This is a diary I kept over four days volunteering in Help Refugees’ warehouse in Calais. This trip was my friend Jo’s idea, inspired by seeing Refugee @hassan_akkad speak at the Letters Live. The experience had a profound effect on my definition of what ‘fulfilling work’ really means, and I strongly encourage you to make time to volunteer. Here’s why.
So it’s 3am, and I’m awake in that way your body always wakes you up ahead of something you know you really NEED to be up for. And it’s pitch black outside, because it’s the dead of night.
And then I’ve fallen asleep again because I’ve woken up again, because it’s 3.45. And Jo’s Mum has literally put Tea-making facilities out in the spare room (amazing) and while I don’t bother with the little kettles you get in hotels, this tea is not optional. I really, really need that tea. And it’s good.
And I’m downstairs and Jo and me are laughing in the dark, because it’s 4 o’clock in the frigging morning. We drive through the streetlit dark wondering where all the other cars are going at this time of night.
And we’re in the salty air of Dover passing through Border control and they ask us if we’re just going for the day. No, we’re volunteering. Oh right. And the Policeman stood next to the security guard leans out and asks us to pull round in the lay-by in front, and it’s nothing serious. Of course you’re then like…oh my god. We English don’t like a border grilling. We’re fine. Arent we? Aren’t we fine? We’re both totally fine with this. Why aren’t we fine with this? Are there like, political aspects we need to be aware of? Do I need documents? Are we allowed to do this? Is he just trying to make it harder for us?
And reasonably serious and really very well-intentioned policeman is asking where we’re from, and who we’re volunteering with, and is happy we’re doing it for a charity. He’s giving us advice, perhaps under an assumption that our plan was to drive our little hatchback into the centre of the Jungle and open the boot, and make teas and take selfies. He hints that there is an air of desperation there, which isn’t something I’d have thought needed hinting at. They’re not taking things in the spirit they’re intended, he says, with his wide open blue eyes. Silence, as we stare not quite sure what to say to that. What reaction is he looking for, we wonder. Are we to agree? It’s getting…feral, there. Feral. Just be careful, alright? We will. Thank you for your advice officer.
Do people do that? Do people just drive their Vauxhall Zafiras into the camps to hand out bags of crisps, without organisation, without an organisation?
And so we find ourselves checked into the warehouse and being put to an organised task.
The warehouse and its people are pretty wonderful, as you might expect from a wholly benevolent volunteer operation whose sole purpose is to increase the comfort, health and hygiene of desperate people. It’s lived in and custom made, and there are young and old, French, German, English, Spanish, Canadian, all together, smiling and working like a big family, with nobody getting paid. Imagine Glastonbury in a distribution centre — it’s like that. It’s pretty great.
Our task was to build Men’s Kits, a little bin bagged essentials kit given to people newly entering the camps or in desperate need of a change of clothes, with a comprehensive cross section of basics — key warm clothes, and toiletries. And it’s strange coming from the world of tertiary industry work to spending your day doing something where someone tasks you with putting all your efforts into creating as many packs of basic human essentials as you can, as they’ll be going to people who really need them. And it’s that the sum total of your days efforts…all the little sorties to search for additional scarves, the hey I’d better check thats, a thousand thank yous, all the little interstitial missions and problem solving involved with keeping a production line running…those efforts directly result in piles and piles of filled bins loaded with essentials, which are ready by the door to get loaded onto trucks and then to get handed to people.
The task is laughably simple, though the route to complete it is riddled with problem solving, and your humming legs at the end of the day are directly related to to the volume of those filled bins. And you think…Just look what we made today, and it’s wholly good.
We spend the majority of our lives working. I can’t honestly point to a more satisfying day of work in my life.
Jules (the warehouse leader’s) thought for the day today is a particularly meaty one.
Here’s an inevitable fact. one day…you will die. And be forgotten. You will definitely die, and definitely be forgotten. Your children will remember you, yes, but only until they are forgotten too. And history will be written, of course, but history is also rewritten. So your aim in life should be to please one person: to please you. Please yourself, in the best sense of the word. You are all the centres of your own personal universe, and there is no shame in admitting that. Therefore what you should do is whatever you need to do in order to be happy, and nothing, nothing will be as gratifying as the act of helping another human. What you are doing here is fantastic. The energy we create here powers this and makes it happen. So go out and make it happen.
We need kitmakers, she also says.
They’re awesome, Carys says pointing at us. Which was a nice thing to say.
