worth celebrating.