WORST JOB EVER

 RHYS BOWEN: I was at a college reunion a while ago when a woman I hadn’t seen since college asked me, a haughty look on her face, “So have you ever had a proper job?”

I had told her I’d been a writer all my life.  I replied that no, but my improper job had paid off a house, put four children through college and enabled me to live a very nice lifestyle.

 After that I thought about this. I’d actually gone to work for the BBC right after college, which was a highly proper job. I’d been an announcer for the World Service before I settled in drama where I started writing plays as well as working on the production team. So it was true to say I’d been a professional writer my whole adult life. After that I had done bits of teaching—drama, dance and then ten years teaching English with a writing emphasis at Dominican University, which had been a joy. But never a full time, nine to five sort of job.

 So I’ve been blessed to have time and energy to spend for my craft. Other people have to find time, snatch odd minutes to write. My daughter Clare, now writing Molly Murphy with me, gets up at 5 am to write. I’d also been lucky that I’d never had the sort of job I hated, that bored me. The sort where one looks at the clock to see when it might be lunch time.

 But the more I thought about it, I realized I had had some pretty awful jobs during my early life. I’d worked for the post office at Christmas as a teen. This involved being given an incredibly heavy bag stuffed full of letters and packages. Walking up and down several streets delivering them and then being met by a truck with another full bag halfway through. So if I wasn’t quick enough with the first half I was landed with two bags.

 My other job during high school was working at a nursery—not babies but plants. It was quite backbreaking work: one of my jobs was to scrape the moss growing on the top of pots of heather. I had to work my way down an incredibly long greenhouse picking up one pot, running my fingers over it to scrape off the moss, put it back, pick up next one. Thousands and thousands of pots. Unheated greenhouse. Freezing cold fingers rubbed raw.

 There was a strange old woman who worked with us. She was a spiritualist. She used to say “They are all around us” in a scary voice. Then she went home at four, while I was left to work alone in an unlit greenhouse until five thirty. In winter it got dark at four. I would glance at the distance doorway ready to make a dash for it if any spirits appeared.

 The only thing good about that job was that it sparked my future career:

 I worked with my school friend Mary and together we created a murder mystery involving all the weird and wonderful people who worked there. We created a victim (Gladys, the spiritualist) , a murderer and a motive. Every day we added more to our plot. The murderer was the owner’s rather arrogant son. Gladys had overheard him doing something he shouldn’t, maybe growing some illegal cannabis plants,  and had to go.  It was great fun and I think we made up quite a good story.

 So that wasn’t my worst job. My very worst was between college and the BBC. I finished college in June and my training at Broadcasting House didn’t start until October. So I had to earn some money for the flat I was renting with friends. I got a job with IBM. That sounds pretty slick, doesn’t it? Except it was as the tea lady.  I had to come in early and make enormous urns of tea and coffee. Then I had to push them around all the floors, dispensing beverages to the staff. There was only one problem. That tea trolley was incredibly heavy. I had a hard time controlling it. I would go flying down a hallway and crash through double doors at the end. Not a pretty sight.  I also found out how people at the bottom of the heap are treated.

                “Two cups of coffee, girl. No sugar. Make it snappy. We’re busy.”  Some people talked to me like that. Snapped their fingers. Were rude if I slopped any into a saucer. Of course, being me I got even. “Would you like one lump or two?” I would ask in my most plummy upper class accent, rivaling the queen’s. Then they realized that I was higher up the social scale than they were and they didn’t know what to do. Most satisfying.

                But I didn’t last long in that job. There were supposed to be two of us. The other girl quit after two days. The work was too much for one person. It involved serving in the restaurant during lunch then rushing back to make the afternoon tea. No break for eight hours. I asked when they’d get a replacement. Nothing happened. I gave it a good shot and then I quit.

 But it was a good learning experience for one who’d had a privileged life. It showed me what some people have to go through, and how to treat everyone with respect. It made me realize that some people have to face boring, backbreaking work every day. I’ve been the lucky one.

 So what was your very worst job?