IN MY early twenties, I got a job in a record shop. For a music enthusiast, it seemed like the ideal workplace. On my first day, the deputy manager made me clean the toilets, which hadn’t been cleaned for months. 

On the second day, he “accidentally” shoved me into the shelves behind the counter. All the CDs fell on top of me, and he told me off for being clumsy, made me put them back in order. 

On the third day, he referred a posh customer to me who was yelling and swearing about Mozart’s The Magic Flute. And so on, for the next few months — until I quit, feeling that I’d never be good at any job, if even working in music didn’t suit me.