Take this job - and love it

Pep Montserrat for The National

I was 16 years old when my father sat me down. In a firm voice, he told me that as long as I studied, he would continue to support my needs. Should I decide against attending university, however, I would be expected to earn my own keep. My father is a first generation Pakistani immigrant to the United Kingdom; education, above monetary reward, has always been the purest aim of Britain's South Asian settlers. It was a valuable lesson in self-sufficiency: and in the following two decades I have thrown myself into the tumble dryer of the modern workplace.

My first brush with employment filled me with resignation almost immediately: I was asked by my father to wash his car, once a week. This task would net me 50 pence each time. Initially, I relished the task. Possession of his car keys dictated I could listen to music as I scrubbed. Yet as he handed me Dh15 after my first four weeks, waves of despair overcame me. I hastened to supplement my income with other work. I replied to an advertisement in a local newspaper and soon after began a paper round. Once a week I would load a satchel with 144 newspapers published by the local council. Neither rain, sleet nor snow was to prove detrimental to the mission - all 144 papers were delivered in one afternoon for a total wage of Dh6. My route brought me into contact with younger readers who were indifferent to The Glaswegian as well as those elderly souls who relied on it as their only window to the outside world.

I was 17 years of age, and facing three listless months of clear blue skies before my first year at university when I crossed to the garage opposite our family home, looking for work. The manager of the Esso station informed me his branch sought to employ a young forecourt attendant to offer customers a free oil check. The promotion carried a clever ruse: a free reading might stimulate sales of engine oil. I was hired at the rate of Dh15 an hour for five hours each day, six days a week. Oil sales rose by nearly 20 per cent and, after three months, I had saved enough money to pay for my first two terms at university and several driving lessons. My three months on the forecourt saw me progress to stock taking and, eventually, a stint manning the cash register. Each night, I would return home, pay in hand, my pockets bulging with tips.

And so it followed that each summer posed the same dilemma: dare I succumb to the monotony of inactivity, or the challenges of gainful employment? For two periods over as many years, I found work taking inventory at a large record store in Glasgow. For seven hours each day, I was rewarded in cash for helping count and catalogue compact discs, cassettes and records. My interest in music was already infinite - and my fellow employees acted like tutors, adding to my education: Bob Dylan, The Doors, Jimi Hendrix and The Beach Boys were just a few of my discoveries during those months. In addition, the job allowed me to carefully note all the releases, mislaid or wrongly filed, I yearned to own. At the end of each week, the manager would grant me purchase of my wish-list at a discounted rate.

In my first year at university, I answered a newspaper advertisement seeking household goods salesmen. The job paid about Dh20 an hour, excluding a 20 per cent commission on all items sold. My catchment area included one of Glasgow's most privileged neighbourhoods. Once a week, borrowing my father's Toyota, I would drive to Whitecraigs, drop off around 100 catalogues - featuring everything from kitchen knives to bread bins and bathroom cleaners - and return a few days later to collect dozens of filled-in order forms. A minimal effort on my part would bring in a weekly wage averaging Dh600. In the evenings, I mowed lawns and trimmed hedges. On weekends, I worked at a DIY store, selling paint and wallpaper.

In my second year at university, I took the advice of a colleague and was given the job of delivery boy at a local pizzeria. The hours were arduous, 4pm to 2am. The uniform was of questionable taste - outsized red overalls with the store's name, Armando's Pizzeria, stencilled across the back. Our mode of transport was dangerously unreliable: a fleet of rusting and often temperamental mopeds. My bike had one headlight, no horn and was incapable of breaking a sweat over 30kph. I survived one collision, one attempted bike theft and innumerable insults from other teenagers.

The pay was an improvement, however, at Dh18 an hour, tips and a free pizza. The job was also my first introduction to an exclusively twenty-something male workforce. Between deliveries, the drivers would sit outside a tool shed, idly smoking cigarettes and listening to rock music, while complaining bitterly about meagre tips. To any passer-by, the sight must have resembled a scene from a Ken Loach movie.

In short, I found liberation and democracy within the confines of the workplace. Employment gave each day a narrative which could not be found sitting in my bedroom, listening to music. My hours at work were memorable for the humour and discussion involved. The interaction - and the awful reality that I might not always excel at what I set out to attempt - with my superiors proved invaluable. The economic benefits also paid for certain freedoms. And, over the next few years, I was able to travel extensively, escaping my Scottish orbit.

Throughout my adult life, I have only worked for private enterprises. Whether cleaning floors at a fast food takeaway in Glasgow, picking strawberries for farmers or working at newspapers, I am typical of the British post-war generation which views government jobs with a certain degree of disdain. The pay is often abysmal and the hours can be thankless. More tellingly, government organisations have conspicuous flaws which see them veer between paralysis, bureaucracy and inactivity. Private workforces, on the other hand, are driven by ambition and are endlessly refining and improving their services. No longer does the 1950s stereotype of the faceless corporation fit the mould - the private sector has, over the past 40 years, prompted a revolution in finance, construction, medicine, science and the arts.

I am not alone in my experiences: many of my friends have emerged from humble beginnings and sought the freedom of upward mobility. From parents who were labourers and construction workers has emerged a generation of diplomats and bankers. By any evaluation, all have prospered, expanding on the modest beginnings of their parents. Other acquaintances, however, opted for the dependability of family enterprise. Some regret breaking free of their obligations. Many find themselves facing the same daily chores as their parents. I was told, during my formative years, this was not an option that would be made available to me. I confess I did not understand my father's motives at the time. But in the future, I'll seek to pass on the same curriculum.

Burhan Wazir is Editor of The National on Saturday. He can be contacted at [e-mail]