Bob-a-Job and the Art of Keeping Busy

One of the more vivid memories of my childhood—apart from the time my mother tried to pass off a steamed sponge pudding as a birthday cake—is Bob-a-Job Week. It was a fixture of my existence as a Cub Scout, along with short trousers in winter and an unconvincing ability to tie knots. For those unfamiliar, a bob was a shilling (or twelve old pence, which, to anyone under forty, will sound like the sort of currency that required a wheelbarrow to transport). A job was exactly that—a task, a chore, an activity that adults could have quite easily done themselves but were instead willing to delegate to small boys in woggles for a negligible fee. The setup was simple: for one week in the school holidays, our Cub Pack would be set loose upon the village, clutching work cards, a sheaf of yellow stickers, and an earnest little speech from Akela about the virtues of public service. The aim was to secure as many Bob-a-Jobs as possible—anything from sweeping a garden path to washing a car or, i...