Thursday is bin morning on my street. The rules are: bins out before 7; bins must be at the edge of the property, handles must point the prescribed way to help the loaders grab the bins and manoeuvre them quickly. I obey these rules to the letter, terrified that my bin will be deemed incorrectly placed and publicly rejected. I also sneakily watch the refuse workers on my street whenever I can. This is because their job demands that they run. Run really, really fast.

The bin loaders run down the street, collecting groups of bins together, loading the bins onto the bin wagon, putting bins back onto the road (in a lovely neat row. See image, plus weeds!), and running off – really fast — to the next group of bins. Their pace is set by the driver of the wagon who keeps his (it’s always been a he so far) vehicle moving all the time. This morning I passed as the loaders were heading to the next road. I think sprinting is the best description of their speed between streets.

Sociology has had a great deal to say about time and the control of work, drawing on other disciplines like history and economics too. We can look to EP Thompson’s (1967) seminal work on the introduction of ‘clock time’ into the workplace, with hours and minutes taking over the organization of work tasks rather than the task itself. Sociologists have explored the impact of ‘Taylorism’ and its time and motion studies on how work was organized and experienced in factories, including when the quest for time efficiencies was picked up by Henry Ford and introduced into his car plants via the moving assembly line. Sociologists have carried out some great research into how workers’ experience their work time (such as Miriam Glucksmann’s account of working on an assembly line in her book Women on the Line –first published under her pseudonym at the factory of Ruth Cavendish (1982)). Sociology has been fascinated with the speeding up of our working lives, and it has long asked crucial questions over whether our lives more generally are becoming more rushed or more leisurely (e.g. Veblen, 1963). And, of course, what role does profit accumulation play in any speed up?

Back to bins. My parents have lived in the same house for about 40 years now. They can’t get the wheelie bins out themselves anymore, so they have help from the local Council. So do many of those living along their street. Now, one of ‘the bin lads’ rushes ahead of the bin wagon to open the gates of those properties that are allowed help, to go and get the bins and place them out on the road. He puts the bins back after they are emptied, and closes the gates. Even with this weekly help, my mam and dad don’t know the names of any of the ‘lads’ anymore, not like they used to. ‘They are like whirlwinds these days’, my dad reports ‘in and out’. My parents still leave a tip each Christmas: a couple of pounds on top of the wheelie bin.

This all reminds me of a lovely study by Ian McIntosh and John Broderick. In a 1996 article they discussed what happened at work when Southburgh Borough Council contracted out its cleansing and refuse collections (in 1988). In particular, they detail the increased workload experienced by refuse collection workers and street cleaners. The refuse collection workers saw huge increases in the number of properties that they had to cover each day. McIntosh and Broderick note that the bin wagon now moved constantly in order to complete the routes in time. There was no time anymore for cups of tea from and with householders; no more biscuits, Christmas tips, chats and helping with odd jobs. Currently, Brendan Burchell is carrying out some great analysis of survey data to explore work intensification over the years and also in diverse societies. At the Work, Employment and Society conference in 2010, he reported that one of the questions he is most interested in is how much time we report having to work ‘at high speed’ in our jobs. I wonder what the bin loaders would report.

References

1. Burchell, B.J. (2006) Work Intensification in the UK. In D. Perrons, C Fagan, L McDowell K Ray and K Ward (Eds) Gender divisions and working time in the new economy. Cheltenham, UK: Edward Elgar.
2. Cavendish, R. (1982) Women on the Line, London: Routledge and Kegan Paul.
3. McIntosh, I and Broderick, J. (1996) ‘Neither one thing nor the other’: compulsory competitive tendering and Southburgh Cleansing Services, Work, Employment and Society, 10, 3, 413–430.
4. Thompson, E.P. (1967) ‘Time, work-discipline and industrial capitalism’ Past and Present: a Journal of Scientific History, 38, pp.56–176.
5. Veblen, T. (1963) The Theory of the Leisure Class, London: New English Library Limited (published originally in 1899).

