Morning Routine
Imagine this.
COCK-A-DOODLE-DOO! COCK-A-DOODLE DOO! Your eyes burst open. COCK-A-DOODLE-DOO! COCK-A-DOODLE-DOO! Groggy, sleep-filled, you rub them. Confused and exhausted, you want to fall back into your dreams. COCK-A-DOODLE-DOO! COCK-A-DOODLE DOO! Your vision adjusts to the semi-darkness of the room. Light bursts from your phone screen which is charging on the floor. COCK-A-DOODLE-DOO! COCK-A-DOODLE-DOO! You groan as you reach down to pick it up. COCK-A-DOODLE-DOO! COCK-A-DOODLE-DOO! The sound of your alarm infuriates you every time. You chose the rooster option for this specific reason – each morning its annoyance springs you back to life. COCK-A-DOODLE-DOO! COCK-A- You swipe to turn it off. Some people would set it to snooze for five more minutes, but you don’t, you know you can’t, if you fell back asleep now, you’d never wake back up. You check the time. 4am. Why would it be any different? You always wake at this hour, even on the weekend when you don’t set an alarm.
You sit up in bed. Your mind starts to race. I can’t be arsed. Maybe I should call in sick?
No, you can’t. You already did that just last month. They’re starting to catch on. There’s only so many times you can come up with an excuse.
Alright, there must be another way though. Maybe I could say my grandma died? Surely that would work?
Unfortunately, that’s impossible. You already killed off both grandmas, three uncles, and your imaginary dog this past year.
You spend five minutes like this in deep contemplation until you decide it best to get out of bed and shower. You leave the safety of your quilt and step onto the cold laminate floor. You shiver as the warmth of your body adjusts to the elements. You turn on your lamp. The bright light strains your eyes. You scrunch them tight and wait for the pain to subside. You conduct a series of stretches in a futile attempt to ease your aching body. When you’ve finished stretching, you stagger downstairs, and enter the bathroom.
You go to the sink to brush your teeth; observe yourself in the mirror as you brush. Bags under your eyes have turned shades reminiscent of an abstract painting. Purple, blue, black. You look like you’ve seen some shit. You look like you know a thing or two about war. You’re only twenty-eight but you already have the eyes of a much older man.
You spit toothpaste into the sink.
Streaks of blood are contained in the yellow froth. Every part of you seems to be ravaged in some way. You put it down to stress and exhaustion, why your gums always bleed. You rinse away the shame then turn on the shower to the coldest temperature.
Experts state that if you have a cold shower each morning it boosts testosterone, gifting you more energy for the day. You aren’t sure if it works, but each morning you do it anyway, anything to help you get through the day. You stand beneath the freezing water; scream like a girl as the water hits your skin and jolts you awake. Goosebumps spread across your entire body. As quickly as possible, you lather yourself with shampoo and shower gel then rinse them off, all the while jigging from side to side as though you’re performing a pagan dance. You turn off the shower and jump out shivering; furiously scrub yourself with a towel to encourage circulation. You scrub your balls and your belly and wonder, What happened? When did I let myself go? Where did it all go wrong?
You sigh because you already know the answer then head back to your room.
You dry your hair, simultaneously using the hairdryer to warm up your body. The hot air feels nice against your skin. It calms you. It soothes your shattered core. This moment might be the most peaceful of the day. It doesn’t last long. You’re on a strict time limit after all; that worm isn’t going to catch itself. You pick out a jumper, joggers, hi-vis vest, and safety boots, get dressed, then head downstairs for breakfast.
Scrambled eggs. Every morning you make scrambled eggs. A quick and easy, nutritious breakfast. To boil an egg or poach it wastes too much time; fry an egg and you will stink for the rest of the day. Thus, scrambled eggs are the only course of action. You have mastered the art of scrambling. You’ve been making them for years. Even Gordon Ramsay bows down to your talents; in your presence, he would be quaking in his boots.
Crack the eggs into a bowl. Splash of milk. Salt and pep. Whisk it up. Frying pan. Knob of butter. Melt it gently. Let it sizzle. Pour in the eggs and get to work with the spatula. Work it baby. Work it round and round. Let those little pillows of goodness form inside the pan.