Noticing the ghostly tally charts of kitmakers past we’d found in our kitmaking workzone, apparently on a good day a team makes around 100 men’s kits, and seems happy with that. With reasonably available stock (ie. some hunting), ours managed 338 by the time it was time to leave yesterday.
Everyone there is a volunteer, so nobody puts any pressure on you to perform and work faster. But that doesn’t stop you embracing a certain pressure to do your part or more, in the time you have made available. And if you’re only here for a few days, you’ve really just got to haul your ass and get on with it, right? I guess what I’m trying to say is I wouldn’t be content with just making 100 kits in eight hours. Maybe those ghostly teams of teams past just didn’t have enough stock, or only had two people. Whatever the case I didn’t want to think I’d been given a job to help people, and I helped with only “reasonable” effort.
I smile in appreciation, and ask how many kits we need to make today.
Now 1000…is a lot, when you’re so low on men’s scarves that you’re hunting for boxes of women’s and picking out the neutral options to make your kits happen. And every kit needs a scarf. Since the operation is reliant on donations then the reality is you don’t always have enough of what you need, which halts production. They need thousands more kits than they actually have.
We will try, we say. Knowing full well that we will.
In the early afternoon it becomes obvious that the warehouse population has dwindled slightly since this morning. Where is everyone, out in the camp? People walk, Carys says. They get tired quickly or get put in the warehouse, and don’t fancy working in a warehouse. That’s a pretty harsh thought though, don’t you think? That you would go to all the effort (which is actually quite minimal) required in order to be there, more that you would tell your friends you were going, then bolt when you were faced with the obvious reality that some of what is required of you is simple, repetitive work. All the tasks lead to aid getting out more efficiently, and so in greater numbers. It is all important work, everything. What DO people come here for? What do they say to their friends when they come home early?
Do you want to go visit the camps, someone asks, as we I sit in the sunshine with our lunch.
Not really, no, I say. I’d be a bit afraid, to be honest.
Going to the camps is possible. If you’re there for a few days and haven’t been tasked with something that requires you go, it can potentially be arranged. But the very fact it needs to be arranged because you’re asking to go, is dangerously close to spectating. Like going to a zoo. And the last thing marginalised, tormented and desperate people need is feeling like a tourist attraction.
And by all accounts it is most certainly not a tourist attraction. I learned that one of the functions of the men’s kit is to give clean clothes to people who have caught mites, the dealing of which in part requires basically boiling your clothes. Which as you can imagine isn’t practical or possible to do in the Jungle, or that the jungle makes it easy to stay clean full stop. I admit that I would like to see it. But I just don’t need to go. Going to see it means we are not doing the thing we’ve gotten good at doing here. I can be genuinely helpful here, making the things they will need to help get over the reasons why I am reluctant to go.
We were slowed today by a lack of hygiene kits to pack, caused by a lack of loo roll. All donations used up. Gone. Let me use this as an aside to commend East Lothian council for sending amazingly well pre-labelled and pre-sorted donations including pre-packed mini kits (amongst a great deal else). Your aid came in, and the mini-kits got immediately handed to us (as they form part of the Men’s Kit), and due to labelling was just instantly ready to use, we literally directly inserted them into packs we were building and they’ll be given out within a few days. You are amazing, East Lothian council.
So due to the loo paper shortage, Jo took a solo adventure to a supermarket so the hygiene kit team would have the means to build more hygiene kits to supply us, so we could build more men’s kits. Jo bought so much loo roll that the woman in Carrefour will have thought she had some terminal disease. And for the very same reason on the way home we stop to buy more deodorant and men’s shaving foam.
On the way there we notice Refugees running through the fields on the edge of town. They look like they’ve split off from another group gathered in a garage forecourt, who are wandering about in a way that suggests they haven’t particularly got a place to be. What are they doing there, we think?
A short moment later we see the serious-looking slicked back gendarmes screeching round corners, heading in the refugees’ direction in their little police cars. What are they going to do when they catch up with them, exactly?
We later hear that there was a traffic jam, and due to refugees trying to escape onto parked trucks, the authorities teargassed them.
The day before, driving along on a road on the north edge of town, we’d looked to our side and suddenly realised we were looking right out over the camp. It’s like, oh, Christ. There it is. And in the wide bare ground between the last shelters and the high barbed wire fences, a big group was playing cricket.
