I’ve always found work experience a daunting period of time.
When I was 15, I spent a week with the caretaker of a Squash Club, wiping courts, clearing litter and pulling pints. It was bearable until the second day when he found out my name was Robert Williams, after which the caretaker proceeded to shout ‘ANGELS’ in my face at every opportunity. His wit was wasted in that place.
A year later, I was shadowing the editor of the local free newspaper. He spent most of his day sneakily sending flirty instant messages to a mysterious woman called ‘Gwen’, whilst I sat behind him pretending to file his post. Interestingly, I met his wife on my last day there. She wasn’t called Gwen.
My experiences of work shadowing have never been boring, but I’ve always been aware that the men I shadowed were flawed human beings, and not shining examples to aspire towards. And that made my experience this week even more daunting.