A few minutes later, after a pinch of tender love, the eggs are ready to eat, so you tuck in. You discourage toast. Experts state protein and fats are the best food groups for breakfast, so you try to avoid carbs. Besides, you don’t need any more rolls around your waist, or you’ll be able to open a Greggs. You hoover down the eggs as fast as you can. No coffee either, caffeine makes you jittery when you’re tired. As soon as you’ve finished eating, Moses steps forth to part the waves. You feel your stomach churn – the signal that you need to take a crap. You rush back to the bathroom with ten minutes to spare.
Arse hits toilet. Diarrhoea sprays out. It’s always like this. You haven’t had a solid shit in years. Another potential consequence of stress and exhaustion. Really though, it’s because, every weekend, you drink too much, followed by a takeaway fit for five. Why can’t I make better life choices? Why can’t I be the man my mother wants me to be?
It requires an unholy mass of toilet paper to wipe your arse clean. The paper and the slop flush away with your dignity. Ten minutes are up. Time to go. Back downstairs, you throw on your coat, gather your packed lunch, then head out for the bus.
Outside, clouds escape your mouth as you lock your front door. The sky is pitch-black; streetlamps guide your way like the lantern of the grim reaper as he rows the dead towards their doom.
Nobody else walks these streets. You are completely alone. Everybody else is still tucked up in bed smiling. Here you are, awake, bracing the cold with a frown. Your only company are the local cats who frolic up and down the roads – alive, excited, rife with much more energy than you.
A fox crosses your path as you trundle down the hill.
It stops to stare. You stare back. Moments pass. Does the fox see into your soul? What must it think? Does it know that it is dead? A car engine startles your new companion, it darts away and disappears into nearby shrubs. If only I could escape too, you sombrely reflect.
You say goodbye and continue down the hill.
The bus stop would provide a great horror film location.
Dark and foreboding, a thick fog envelops it; a single white light flickers from the glass ceiling. Trees linger above it – skeletal figures with long fingers that tap against the glass, taunting you, ready to catch you in their claws. Inside, just above the entrance, a spider has spun its web. You cross underneath and watch as the spider creeps towards a victim stuck in its trap. It pounces on the tiny creature, they writhe around, the spider injects it with venom, then slowly devours it until it is gone.
A digital display in the corner of the bus stop notifies you of departure times. Yours is the first bus of the day, it’s due in five minutes. To pass the time, you take out a cigarette and smoke. With each drag, the kick in your lungs tell you you’re alive, even though sometimes you debate whether you truly are.
Occasionally, a car drives by while you wait, the drivers all look the same – pale and defeated. They are the other sorry fools out at this godforsaken hour, where they go is a mystery, all you know is, that it’s probably to work too. You crush the cigarette beneath your boot as the bus approaches through the fog. It opens its doors for you, and you step inside its walls.
The bus driver beholds you with an apathetic glare. You flash him your pass, he grunts in recognition, turns away, and begins to drive the bus. You forgive him for this lack of customer service. Neither of us should be awake at this hour. If I can’t force a smile, then why should he?
You make your way down the bus; two fellow passengers sit on the bottom deck. One listens to music, the other stares out the window, seemingly about to cry. If only I had a tissue to give him, if only I could wipe away his tears.
Sorry, ashamed, you head upstairs to your usual seat to forget, and dwell on better times. Remember school. Remember Paris. Remember Japan. Remember sex against the kitchen counter. Remember drinking in the park on a clear sunny day. Those ephemeral moments I then took for granted. How I wish I could exist in them now.
You drive by houses, shops, parking lots – all of them vacant or asleep. Along the route, the same passengers clamber on the bus you see every morning. Nobody interacts with one another, everybody’s much too tired and pissed off. Instead, they all partake in silent rumination, assumedly sharing the same intrusive thoughts as you. Maybe if I didn’t get off at my stop. Maybe if I just stayed on and kept riding. I could go anywhere. Be anything. Maybe if I just…
The bus approaches the city’s outskirts.