Then we’re pouring the shelfs-worth of deodorants and shaving foam into wheeliebaskets in Lidl. At first it’s fun to put ridiculous amounts of items in your basket, then I’m all too conscious it draws attention to us, and what we’re doing is most certainly not welcomed by everyone in town. I start thinking if we should have a story ready for them if they ask. I haven’t got the chops to prep it in French. Oui monsieur, we’re buying sixty cans of shaving foam because I really, really, really need to shave.
I was impressed by the checkout ladies’ efficiency and also conscious I found it second nature to be handed stacks of items and get them quickly into bags. I said Desolé Madame to the lady patiently waiting behind us to complete our ridiculous purchase. She smiled genuinely and said it’s no problem, in English.
It begins with morning exercises which results in the entire team of volunteers holding hands and rolling themselves up into an enormous laughing human sausage roll. It ends with Jules saying emphatically that the purpose of having a goal in life is not necessarily reaching it in your lifetime but collectively working towards it, inch by inch. I don’t know if the Refugees will leave Calais even in my lifetime, she says, but just because I might not see it happen myself doesn’t mean I shouldn’t be building a future that supports it.
Someone tells a story of visiting the Jungle and meeting an incredibly sweet man who was a hotel manager before being forced out, and how he asked them to visit his shelter, and how everything was presented ready to receive guests. Receiving and entertaining guests was what he knew best, and loved. And sat in there, someone asked him what his hopes were for the future. Would he plan to escape? And he said no. He would simply be too afraid to take his chances with a truck, and with the police. It’s not really the fault of the police, it’s a system that has no provision for dealing with a refugee crisis. Real change can only come from the top down, in the meantime aid helps make things more bearable.
I grab Jules for a brief moment as she’s instructing a new team of people how to make kitchen kits for the day. I ask how many men’s kits we need to make today, and what size?
Do 300 in large, then come see me she says.
Cool. We can definitely do that, I say. Lots of large stock. I say we’ll make a metric f**kton. She says she likes these technical terms. We set about stocking up to begin a production run.
The warehouse has an adjoining kitchen. It has an air of military kitchen to it (not that I’ve ever been to a military kitchen in my whole sweet life, but when I imagine one it looks like this looks), and like the warehouse, it’s also staffed by volunteers. Daily, they feed thousands of people in the camps. Thousands. And so they feed us too — people need fuel, and a well-fuelled volunteer workforce can work harder. And when I say feed, I mean this is like the polar opposite of prison food. While getting my lunch I ask what is the side dish there, (because it looked a little like gruel), and they joked that it’s gruel. It’s mashed fresh parsnip. So as hot food goes, I rate the volunteer lunches there as pretty much top. It’s sheer plates of joy. It’s a metric f**kton of lentils and chickpeas and mushrooms and garlic (and sometimes meat when they have it), it’s balanced and all made fresh, from scratch from raw things, not from packets. I’ve obviously never been to prison either, you know, but I imagine the food is pretty shit. I’m glad to think some refugees get to eat as well as this, and today is no exception. Around 1pm we’re approaching 200 kits, and I’m decanting Large Men’s Kits into rubble sacks by the warehouse entrance, and becoming aware of an indescribably delicious aroma wafting from the kitchens. I actually need to stop and spend a moment paying attention to it, it smells so good. I ate so much today I almost needed to lie down, but the work keeps you real busy, and soon the food is being put to use.
By the way, on the first day, don’t be afraid of the tea and cereal area. On your first day you’re stood around with everyone feeling a bit like the new kid at school while everyone’s powering into it like they own it, and nobody explains that that’s because it’s for you. You power the warehouse for free, so they power you for free. Power through the free breakfast, it’s free. Just wash your cups up after.
