That summer job from hell

THE summer of 1981 has conflicting memories for me.

On one hand, there was the pleasant liberation won by earning money for the first time. I was 14, with a bum-fluff moustache, and had a summer job washing dishes in a local hotel. On the other hand, I also recall my mother trying to hose me down in the back garden with the words, “Wait there while I get a hose. You’re not coming in the house like that.” The best therapists in the country haven’t managed to dislodge that memory.

Washing dishes in a busy hotel was the most disgusting job I’ve ever done. I used to come home covered in grease and congealed food. After a while I stopped noticing the smell, unlike my mother, who made me undress in the back garden with a hose aimed at my head. I suppose it could have been worse. It might have been the front garden.