Skyscrapers and cranes dominate the horizon. What an eyesore. What a cesspool. Where are the trees? Where are the birds? Where is the freedom? I wish I could nuke it, blow it all up and start afresh.
Now in the city, you disembark the bus and travel a short distance to wait for the next. The train station is visible from where you wait for the second bus. It manifests a fond memory. Once, when you allowed your intrusive thoughts to take control, you went to it and skived work via the first train to Blackpool. Maybe I should do it again. It was a good day, was it not? Beers by the beach, I cried out for a sign from God.
He never offered you that sign though. He’s ignored you ever since. Fuck Him. Fuck God. Fuck Heaven and fuck Earth.
You light another cigarette. How is it almost time to start work already? Why does time always move so fucking fast?
Don’t think like that. You know you’re wrong. Time works in mysterious ways. When we want it to go quicker it moves slowly, when we want it to slow down it speeds up – it is a rebellious beast we cannot control, the bus will soon arrive and then it won’t tick by so fast. Appreciate this haste. Cherish it. Soon, you will be at work, where the clock stands still forever.
Your colleagues are seated on the next bus. You nod at them and smile feebly as you embark. They return your smile, but their eyes tell something different – they express feelings of hopelessness, an overwhelming dread. After this casual greeting, they return to staring forlornly out the windows. You say nothing as you pass them, you all share an unspoken understanding – We are in this together now, there is no turning back.
You sit away from them to give them a little more time – precious minutes, seconds, milliseconds alone – before the inevitable transpires and you all become trapped in limbo.
The bus vacates the city, travelling much too fast. The driver must have sprinkled cocaine on his Weetabix this morning; he drives like a maniac; his foot slammed against the gas. He steers around bends so fast it feels as though the bus will topple over; it perpetuates your anxiety, that same feeling induced when you rode The Smiler at Alton Towers, that rollercoaster whereupon a girl lost her leg. Slow down man! Calm yourself! None of us want to arrive at our destination! Why must you drive with such purpose!? Can’t you wait awhile!? Let us have a few more minutes of freedom?!
He doesn’t hear your pleas. He passes the time in whatever way helps him survive his own shift. You cannot blame him; you do the same – little games at work to help kill the hours, anything to take your mind away from the pointlessness of it all.
In the blink of an eye, you reach the long straight road where your warehouse awaits. On either side of the road are a dozen other warehouses, each one of them redolent of a prison camp; large barbed-wire fences fortify the outsides. People who have worked the night shift hobble onto the bus. Just as you begin your shift, they finish there’s.
If you thought you looked much older than your years, then what about these poor saps? They have the complexion of corpses – grey leather skin, marbled eyes, teeth stained yellow from countless puffs of tobacco. They shuffle along the bus like an army of zombies, unaware that their bodies are screaming for it to end. You shudder and tell yourself, Praise Jesus I’m not one of them. It could be worse. There is a silver lining after all.
The road inclines up and up and up, past all these other warehouses. When the hill reaches its peak, you see a graveyard shrouded in darkness down below. You sigh and ring the bell. Woefully, this graveyard signifies you’ve arrived. Your colleagues reluctantly stand up and queue at the front of the bus. You join them from behind. A couple of them turn around and say good morning, their mouths contorted into forced sorrowful smiles. You understand their misery, you know the next eight hours will be the hardest of your lives. Every day it never gets any easier, if anything, it only gets worse – a constant waking nightmare, purgatory, Groundhog Day – yet you still flock here anyway, like moths towards a flame.
The bus brakes and its doors fling open. One by one you disembark beside a field inhabited by horses. These horses are famous amongst your colleagues. Occasionally, they escape their field and cause havoc on the road; trotting up and down; whinnying without a care. You admire their bravery. You wish you had their balls. You often fantasise about doing the same, to escape your prison and inflict chaos on the streets, to be free of your master, to be free of it all.