Does he think the job of a librarian is so simple, so empty of content, that anyone can step up and do it for a thank-you and a cup of tea? Does he think that all a librarian does is to tidy the shelves? And who are these volunteers? Who are these people whose lives are so empty, whose time spreads out in front of them like the limitless steppes of central Asia, who have no families to look after, no jobs to do, no responsibilities of any sort, and yet are so wealthy that they can commit hours of their time every week to working for nothing? Who are these volunteers? Do you know anyone who could volunteer their time in this way? If there’s anyone who has the time and the energy to work for nothing in a good cause, they are probably already working for one of the voluntary sector day centres or running a local football team or helping out with the league of friends in a hospital. What’s going to make them stop doing that and start working in a library instead?

(read more from Pullman)

The second piece is a diagram and it reminds me that unpaid work is not only done by people for ‘good causes’, (and I have argued that even those working unpaid for ‘good causes’ were not simple altruists giving free time Taylor 2005). Unpaid work is done by anyone involved in a creative occupation or industry — musicians, artists, webdesigners, actors, writers — their work is their life, it is who they are, and who they are is defined by their work (Taylor and Littleton 2008 ). They continually cross the boundaries between paid and unpaid work, navigating between the need to earn a living and pay the rent, and the need to do what they do, and be recognised for what they do by their peers. They serve symbolic unpaid apprenticeships ‘working for free’, getting themselves known so they can eventually make money doing what they love, or they do something they don’t love so they can support the unpaid creative work they do. And here is Jessica Hische at http://shouldiworkforfree.com helping them (with tongue firmly in cheek) through the minefield of decisions about which unpaid jobs to do…and which to avoid:

Thanks Jessica.

References

1. Taylor, R. F. (2005) Rethinking Voluntary Work in Pettinger, L., Parry, J., Taylor, R. F. and Glucksmann, M. (eds.) (2005) A New Sociology of Work? Oxford: Blackwell.
2. Taylor, S. and Littleton, K. (2008), Art work or money: Conflicts in the construction of a creative identity. The Sociological Review, 56: 275–292.

At work

Forty years on, Davide is running the place. He’s the third generation of his family to do so. The Old Coffee, in the Castello area of Cagliari, Sardinia, was originally set up by his great uncle more than 100 years ago. In due course, Davide’s father took over, and then after the death of his mother, Davide gave up his studies to work alongside his father. He remarks on how it was one of those decisions that you make at the time and don’t see the way it’s shaping your life.

‘So what’s it like to work here?’ I ask him repeatedly on my visits to the caffè, trying to fathom the combination of constraint and autonomy that mark his life. ‘L’amo e l’odio. I love it and hate it.’ It’s a line he uses often. It’s demanding, first, in terms of presence. Someone has to be there. It’s almost always him although occasionally he is helped by a nephew. ‘If I want to go somewhere, I can just close up,’ he says. Of course it’s true in principle but it’s difficult to follow through in practice. He always needs to be ahead of himself too, managing stock for what’s happening next week and into the future. But he also has to think of today, to be ready for the rhythms of coffee consumption, panini at lunchtime, apertivi and so on. He’s open from 9am to 9pm in the week, closing for a few hours on Saturday afternoon, then all day on Sunday. Plus he needs to be present in a different kind of way, available to listen to customers who come in for a moment of contact and perhaps some understanding. Even if he doesn’t always feel like it, he sees this as part of his role.

It’s very visible to the stranger’s eye how well he takes care of the place. Some of the original furnishings are in tact and the built-in display cabinets are especially unusual. Not only are they beautiful in themselves but Davide has filled them with an extraordinary collection of objects. ‘Will you tell me something about what’s here?’ I ask, pointing to a wall of cabinets, dark wooden doors at the bottom, and glass-panelled ones at the top. ‘They are things I like,’ he explains. ‘Look, here are some sweet jars like the ones we used to have. And this, well this was my grandmother’s.’ He opens a door and takes out a cup and saucer from a coffee service. It’s complete, he points out, including small plates, a jug and sugar bowl, and is around 130 years old. I hold a cup – carefully. It’s quirky and beautiful with an uneven decorated rim that would make it impossible to drink from!

