My first ever job was actually as a waitress. It lasted four hours before I ran out of there screaming and never went back.

So, my first real job was as a “kitchen assistant” in an old people’s home. I put the quotes in there, because where it says kitchen assistant, you should read: girl who washes up.

It was a part time thing, and I only got the job because my best friend at the time couldn’t do it anymore. Her hands were a little bit worse for the wear from all of the washing up and she wanted to do other things.

So, I stepped up. I actually got paid a really decent wage for my age and for what I was doing, but perhaps what I was doing is why they paid me so much. Washing up thirty after-dinner plates is not fun.

Neither is washing up the enormous saucepans used to make the food in the first place.

What I didn’t mind quite so much was when I was allowed to help with the preparation of food. I made the sandwiches for lunchtimes. It was usually something disgusting like corned beef and mayonnaise all mixed up, but it was a lot of responsibility for little old me.

The most exciting times was when I got to stir one of the saucepans. Good lord, I beamed with happiness when those times occurred.

Okay, I exaggerate, the job wasn’t exactly the best, but I think it was a really good place to start, and if I hadn’t gone on and got a full time job, I probably would have stayed there a lot longer than the eight months or so that it turned out to be.