The graveyard rests beside their field; a mist shrouds the gravestones; crows perch on the tops. One day you envision yourself being buried there after succumbing to a heart attack during a shift. A fitting end for a life as pitiful as yours, to die in that warehouse, then, even in death, unable to truly escape it, punished to eternally look on it from beyond the grave. As the bus drives away, you are presented with the harrowing monstrosity which looms across the road. Here it is, your workplace the warehouse, that hell where you sold your soul.
An invisible net drags you and your colleagues towards it. Stunned, catatonic, you are powerless to fight back. Between you, no words of encouragement are dispensed, no jovial banter, no pearls of wisdom. Some of these people have worked here decades and all their life has faded away, they barely speak a sentence all day, their minds vegetized, the lights are out, Oompa Loompas dance around in their heads. Not all of them are like this though, there is one enigma, one crazy character you have come to know well. She stands in the smoking shelter chatting frantically about nonsense. Somehow this woman has worked here twenty years yet has more zeal than everybody else in the warehouse put together. You assume it’s because she bumps speed before the shift.
Inside the warehouse, you queue up to clock in. Everybody picks up their cards and swipes away their freedom for the day. Beep. Beep. Beep. That awful sound which signifies the next eight hours of misery. You swipe yours. Beep. Goodbye freedom, goodbye possibilities, goodbye another chunk of my soul.
The atmosphere of the warehouse is complete sensory deprivation. It is one vast room consisting of dull, cracked walls, a dark-green floor with decades of footprints stained to the paint, workstations for packing, machines for pressing, rusted rafters up high below a metal roof, which, when it rains, water leaks through, and from the rafters, sharp vertical bars hang sporadically, you aren’t sure for what purpose, but if they fell, they would certainly impale anybody stood beneath. White lights also hang from the rafters, to look at them blinds you, and high up on the walls, where windows once were, they have been boarded up or stuffed with foam to block out all sunlight.
The hiss of the machines and the drone of heaters are the only sounds you will hear throughout the day. They are constant and unforgiving, sometimes at night they haunt your dreams, you wake up in cold sweats hearing them, firmly believing that you are going mad.
Against the walls, shelves unused for years are caked with dust and rat droppings, your manager keeps promising you they will be cleaned but they never are. There is one cleaner who comes daily but you aren’t sure what she actually does. Nothing is ever clean, the men’s toilets always stink of shit, and the floor stays sticky, coated in piss.
A solitary clock is fixed to the wall furthest from the entrance. This is the clock that dictates your lives. You check it consistently throughout the day and find that the hands never move; sometimes you wonder if it even works.
The next eight hours will be spent in this place. It’s not the most attractive of settings, is it? It could be worse you suppose… but maybe not. Even at Auschwitz they were allowed to work in the sun.
You wait at your machine for the shift to start; everybody else waits at their stations too. Stood like soldiers, all eyes on the clock, you wait for the hands to strike six-thirty…
When they do, you all go to work. Your machine starts up; the conveyor belt moves. There are lightbulbs, blisters, and cards neatly piled on your station. The conveyor belt moves with wooden jigs attached to it. Carved into the jigs are slots which you place a blister inside, inside the blister goes a bulb, and then a card on top of both. A colleague (who is stood on the opposite side of the belt) and yourself fill every jig this way. At the end of the belt, the jigs go inside a presser which seals the cards onto the blisters, creating packs of bulbs ready for shipment. Your captain sits at the end of the machine, placing the sealed packs into boxes.
You are a team of three who do this for eight hours a day. Eight hours of the same repetitive motions. Blister, bulb, card, blister, bulb, card, blister, bulb, card – until the shift is up. If you’re lucky, you will be working with someone you can chat to. If not, you’re in for a long gruelling day. Twice a day you are granted two fifteen-minute breaks from this monotony. Fifteen minutes to wolf down some food and smoke a cigarette before you go back to work. Blister, bulb card, blister, bulb, card, blister, bulb, card, blister, bulb, card, blister, bulb, card…
When the shift is over, everybody races to the clocking machine to swipe out. This is the most pivotal point of everyone’s day, the anticipation in the room is electric. You swipe out and step outdoors. It is sunny now; the weather is crisp; the possibilities are endless. It is 3pm, so many hours remain.
