Glasshouse

At the end of sixth form I decided I needed a holiday job, so I headed to the countryside and went door knocking in a tomato hothouse area. I literally knocked on the front door of a house and must have caught the owner at lunchtime because I was able to deliver my spiel to a Scottish man named Roy, whose wife was called Robin - hence their car numberplate "ROBROY". They owned about three white Scottish terriers which would turn green from running through the tomato plants. I know this because I got the job. The job was my introduction to hard physical labour, and also involved a half-hour bike ride to and from work (I was saving for a car). Sometimes at lunch I would even cycle to the bakery for a quick sit-down to scoff my pie and donut before scurrying back to the vines. First thing in the morning was tomato picking time and the acrid smell was not for the weak-stomached - my brother worked a stint in the hothouse and one morning the smell was enough to make him throw up, to which Uncle Rob responded, "it's all in your head laddie." Obviously people who live in glass houses don't throw up. From the tomato hothouse we moved over to the beans hothouse for a game of try-to-spot-the-green-string-beans-hiding-in-amongst-the-lush-green-foliage-then-fill-up-your-pouch-til-it-needs-emptying-then-do-it-all-over-again-for-the-next-two-months til 12 o'clock lunch, which meant we'd broken the back of the day, much like our actual backs. After lunch it was outside for a bit of sawdust sifting with our friend the Norse horticultural student - we'll call him Steve. One person's job was to wear the gloves and spread around the cheap grade sawdust on top of the chicken mesh table to separate out the woodchips, while the other person shoveled the sawdust on to the table from a pile the size of Vesuvius. You knew it was time to switch roles when the person shoveling got sunstroke. Cycling as quickly as possible away from work was my only source of energy for the sweaty ride home. A year and a bit after starting the job I'd saved enough money for a car, which meant I had to decide whether to buy a Triumph Herald, Fiat 850 or Renault 12. I went with the orange Renault 12 for $700.