First Saturday job, aged 15: local flying club, cleaning birdsh!t off the windscreens of clapped-out C150s, topping up oil, making bad coffee for the local crew of flying dentists and accountants whilst they looked out of the window at the clag. Laughable pay (even less than a present day AFI's, but only just), but every now and then the decidedly eccentric owner would throw me a headset and say "let's go flying". Not sure if his teaching methods/attitude would pass muster nowadays: on my second trip he took his hands and feet off as we started to roll, saying "I can't be bothered to do this takeoff, you do it". The club was based at Bham International. I must go back there one day and shell out bigdosh for handling fees so that I can see if I can get off this time without going diagonally across the runway...