You say goodbye to everyone, everybody all smiles now – actual smiles – their tired eyes sparkle with a little light, that light which comes at the end of a very long, dark tunnel; you are all freed from your shackles, carpe diem, ready to seize the day.
But this is mere delusion. As you sit down on the bus back into the city, your legs feel the impact of being stood upon all day, they ache, they tremble; your brain begins to fog; your eyes suddenly become heavy with the weight of a thousand suns, you yearn to close them, you struggle to stay awake; your assertions that you will go home and maintain productivity are just fantasy; that story you started writing six months ago will stay untouched; that book you’ve been reading the entire year will remain unopened; that workout routine you have committed to each week will fail once again; all your dreams and aspirations are forgotten, you have become a slave to the system, another robot in the world.
Instead, you will go home and lay in bed watching Netflix until you pass out at nine o’clock. You will have another night of broken sleep until you wake up tomorrow at 4am to the sound of your alarm. COCK-A-DOODLE-DOO! COCK-A-DOODLE-DOO!
This is your life, day in day out, five days a week, every month of the year. On weekends, you get intoxicated as a coping mechanism to relieve your pain. As a consolation prize, each year you’re awarded twenty-five days annual leave so you can travel abroad, experience momentary joy, then come back even more depressed than before. You aren’t happy. You aren’t quite alive. This is the struggle you and countless others go through, simply to survive. This is a day in the life of a warehouse operative. What do you think? Would you be able to cope? I know I can’t. I’m just about done.
This was an account of my life at my previous warehouse job where I worked for a year and a half. I have had several other warehouse jobs since leaving university five years ago. Whilst this is an account of only one, all the others were strikingly similar. They were all boring, soul-destroying, bottom-of-the-barrel places of employment where management doesn’t care about you, and you are treated subhuman. If you understand your rights, try to stand up for yourself, and file a complaint, don’t expect a positive outcome – to them, you are easily replaced; there are plenty of other unwitting victims ready to pass through the warehouse’s revolving doors.
Everybody there are like lambs to slaughter, in and out, in and out, just when you think you’ve made friends with somebody, the agency (who provides temporary workers for the warehouse) will send them a message saying they aren’t needed any more and then they will bring a new round of gullible staff in. And this is after the agency lured them there under false pretences, feeding them bullshit that they will be offered a contract after three months. This hardly ever happens. If you are lucky enough to receive a contract, you will have been working there for much longer than that.
The world of warehousing is a cut-throat place where not many make it, which is surprising because the work is relatively easy, albeit physically demanding. For your average employee, agencies will pass them around like a hooker at a brothel, from warehouse to warehouse, never being kept at one too long, either too slow or too lazy to make it in the business, somehow so workshy they can’t hold down the simplest of jobs. The people who do receive contracts tend to be immigrants – hardworking people who have travelled to the UK for a better life.
Throughout my five years as a warehouse operative, I have met hundreds of people from a multitude of countries: Spain, Italy, Portugal, Poland, Ukraine, Russia, Latvia, Lithuania, Romania, Slovakia, Hungary, India, China, Bangladesh, Brazil, Nepal, Senegal, Ghana, Nigeria, Ethiopia, Eritrea – and I’m sure there are others I have missed. People from all different walks of life, with unique cultures, and stories to be shared. They are some of the most amazing people I have met, they made the warehouses somewhat bearable, interesting discussions were had every day, and I can only thank them for making the jobs better.
To them, warehouses are a simple way to make much more money than what they can make back home, and for some, it is the only avenue to gain employment in this country. Because of this, warehouses oftentimes exploit them. For minimum wage they can place these poor people in inhospitable environments, for long hours, doing back-breaking work, providing only short relief until they’re back at it again. For these reasons most Brits won’t suffer such nonsense, we understand these working conditions are abhorrent to modern day Britain.
