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A NEW JOB During my working life I always wanted to be in the position where I could tell my boss to stick his job up his arse, but I never got the chance to. Now retired, I finally saw the opportunity to do just that.      In the town where I live there is a sandwich shop-cum-bakery business which has always had a high turnover of staff. Rarely do I pass the shop without there being an 'Assistant Wanted' notice in the window, often 'Two Assistants Wanted', and once the notice has disappeared it's never very long before it is back in place. I don't know the owner of the shop but I have heard tales of the unfeeling way he treats his staff, apparently forever cajoling them into working harder and speaking to them as though they were dirt. In fact just the sort of man it would give me great pleasure to tell to stick his job up his arse. The next time the 'Assistant Wanted' notice appeared in the window I determined to apply for the job.      This happened last Friday, I duly applied for, and got, the job. I started this morning, on the government minimum rate of course, my hours of work being from six a.m. until twelve noon. A bit of a bind having to get up that early and go to work, because a job is the last thing I want at my time of life, but I was sure the effort would be worth it.      When I arrived at the shop the owner, an unpleasant-looking piece of work, gruffly told me to stand and wait while he 'set the rest of the idle bastards to work'. As near as I can remember it went 'Mrs Hardiman, sandwiches, and don't let me catch you putting too much filling on, you'll have me in the bleeding workhouse', 'Jason, load the van, and try not to drop any loaves on the floor this time, or your feet won't touch, you useless piece of rubbish', and 'Mrs Jennings, oven, and you'll have to get stuff in and out quicker than you have been doing, when that oven door's open it's costing me money, I've seen more work in a sick note'. He didn't actually say tote that barge, lift that bale, get a little drunk and you'll land in jail but I'm sure it was only because he didn't have a barge or a bale.      It was quite obvious that my career there was going to be short-lived because if he talked to me like that it would be a matter of seconds rather than minutes before I told him to stick his job up his arse. Which was the object of the exercise of course.      He finished issuing instructions and turned his attention to me. And he was as nice as pie. Not as nice as one of his pies, which are meagrely-filled excuses for pies, but as nice as Holland's meat and potato pies or the apple pies my mother used to make. And he was as nice as pie to me all morning long. 'Do you mind making another batch of egg mayonnaise, Mr Ravenscroft?' 'Do you mind helping out behind the counter, we've a bit of a rush on, Mr Ravenscroft?' 'Take a break now Mr Ravenscroft, mustn't work you too hard on your first day. Smoke? Have one of mine' - while at the same time he was having goes at the rest of the staff for the slightest misdemeanour or sign of slacking on the job, cursing them, calling them lazy buggers and threatening them with the sack.      Twelve-o-clock came and not only had I not been given the chance to tell him to stick his job up his arse but it had never even looked like I would. So I've got to go again tomorrow. At 6-o-clock in the morning!      "Why do you think he's pleasant to me and horrible to all the others?" I asked The Trouble.      The Trouble thought for a moment. "How old is he?"      "Beeley? I don't know. Fifty odd. Mid fifties."      "And how old are the rest of the staff?"      "The two women will be in their forties, Jason's just about out of his teens and Bob's in his thirties. Why?"      "It could be because you're older."      "Older?"      "Than your boss. Than Beeley. He could be showing respect to his elders. An old-fashioned concept in this day and age I know but lots of people still do it. I do. I was brought up to."      So was I, for that matter. However I gave it up in 1953 when as a Boy Scout I helped a blind man across the road and he picked my pocket. But perhaps The Trouble was right.      That was yesterday. Today I presented myself for work at the appointed hour.      "Morning, lovely morning," Beeley greeted me with a smile as I arrived. "Slice the cooked meats for the sandwiches, would you?"      "Let me get my coat off for Christ sake," I snapped, hoping that this display of defiance would goad him into being nasty to me.      No such luck. "Sorry," he smiled. "When you're ready. Take you time."      I dived in. "How old are you?"      "Me. Fifty six. Why?"      "I'm fifty five."      He looked me up and down. "You look a lot older than fifty five."      "I've had a hard life."      He bought it. "Yes and you're going to have a bloody sight harder life if you don't start cutting the cooked meats, and smartish!" he said.     "Stick you job up your arse," I said, and went.