As June comes to an end the strawberries start to go downhill. There’s so many just sitting there in the fields that it would be a waste to let them all rot away. So we pick them all, hoping to make jam. For three hours I toil with some Mexican girls and I just about finish a bucket. The girls speak in Spanish to each other and laugh. I know what they’re laughing about. They’ve picked 4 buckets in the exact same space of time. I feel dejected.