This might be perceived as being lazy and ungrateful, yet I can affirm resolutely that this is not true. I performed highly wherever I worked, but no warehouse ever made me feel appreciated for it. Managers were quite happy to berate us for our wrongdoing but hardly ever praised us for our efforts; there were no rewards for our performances aside from the occasional pizza or crappy Christmas party; we were just ants working to feed our queen; never thanked for our role in quarterly profits, company awards were instead presented to office workers – a circle jerk for them to stroke each other’s egos – whilst our achievements remained overlooked.
But this has been the norm since the dawn of the First Industrial Revolution. In the 1760s, British factories opened to supply textiles to the world. Machinery had been developed to allow for mass production of materials, therefore workplaces needed to be created to meet this high demand. Factories became a prominent workplace for the poor. From the offset, the owners exploited the marginalised people of this country. Children were hired to work their machines. They were considered cheap labour and easily replaced if anything went wrong, which was a common occurrence back then due to the dangerous conditions and complete disregard for any health & safety.
Eventually, in 1833 a legislation was put in place that no children under the age of nine were allowed to work in factories, which really, if you think about it, was still nothing to be proud of: I mean, would you send even your nine-year-old to go and work in those places? But did the factory owners care that they were exploiting the young and needy? No, of course not, as long as company profits kept rising, they were more than happy to use any man, woman, or child, to make sure production continued.
There was an even greater demand for factory workers during the Second Industrial Revolution. This was a period of history which began in 1870 and continued into the early 1900s. Throughout Great Britain and parts of the western world, massive technological advancements were made during this period. Mass production and industrialisation were capitalized on, railroad and shipping networks were established to make transportation of goods easier, and many more factories and warehouses were opened to supply the demand. Great Britain became a leading pioneer in large-scale iron and steel production, supplying these materials across vast breadths of the world.
After 1910, more intricate and efficient machinery was developed, mass-production techniques were perfected, thus lowering production costs, and heightening the country’s industry revenue. With huge demand for our goods, this meant a large workforce was needed. Factories were inundated with labourers to make sure orders were met on time. Still no health & safety regulations had been introduced. The conditions these men worked in were squalid and unsafe. Frequent accidents occurred due to the volatile working conditions, oftentimes leading to loss of limbs or even death. These people continued to be oppressed by the big man upstairs. They were paid a pittance for the extremely hard work they undertook. Whilst the factory owners benefited exponentially from their profits, their staff barely made enough money to pay for bread.
To combat this, workers formed unions to fight for better wages, working conditions, and other amenities we take for granted now. Of course, factory owners didn’t like this. If they heard rumours of an uprising amongst the workforce, they would try to dismantle it before it had even begun. As always, workers could easily be replaced, there was never a shortage of men in need of cheap labour, and factory owners knew this and reaped the rewards picked from their dead skulls.
Then, the First World War happened, and women were rounded up to work in the factories whilst their fathers, husbands, and sons got their heads blown off in a trench. War is a profitable business you see; production couldn’t stop, so, women filled the empty factory stations to make sure demand for war supplies were met. Guns, helmets, uniforms, ammunition, parts for bomber planes and tanks – British women banded together, operating factory machines day in day out, making sure their lads on the frontline were armed and ready to fight for the freedom of the world.
While the rest of Britain suffered massively because of both World Wars, unsurprisingly, factories flourished. This is apparent throughout our history, that whenever a worldwide disaster happened, warehouse and factory profits somehow skyrocketed.
Fast forward to modern day Britain, where warehouse management systems have been perfected to allow for the highest efficiency of production. There are 5,090 warehousing & storage businesses, and 138,440 manufacturing businesses in the UK as of 2023. The manufacturing industry alone made 224 billion pounds last year from a workforce of 2.6 million people. Since 2019 the demand for warehouse workers has risen by 43.2% toward the end of 2022. But why are profits so high for these companies, and why is there such a demand for workers? What happened in the last few years that might garner such statistics? Oh, nothing aside from a little pandemic of course.
Yes, when COVID happened, like with both World Wars, factories saw a boom in business. I worked in a warehouse throughout the lockdowns, when everybody else was too scared to even leave their homes, let alone go and work with a bunch of strangers in poorly protected environments. We were classed as key workers! How so? Because, of all the thousands of products our company sold, there were a couple used to make medical equipment, therefore that meant the show must go on! and the company profited greatly because of it.
