Will Harris reminisces about an old Saturday job

The summer before I left for university, I got a job in a toy superstore on the outskirts of Coventry. It wasn’t my first choice. What I’d really wanted to do was moon around Waterstone’s all summer, binge-reading Virginia Woolf and flicking my fringe at customers, but my mum wanted me out the house and had sold a fitted kitchen to the toy store manager so ultimately I was fighting a losing battle.

Two evenings a week and all day Saturdays, I worked on a section called Teentronics, where my main job was to try and flog a £1,500 PC to every customer that walked past. During my entire tenure there, I sold one (this would have been more of an issue, had I not started bonking my supervisor in the disabled toilets pretty much immediately after my induction). My favourite job was jigsaw duty, which involved walking up and down the shop’s long wall of puzzles and making sure all the boxes were flush. This quickly turned me obsessive. I found myself stalking anyone who dared approach the wall when I was on it, doling out icy glares and loud sighs if they laid so much as a finger on my 500-piece Battle of Dresden. God knows what would’ve happened if anyone had ever tried to buy something.

Micro scooters were big that summer, Furbies too. It was a big store, and I took to traversing the shop floor on one of the display scooters, rattling down the long aisles with kids scattering like marbles in my wake. I got into trouble for that. I also got into trouble for bringing in my CD single of Destiny’s Child’s ‘Bootylicious’ and playing the music video on repeat through one of the PCs when I was supposed to be demonstrating something educational with a singing piglet.

““You’re skating on thin ice,” the store manager warned.”

I wanted to point out that technically I was scooting on thin ice, but I knew not to push my luck.

In the staff room, a vast and featureless oubliette, we would trade war stories from our time on the shop floor. Amanda always won. She’d once had to clean poo off a slide. The toddler had started going at the top, and hadn’t drawn to a conclusion until sliding to a halt at the bottom. “I used to be mad for Nutella on toast,” Amanda once told me. “Not any more.”

On my final shift, just before I left for the very last time, I got called into the store manager’s office. This is it, my 18-year-old self thought; the presentation, the surprise whip round, some final words of heartfelt gratitude for a job well done. “Turn out your pockets please,” the manager said.