Don't suppose it's allowed now: small boys getting invited into strangers' homes. The above post about paper rounds triggered off memories of Bob a Jobbing. As an eight year old in Brighton, I recall even all these years later, ranging far and wide by myself in Cubs uniform, knocking on doors clutching job card in hand and desperate to get all twenty spaces filled in so as to earn a pound. I did shopping, gardening, cleaned several bikes, washed several cars and polished someone's silverware. With one job to go, one space on my card needing to be filled and nineteen shillings earned, I then knocked on this door at the top of a hill. The male householder gave me some money and told me to go down to the bottom of the hill, buy some logs and bring them up. I remember the huge effort for a small boy in dragging this huge sack of logs back up but worst of all I remember the sixpence I was duly paid! I remember how crestfallen I felt that all the spaces on my job card were now filled and I hadn't earned my pound. I went home in tears. I now realise what a huge act of calculated meanness this was on the part of that householder: bastard. I expect he's now dead. Good!