So as we’re getting through the large kits, we’re getting through men’s scarves. And there aren’t any more boxes of men’s appearing from the sorting area. There is quite frankly an overabundance of women and children’s clothing and a dearth of men’s, and its predominantly men in the camps. We surmise that people ‘think of the women and children first’, but the simple reality is that it just is mainly men in there, and in terms of clothes it’s men that need to be provided for. We never had enough scarves and gloves. So where you’re building a care package that requires the inclusion of a men’s scarf, and you’re seeing boxes and boxes of women’s scarves, what other option is there? You start opening women’s scarf boxes and picking out the gender neutral options. And today I discover several blindingly gender-neutral scarves in a box that were also packed today. And that’s frustrating when you’re so desperate for men’s clothes. And I’m going over to the people who packed it to explain this. And as I’m going over to them I’m suddenly having to remind myself that everyone is a volunteer. Do not be an asshole as they have no idea why you feel strongly that they should categorise certain scarves as gender neutral. They don’t know men’s are in short supply. And so it’s the way you communicate this that is all important, I’m thinking. Don’t. Be. A. Dick. Don’t criticise. Just explain. Be positive about it. Almost every day is most people’s first day on the job in this place. And as if some part of me that knew the words started talking, I just started blurting out, Guys I’m making Men’s Kits at the moment and I need a massive favour if you can please please help. And I explain what we’re doing and that how we’re so desperate for Men’s scarves so any ones they’re in two minds about, do just go with men’s as it’ll help us out. And look at these ones as good examples which are totes good as men’s. Bright colours are fine. And it was fine. It occurred to me how many different approaches and most importantly tones of voice you can take, and how critical and simple it is to not assume people know the issues further on down the chain, make it sound like you really are just asking for a favour, not having a go. Be pleasant to everyone you meet. Don’t have a go. Because you really are just doing that, and they’re working hard, for no money. Though what they’re working for is more important than money.
And you work alongside people who school you on positivity. Barbara from Canada says goodbye as I pass her, as today is her last day. Barbara is a real loss for the warehouse. She’s basically owned the Hygiene Kits and while the stock was good, kept us in perfect supply, and was nothing but humour, thanks, and gratefulness for any assistance in her work. She must be in her sixties, and has one of those faces that has clearly spent most of those years smiling. Jules is looking like a badass, arms bared, covered in mud, having swept rainwater out of the edge of the warehouse to make space to haul 14+ rubble bags piled with three days worth of Men’s Kit bags out single handedly. She’s managing the whole show, whilst breaking her back to get things sorted for the days ahead, given there are less volunteers today than ever. I am in awe of her dedication to it, her energy. Some people are like a bottomless well.
Packing kits you see a lot of fashions pass. I pack t-shirts and jumpers into the kits I would totally wear. I’m like, this guy is gonna look like a complete dude. But in picking clothes, where generally speaking all the clothes are unique, you have to be careful to sort for fairness and balance. I’m thinking, don’t give someone only thick socks, as it might not fit their shoes. Give a mix. You try to think about how it will be received, that it is for a person, and you don’t want anyone to feel like they drew the short straw. So the question is not could a man wear this, but would a man wear this. The attitude is not “they’ll wear anything”. Don’t demean and embarrass people. The hideous itchy Christmas jumper with snowmen and sequins might have been technically warm but it most certainly did not go into a kit, and we still made 377 kits today.
We worked really bloody hard to make that number, and I’m constantly ferrying full shopping trolleys of completed kits that Margot, Amelia and Jo are pumping out, ready to be loaded up on a distribution run. I’m outside, dragging another pallet into the warehouse so I can load up a new rubble sack onto it, and I stop for a moment, in the glorious sunshine outside. It’s a beautiful hot day. In the distance I hear the nee-naw of sirens. And I’m trying to work out from the doppler effect which way they’re going. Are they coming our way…or their way?
Tomorrow is our last day, and we’re thinking of our ‘legacy’, without sounding like a dick. As in, we’ve been successful making kits, but the amount that is actually required is far, far more. How can we make future kit builders more efficient, and keep up a run rate?
I feel like I’ve been here forever. Not in a bad way, only in the way that new experiences expand time. The real world really does feels a long, long way away. And I try to quantify this strange sense of purpose I’ve felt. I think about what is the lasting legacy of our normal day jobs? Of yours? I’ve never really sat down and thought about how ‘spiritually’ fulfilling my day job is, but of course working for a charity has such a built-in significance. I’ve just never done it before. Its function is so fundamentally at odds to any other type of work, because every other job exists to turn a profit, not to simply improve people’s lives. And I think, looking over all the kit bags we’ve made so far, you can’t help but think…quite literally, when something so gratifying is something I can clearly do…what am I actually doing with my life?
We’re walking through Calais in the early evening, and I’m in a T-shirt and jacket, and despite it not being that late yet, I’m getting cold. And I put my hands in my pockets because I don’t have any gloves. It occurred to me that if I had to bear this through all the way until morning, I would be extraordinarily grateful for a jumper, some layers, some gloves, and a scarf.
It’s our last day today.
We do our morning stretches, and it’s time to divide the roles for the day.