Many other warehouses and factories thrived during the pandemic. We became accustomed to ordering everything online, and these conglomerates were there to cater to our needs. In the first year of the pandemic alone, Amazon’s profits soared 220% higher than the previous year because of their online deliveries, and Jeff Bezos himself added a mere $70 billion to his net worth.
But did we lowly runts, the warehouse operatives, see any of these profits? Did we in any way benefit? Admittedly, we were allowed to continue working throughout the lockdowns, which some might perceive as a positive – but we were doing this for minimum wage and every day putting ourselves at risk of catching the dreaded COVID.
Targets were still set during this period too. They weren’t lowered to allow for the enforcement of two-meter distance rules. No, the company didn’t care about these new regulations. We still had to rush around like headless chickens to hit our targets.
And this is the most crucial aspect of your warehousing career – meeting pick and pack rates. Fall short on a consistent basis, and your head will be on the chopping block. For the first few weeks of your fledgling career, the company will grant leeway with these targets whilst you get used to the job. But once those few weeks are up, you better know your place, boy! The invisible whip will be cracked. You will find yourself being constantly reminded of what the company expects and being asked why you failed to hit your target in that last hour. There can be various factors which stop you from achieving this. Maybe the product was missing on the shelf, and you had to order more. Maybe the order was for a bunch of heavy products that took you ages to lift. The company doesn’t care. You’re just another number on their sheet.
After reading all this, you might think me a disgruntled employee, but I assure you, that isn’t true. Whilst I have found a lot of negatives from my time working in warehouses, there are some positives too.
For many, warehouses are the most easily accessed way to support themselves and their families. If somebody leaves school with very few, if any qualifications, then warehouses are one of the only industries that would hire them without question. They are especially beneficial for immigrants, because, despite a potential lack of fluency in English, if they can do the work, then they will take them on. Yes, in many cases, these jobs only offer minimum wage, but they do provide full time hours, and occasionally they have overtime which is paid time-and-a-half or double what the employee usually makes.
They are easy jobs that don’t require much mental exertion. As I’ve said before, they are physically demanding, but the degree to which this is true, depends on what company you work for. If you don’t mind breaking your back for minimum wage, then there are plenty of places that will gladly hire you. If, like me, you would rather do lighter work for the same wage, then there are plenty of companies to choose from also.
Similarly, various shift patterns are there to suit your needs. If you’re a night owl, there are always night shifts available, most times, offering better pay than through the day.
The most substantial benefit of working in warehouses though, unequivocally is the people! There is no finer place to establish comradery between a workforce. You will meet people you would never meet in any other job: immigrants who have lived in the country for only a week, bright-eyed, sold the British dream; beautiful foreign women who you will try to flirt with just to pass the time; and wild, loud-mouthed Brits, full of banter who have worked there for decades, somehow still coping, yet you won’t be able to grasp how they haven’t slit their wrists – they are an eclectic bunch you will never forget, and because you all share the same miserable circumstances, you will feel a kinship towards them that will never fade.
Finally, if, like me, you’re a little lost in the world, without an inkling of what to do, then maybe warehousing is the job for you. It is a simple way to make money while you figure things out. But believe me, don’t stay there too long, because every day, a little part of you might die. Avoid it wherever possible. There are many more negatives that outweigh the positives. I don’t suggest ever setting foot in one, but if you must, only do it if there is no other way.
And if you ever do find yourself working in one and feeling depressed, just know that salvation can be sought. We as human beings were given free will for a reason. We are blessed creatures with the power to shape our lives. So, should we spend it trapped somewhere we hate just to be able to eat? Waste our precious time stuck in a cycle of sadness and regret?
If you have a dream, hold onto it, never give up, use every waking moment to make it come true. Because, whilst there is nothing wrong with doing whatever you can to survive, you must at some point know your worth, and realise: Maybe I want more than this, maybe I want to feel alive.
2 responses to “The Life of a Warehouse Operative”
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Cheers man! Glad you enjoyed!