Frank and the Lidl Job Snob incident
When he hears that Rex has got a job at Lidl, Frank is horrified to discover that he has an inner snob.
“Just come back from Lidl. Rex has landed a job there”, declared neighbour Henry, incredulous. “Collecting trolleys?” I sneered, parading my low expectations of supermarkets. “Actually, he’s a Customer Assistant” said Henry, dead shirty. “Wearing a badge that says so. Kept kissing it, same way footballers do when they’ve scored a goal” he continued proudly.
I hate it when Henry is in the know. “Bet he’s being paid £7 an hour for the privilege,” I said wisely, trying to best him. “Actually, he gets £8.45 an hour”. My turn to be incredulous. “Are you sure Henry? That’s more than most care and support workers get”. Henry laughed: “Me and every customer in aisles 14 and 15 – rice, pasta, tinned foods and canned fruit – know Rex’s wage is £8.45 an hour on account of the victory lap he did when he told me”.
I was visualising Rex getting sacked for behaviour unbecoming a Customer Assistant when Henry read my mind. “I apologised to a passing supervisor. Said it was my fault. She winked at me, handed Rex a price gun and steered him to the tinned tomatoes. He was as ’appy as Larry”.
Disgruntled, I told wife. I said Customer Assistant was better than collecting trolleys but a waste of Rex’s talent and potential. I said that he was bright enough for a career in computing. “How do you work that out, Frank”? she asked, disagreeably, stirring soup. I hit her, broadside, with a volley of my best shots and latest research: less than 7% of people with learning disabilities have jobs when 65% want them, skills and talents under-estimated, always at the end of the labour queue, the Catch 22 of being economically excluded then derided for dependency on benefits… “Frank,” she interrupted, her back still turned, stirring purposefully, “that’s an argument for celebrating Rex’s job at Lidl, not dismissing it.”
Her calm tone hinted at the storm to come. Finished stirring, she slatted the slotted spoon back into the steaming saucepan with a hiss and a flourish and swung round like a force 9 gale. “You are so Metropolitan Elite Dot Com”, she scathed. “You don’t know one end of the labour market from the other. You confuse potential with actual. You have been listening to too many of your job snob colleagues who, frankly Frank, are as big a barrier to employment as unenlightened employers”.
All jobs are good jobs, according to wife. They just have to be the right jobs, for the right people at the right time. Any job helps people to get a foot in the door of the labour market. There are more entry level jobs in retail, food distribution and catering than any other sectors. “Hundreds of thousands of young people kickstart their paid employment in shops. Why should Rex be any different?” she demanded. “Never had a job. No work experience. No proven skills yet. Nobody goes from potential to career with nothing inbetween. Not even you ruddy social workers. Think on, Frank”.
As I was backing out of the kitchen, storm-lashed, a memory of my first Saturday job on the frozen food counter at Kwik Save leapt to mind, and shut me right up.
I was still ‘thinking on’ shamefaced at the back door, when Henry appeared bearing homemade marmalade for wife. “Great news about Rex”, I relented, quietly. “He’ll be brilliant at that job. He loves ordering and organising. He’s charming and helpful so customers will like him”. Henry was in no mood. “Any way Frank,” he began loudly, breezing past me, “what’s wrong with collecting trolleys”? Wife looked on with a face like thunder as disgrace tapped me on the shoulder for a second time. I groaned involuntarily; I knew what was coming next, and what Henry’s first job was.