If some of the objects in the caffè are living connections to the past, a past which is both Davide’s personal history, memories and relationships, and the history of the caffè itself, others have come to be there more directly from the former life of the caffè: old drinks signs and trays, as well as some pictures and photographs. There is a third kind of object there too: things that Davide has ‘lived’ that he likes to see in the present. There is a set of old records (vinyl), and various collections from hobbies and interests, for instance radios and cameras. This all adds up to the caffè being a repository of other lives and other dimensions of life as well as an everyday workplace and a space of consumption.

‘What of the future then?’ I ask at some point. Davide’s sons are established in their own fields of study and work and there is, at the moment at least, no one in line to take the place on when the time is right. He does not know what will happen. In the meantime though, Davide has made this place his own, whilst maintaining this family tradition through his work.

I’d been told on a previous visit (at the wrong time to see any fish) that there are different rhythms to the fishing: the smallest boats come in at around 6.30pm and the larger ones which fish at night arrive back before dawn. ‘Are you arriving or leaving?’ I ask a man on a boat with a light on and the engine chugging. ‘Stiamo per partire. We’re just off,’ he replies. But there’s time for a chat.

I’m getting used to the topics and tone of these exchanges. There’s a tension in the air as the boat is readied for departure in the dark, and the weather, which is mild and calm for now, is an ever-present and unpredictable companion. They take the small boat. It’s just one of so many different judgements to be made, even before they set off. The boat is exposed and has just enough room for the two fishermen and a decent haul. ‘We don’t have higher-level qualifications,’ the skipper says, ‘but there’s a lot of skill in all this.’ He talks about the nets and how to manage them, the boat’s instruments and how to interpret them, and of course how to read the weather and decide when it’s time to return to shore, and how to manage the crew in times of danger and ensure everyone gets back safely. Then there’s the difficulty of getting a good price for what you’ve caught, even to get people to appreciate the difference between fish caught like this and those that are farmed or imported. It’s a hard way to make a living, and a dying tradition, he says.

‘What time will you be back in the morning?’ I ask
‘At 4.30 or 5am,’ he replies.
‘I’ll try and come.’
‘Do you struggle to get up early then?’ He’s casually making a distinction between us.
‘In somma…’

Another fisherman who’s not going out that night but who’s hanging around the docks says: ‘I’ll probably be around too. I can’t sleep on land.’

I resolve to make an effort. With an early night, I can manage an early start, I think. I set the alarm for just after 4…

Thursday, 2 December
It takes until nearly half past 4 to drag myself from the bed but I’m back at the docks by 10 to 5. The boats are already in.

‘We came back at 4’, the skipper I was talking to last night explains, ‘I didn’t like what the weather was doing.’ They’re washing octopus, squid, sole, prawns, and the odd scorfano (scorpion fish) on board, then packing them into open polystyrene boxes and lifting them ashore. The sale has already been arranged, and there’s a man waiting. He produces a set of scales from his van, and there’s some mumbled negotiation.

‘So what now?’ I ask the skipper. ‘Is your working day done?’
‘For now’, he replies. His mate will clean the boat. ‘Do you want some sole?’
‘Sure!’ I get given what feels like 2 or 3 kilos. ‘Thank you!’
‘When there’s enough, we can give some away.’
‘So when do you next go out?’
‘Friday,’ he says.
‘Maybe see you Saturday morning then, but a bit earlier I think!’

I go home and back to bed, starting the day again a couple of hours later – a day in which I know I’ll have a good dinner!

Saturday, 4 December
It was pretty windy last night and I wonder if there will have been much fishing. But I decide to get up and go and see anyway. This turns out to be the coldest – and earliest – morning I’ve known since I’ve been here. 5 degrees, a street sign tells me, at 4.30am. I don’t see the boat from earlier in the week but there’s another, larger one just in.

‘How was the night?’ I ask.
‘Fredda. Cold.’
‘How much colder is it at sea?’
‘Un bel po. Quite a bit.’
‘Where did you go?’
‘Vicino. Tempo brutto. Close by. Bad weather.’

The man I am talking to looks and sounds exhausted. It was a rough night after at the end of a long week. And the catch was small. It takes less than 5 minutes to load it into the waiting van for it to be taken to the wholesale market.

I’m about to head home when I notice there’s a caffè open on the Via Roma opposite the docks. I go in and order a caffè latte.

