Definitely not child labour

We recently had an interesting conversation with our twelve year old grand-daughter about part-time work.  And I couldn't help thinking of how times have changed. Remembering the number of jobs I'd had by the time I had reached her age makes my childhood seem positively Dickensian. It was anything but that, just of its time.

 

When I was growing in South Wales in the 1950's and 60's, there wasn't much (any?) spare cash around for pocket money so having a Saturday or part-time job was a rite of passage for a lot of my friends and myself.  We'd do almost anything for a 'few coppers for sweets'. Nowadays it seems that pressure to succeed at school, amongst other things, means that fewer children are doing what I did. Recent evidence shows that the number of schoolchildren with a part-time job has been in steady decline over recent years. Whilst, to older generations and parents, it may be reassuring to think of children spending their Saturday afternoons poring over homework rather than working, part of me is sad at what they’re missing.

 

I’m sad at an education system that piles on the pressure and conspires to keep children indoors and at their desks. I’m sad, too, that they won’t have a chance to develop the skills that don’t get taught in schools, such as how to fake a smile (useful), operate a till (invaluable) or get on with someone difficult (a vital life skill). With the jobs I had, I learnt about the tedium of menial work and the ghastliness of some customers, but also the value of physical labour and the camaraderie of casual work. Away from the critical gaze of my family, I got a taste of independence, responsibility and a sense of self-worth that I hadn’t known before. And along the way, I picked up a plethora of skills that have stood me in good stead over the years. We hear a lot about the work-life balance, maybe where teens are concerned, there’s something to be said for the work-work balance. Exams are important, of course they are, but so is a bit of graft and getting your hands dirty. Only after they’ve known the torture of an eight-hour dishwashing shift will they truly know about life.

 

The very first Saturday job I can remember was delivering a few Football Argus's in the late afternoon around the streets of Bedwas. I was 8 or 9 at the time and did get a few 'coppers for sweets'. I'm not sure how long this lasted but, at this distance, I'd guess at the length of the football season. And that was the first of many and my adventures as a 'hand for hire' will feature in another post.