Once long long ago my work took me to a quayside factory in Grimsby, where men in white coats lined long counters inside a vast hangar-like room, filleting fish. If you've ever tried filleting, say, plaice, you'll know how tricky it is, making sure you get close enough to the bone not to waste any flesh, without actually striking bone, which obviously the knife snags on. The few times I've tried, it's generally taken three or four minutes, and ended up with quite a ragged result and quite a lot of waste. These guys, each armed with a long, ancient knife about as thin as a razor and twice as sharp, would pick up a fish and slap it on the slab, then swish-swish-flip...swish, swish, in the tray. Five seconds? Something like that. It was mesmerising to watch. While I was discussing it with the guy who was showing me round, the air was suddenly filled with a thunderous noise, and we looked up to see every man in the place holding his knife upright, pounding on the counter with the handle. I looked at him quizzically. "Someone's knicked himself," he said. "And that's a tradition that goes back to the middle ages at least ..."
Later in the factory I watched ladies who pack vol-au-vent casings. Everything came down central conveyor belts that divided the desks where a dozen of them sat, six on each side, face to face. Take cardboard template, unfold into box, grab six casings (small dough disks) and line box - shuff, shuff, shuff - just like dealing cards - then a sheet of greaseproof paper, then another layer of casings - shuff, shuff, shuff - then top down on box, and onto conveyor. Repeat. For eight hours. Sounds like hell, but they seemed perfectly cheerful. Basically they got together with a bunch of their mates and nattered all day, while their hands did something they were barely even aware of...