‘Do you always open a 5am?’ I ask.
‘No, at 4.30,’ replies a very professional-looking barrista.
‘My goodness, that is an early start every day,’ I remark.
‘You get used to it,’ he smiles.

I drink a perfect coffee then go home, gratefully, and back to bed.

You need these…	and these…
and these…	and these…
and these…	and these…
and these…

And once those neat piles on the ground have been rendered vertical, you need gear…

to climb…

But take your time.

However, I’ve never met an economist with a reasonable explanation for human behaviour. Alcock suggests that working hours are subject to an income effect and a substitution effect (either an increase in your hourly pay makes you work more hours because you get more back, or the same increase makes you cut hours because you can maintain your standard of living with less effort). Implicit in this is the naive assumption that people choose their working hours.

The waiters, shelf-fillers and road-sweepers whose wages are falling, are working in organisations that don’t permit them to choose hours. They’re likely to work for companies which strictly control overtime, possibly working where flexibilised working time is imposed, and they may be on a zero hours contract with no say over when and how long they work for. Purcell et al (1999) found that manual and lower skilled workers were less able to control their working hours, and benefited less from flexibilisation. The economists mantra of choice gets in the way of understanding labour market experiences.

References

1. Purcell, K, Hogarth, T. and Simm, C (1999) ‘The costs and benefits of ‘non-standard’ employment’. Joseph Rowntree Foundation.

In Saturday Night and Sunday Morning, (Sillitoe, 1960 [1958]), Arthur is proud of work, his speed, his skill on the capstan lathe, the secret of his extra fat pay packet, and so he think he’s cock of the pub come Saturday night, where he can down the pints, fall down the stairs and still go home with his married lover Brenda.

He knows Saturday night shouldn’t feel like Monday morning. And he knows that Saturday night demands the pay back of Sunday morning. Sunday morning is no redemption though, it’s hangover and a sprint out the door before her husband comes home, and then perhaps fishing trip, these are the counterbalance to the routine of work and pub.

You may be familiar with the idea that the standard 9 to 5, Monday to Friday working week is less common than once it was. Shift work, part time work and the need for workers to facilitate the consumption activities of those who have a weekend holiday from work are all evidence of detraditionalisation and flexibilisation, although there are those who think the level of change is overstated (Bradley et al, 2000: 51–70). But obviously people work on Saturdays.

I hate working on Saturdays. I used to, my first job was in a lean-to makeshift garage, where I checked for flaws in new clothes. I was 13. Later, I worked Saturdays in a car showroom as the meet and greet girl, and then in a bar. And I liked it sometimes, but I can’t work Saturdays now. Sundays are different. A bit of marking, some reading, I don’t mind. Sundays are dull anyway. But the mythology of the Good Saturday that I like to live with doesn’t permit for this day to let me work. The Good Saturday, however, cannot simply be understood as leisure time, defined as freedom from work (Parker, 1983). Saturday is festival time. Gadamer describes the festival as autonomous time, time which has its own rhythm, which exists not to be spent but to be experienced. Festival time is not unpredictable, or freefloating, only different to the temporality of other days. My manifesto for a Good Saturday does not mean ignoring the norms of work (routine and obligation), but playing with them to make saturday feel like festival time.

My manifesto: the paper, always the same. Breakfast that takes time (this is work). Spontaneity — though spontaneity needn’t mean an absence of order. Putting things in order (this is work). Being surprised. Seeing what happens. A trip out. A pint too early in the day. Noting and remarking on the absence of work. Letting things take longer than they need. These make for an ordinary sort of Saturday festival. The festival, says Gadamer is a community experience (this is why all football matches should start at 3pm on Saturday), but not everyone can share my good Saturday, they have to be willing to let time stretch without apparent end. Who’s free this weekend?

References

Bradley, H. Erickson, M. Stephenson, C. and Williams, S. (2002) Myths at Work. Polity: Cambridge.
1. Gadamer, H. G. (1986) The Relevance of the Beautiful and other essays. Trans. Nicholas Walker. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
2. Parker, S. (1983) Leisure and Work. London : Allen & Unwin.
3. Sillitoe, A. (1960) Saturday Night and Sunday Morning. Pan Books, Ltd, London.