Men’s kits people keep doing men’s kits.
Cool. what size, how many?
As many as you can do, Jules says. In small.
No worries, I say, worried. Because I know the small stock is rinsed.
On the whole, I think British people tend to be big old vikings, or maybe we’ve all been slimming and are throwing away our old clothes at the moment, because the predominant size donation seems to be large (if it’s men’s at all). Problem is that a majority of Refugees are small and medium. In terms of small we had barely anything left on the shelves.
It’s deeply frustrating. You want to work hard but you can’t. So we end up resorting to the technique required for scarves, only this time it’s jumpers: go through women’s boxes and pinch the ones we can make work as men’s. There are so few volunteers today, there’s barely any sorters so we know that fresh supply coming in from the “mountain”, that is the colossal pile of unsorted donations will be minimal. You stand and look at the mountain and think that in there, somewhere, will be more than enough to let us churn out a couple of hundred, but it’s the sheer time intensive labour to get through it. Sorting is frankly a pretty dull job, but it’s essential. It’s a lynchpin. Without it, nothing gets to the refugees because everything has to be sorted and categorised to be accessible for all the other teams at work distributing aid. If they could magically have a thousand people and ten times the room, that pile could get done in an hour. But they don’t.
So we’re in the excess warehouse, where surplus stock gets stored long term. It’s filled with women’s clothing. Me and Jo are going through boxes of women’s jumpers with a cardboard strip with marks that denote the size appropriate for small, medium and large. You measure armpit to armpit. It’s nearly 11am and no kits have been made today.
There’s a feeling of tension, like we’re clutching at straws, like we’ve been told to bake a cake but only have flour, and we have to substitute every other ingredient but still make something edible. I’m not cool with less than 100 kits today. After what feels like an age, we’re close filling a shopping trolley with passable gender neutral jumpers in small. I’m checking my watch regularly. This stress is generated entirely personally, certainly not descended from management. You just feel an obligation to be useful.
We return to the packing station with our full trolley. We’ve taken up in a second location which has moved from medical kit construction to secondary men’s kit construction spot, but it lacks some of the conveniences of the primary spot. So we add them in, with an improvised rubble sack holding zone made from pallets. We create a new Mens Kit manufacturing sign, which incorporates some of our system tweaks born from our time there. I write “It should take no more than 20 secs to fill a bag”, to convey the sense of production urgency that should be felt, without saying “work harder”. And the all-important one: “You can make 300+ kits in a day with 4 people and good stock”. I hope folks get the hint, and I hope they have good stock.
We power through our gender neutral clothes until all the jumpers are gone, sensing this is it for us making kits this week. I look at the final tally. Only 77 today.
That’s lame. We’re deflated, but it’s not our fault, and those 77 were hard won, effectively pulled out of thin air. After all, us and other teams have just rinsed the existing stock, is all. There simply isn’t more coming in from the sorters in the sizes we need.
So we move to making mini-kits, which are hats, gloves, scarves and socks, and quickly all the scarves are gone. And then we really are done.
And yet I’m down about our last day, though I know I shouldn’t be.
So with nothing left to pack, we are moved to other jobs for the first time. I’m on sorting — which is standing at tables literally sorting through clothes handed to you, deciding how to categorise, measuring the size with marks laid on the table top, and putting them in little tubs ready to be boxed when the tubs fill up. And I can’t help but notice how slowly they fill for small and medium, vs. large.
People send some strange and frankly ill-advised things. Animal onesies. Christmas jumpers. Swimming costumes (best we don’t encourage people to swim the channel, people die trying). Massive, tent-like, XXL t-shirts. As we are sorting jackets a French girl next to me pulls a knife out of one of the pockets. These things don’t go in.
Carys’ well-stocked iPod has run flat, and so the warehouse is silent but for the clatter of activity. And from the energising production line of making kits it’s a powerful change of scene to be sorting, without a beat to work to. Honestly, it’s hard. It’s repetitive, it’s basic, but it’s brightened by music and conversation once the categorisation becomes second nature. And I’m having to remind myself of the utter, utter importance of this job, and how the outcome is so at odds to the experience of doing it. Because it’s boring.
But without people stood at these tables sorting and categorising donations, the 30 foot pile mountain of donations increases and increases, yet goes to no-one. The boxes on the shelves disappear, and are not replaced. In the camp, mobile distribution vans turn away people who fit less-donated to sizes. You do not notice the boxes getting filled as you focus on the piles of clothes, but they are getting filled, so you have to just do your turn.
