My first part-time job was in a small continental delicatessen at the Ringwood market. I worked Friday nights and Saturday mornings and was paid $2.50 an hour. I was 14 and yearned for something more glamorous than slicing salami and cutting cheese – although I do remember my workmate and I regularly enjoying sharing the inch-thick end piece of chicken loaf that was too small to slice. I wore a blue shapeless uniform and was supposed to wear a hairnet but never did. There was an apron of sorts that we’d wipe our hands down after each customer had left, smearing meat stains and olive brine in patterns on the thick cotton.
The two men who owned the stall were generous with their teenage staff, never minding if we scraped in a few minutes late for a shift or rearranged our hours because of some upcoming party. And at Christmas they’d always tuck an extra $20 note into our pay as a bonus. The day I forgot to put the guard down on the slicer and watched in shock as the front half of my finger dropped into the 100gram order of ham off the bone, they cleaned me up, bandaged my hand and sent me straight to the doctor for stitches.
