My workmates were flabbergasted at how long it took me to blast mouldy cheese products off wooden pallets,and how much steel I could waste because I was afraid of the circular saw.
Some hopeful horse breeder had used a refrigerated canister to import the makings of a thoroughly good thoroughbred,but the canister had broken.
My stock uniform was Hot Tuna pants,Golden Breed T-shirt,a windcheater made from old chenille bedspreads or a multi-colour Jakpak from Bali.
At the age of 13 I was turnstile operator at the local dog track. The job introduced me to nepotism,betting and an eclectic cast of characters.
The diners at table three lodged an official complaint after I spent too long socialising with table four,and not enough time focusing on my work duties.
Working in a chicken shop doesn’t sound glamorous – and it wasn’t – but it was the music I had to listen to as I cleaned that really tipped me over the edge.
While some teenagers wrote profane things on desks,construction workers immortalised crude phrases on the frames of houses before covering them in plaster.
Without shopping centres or fast food chains to rely on for summer work,I headed to the farm on a school bus that left just after 6am.
As a teenager,my interests were simple:I needed cash to buy CDs and to spend time with my friends. Enter:working at McDonald’s and earning minimum wage.
While all of my friends worked at the supermarket or in fast food,the cinema gave me a competitive edge and someone people wanted in their Myspace Top 8.
I hated my job at Pigott&Co in Toowoomba. But I earned enough to get me into an unforgettable AC/DC gig at Harristown High.