And little by little, large by large, I noticed as I slowly, laboriously fill a boxes-worth of small men’s long sleeve tops, something that would be worth it’s weight in gold in the hours previous. And hour passes, and I turn around, and I notice it had gone. It was being packed and labelled, and put on a shelf. Tomorrow was Saturday, and they get more volunteers at the weekends.
Donations permitting, they would soon be building small men’s kits again.
Day Five — Home.
And I’ve said goodbye to the warehouse, and I’m back walking on British soil in the sunshine on Saturday, trying to understand why I don’t feel like I even need a weekend.
I have never ‘worked harder’ in my life than over these last few days. Time expands with new experiences, and the sheer quantity of new experiences, faces and thoughts over the last four days has indeed made the time feel longer than its hours, but we’ve been so applied that it does not feel that they’ve dragged, at all. Nor do I feel the effects of the physical effort. But there is something else I feel which I am trying to understand.
I feel deeply content.
I honestly feel like I’ve been on holiday. I feel better than that, even. I’m looking strangers in the face, not politely avoiding their gazes, I’m smilingly at people. I feel peaceful. My mind is clearer. And I’m looking at homeless people thinking I should do something to help.
It’s weird. Why do I feel so good? What the hell is this?
And then a word bubbles up. And I think that this one single word really does describe how I’m feeling, and it explains why.
The word is “fulfilled”.
It’s an intensely calming sense of contentment. And I have never felt like this after a day of ‘work’ work in my life. This is more like the feeling of regular meditation. And along with this calm and peace bubbles up that prickly little question.
What is the meaning of your working life?
When you lay dying, and look back on a lifetime of work, of stress, of eight hours of work you put in a day for thousands and thousands and thousands of days, all that mental and physical effort just to please your boss, to not get fired, and to think…
Hey, how did it make me feel?
Am I proud of it?
Did any of it matter?
Well, uh, I, uh, certainly, I made some money, you’d say. I can say that much. I made some money. Not much, of course. But some. And a tiny pile of money may be the primary legacy of all those precious hours. An average wage, and a lingering sense of resentment that you had to do it just to pay the bills.
And sure, money enables things, it enables charity if you choose to spend it that way, but EARNING money doesn’t fulfil you. You might like your job, and I like my job, but it’s never made me feel like this. This feeling is bizarre, alien, at odds to any feeling directly following hard work I’ve ever done in my life.
And it’s because the entire fruit of the work I’ve done this week is to help desperate people feel a tiny bit better about their lives. And It makes you feel different, too. Helping people pays nothing but fills the soul. It really does. I stood in the sunshine and thought it is unquestionably the best work you can do.
During her morning briefing, Jules always talks about the people who come here in order to see the camp. And I understand why they want to do that, because I feel the same pull. You’re curious. You want to see it for yourself. To ‘understand’.
But she says, unless you have been given a particular job to do which requires that you go, do not go to the camp. Don’t think you will go to understand the camp better. In an hour, you will not understand the camp any more than before you went in. Nobody can fully understand the camp. And if you are there, you are there to do a job only. You do not take pictures. These are people, just like you, and who are deeply affected by their experiences, they are not a tourist attraction. Do not ask them to tell you their story as in doing so, you require they re-live the horrors that led them to need to escape. You’re re-traumatising them, for nothing but your own savage curiosity. You are here to help them, and you are most help to them here, at the warehouse, she says. And while the work you do can be laborious and hard, it does something a normal job cannot do — the act of helping another person fills the soul, not the bank balance. So be here, and work hard.
And I’m thinking that pretty much nails it. We work a lot in our lives, and I’m sure you work very hard at your job. Can you say truly, honestly to yourself that your work makes you actually feel grateful for how you’re spending your precious hours on this earth? Can you honestly, seriously think of any pursuit more important, or gratifying than working your arse off in the pursuit of making people other than you feel better about their lives?
I spent money in order to work harder than I’ve ever worked in my life before, but I have never felt so fulfilled by any ‘job’ in my life before. It felt like this is what work is supposed to feel like.
We can all do more to help other people, and the best bit is you also do get something in return — you feel good about how you’re spending your precious time on Earth.
Final Men’s Kits counts made over four days by our teams:
Friday: 77 Men’s Kits, 106 Mini Kits.
Total 1,174 Men’s Kits in Four Days, Plus 106 Mini Kits.