I once quit a job as a facilities assistant after refusing to push a trolley-load of stationery stock my boss had asked me to take up to another floor. It was my thirtieth birthday. I wasn’t going to be pushing a trolley on my thirtieth.
It wasn’t that I thought pushing a trolley was beneath me. I come from a long line of plebs and cleaners. I can do the trolley thing. Either side of my thirtieth, and I would’ve done it. But thirty’s a landmark birthday and I’d been dreading its arrival. I wasn’t going to mark it by pushing a trolley. I’d always remember what I did on my thirtieth. Even if no one saw me, I’d know that I’d pushed that trolley. I had to walk.
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