Along with other young people during my schooldays, I used to go beet-singling and spud-bashing to earn some pocket money. The farmer would send his beat up old van round to pick us up from our road-end. Sore hands from beet-singling, sore back from spud bashing, and sore ears from the effing and blinding of the farmer at us because we weren’t doing it properly, or fast enough, or both. Crap money, but better than nowt.

My mum also did both when I was a child and she didn’t have a permanent full-time job.