It's a little after the event, but here's April's column for the Derby Telegraph in which I wonder whether I've made the right decision. Something I spend most of my life wondering ;-)
and this is the unedited version:
There was a lot that I really
liked about Wesley's in Victoria Crescent, Burton back in the 1970s. I liked the people and the quirkiness of the
building. I loved the ancient machinery
and the odd terms associated with paper manufacture (like reams and 'knocking
up'). The only thing I really wasn't
happy about was the pay, which was abysmal.
You might wonder why I was
bothered about how much I earned? After
all, I lived at home and paid a modest amount of 'board', had no expenses other
than my bus fare, money for cigarettes and a few pints (well, quite a few
actually). The answer could be found on
a Saturday night at the Transport Club.
Here, in the Lounge, gathered all of my mates and some mates of my
mates, along with their respective wives/girlfriends. This made for a most convivial evening but I
found that buying a round pretty much wiped out all of my disposable income for
the rest of the week!
It wasn't just about the money,
either. Most of my friends (even Kev)
had secured good jobs with the Department of Employment (or whatever title it
went by in those days) initially in the Labour Exchange in Cross Street and
then in the Job Centre in New Street. Their
jobs had clear career paths, promotion to higher levels was on offer as was the
opportunity to try other roles at the same grade to expand their knowledge and
experience. They were perpetually going
on training courses. I barely had enough
work to last me through the week and had never been trained to do anything.
On the grounds of 'if you can't
beat them, join them', I went to talk to a manager in the Department. Unfortunately, it soon became clear that the
Civil Service's rules of entry were designed to keep me out. You had to have 5 'O' Levels or their
equivalent to join as a Clerical Officer.
Unfortunately, my 3 'O' levels and 2 'A' levels were in the same
subjects, which meant they didn't count.
Therefore, if I was to join, it could only be as a Clerical Assistant,
the lowest of the low, at a salary even lower than the miserable amount
Wesley's provided me with. On
reflection, this would have been a good move but at 22 I was not thinking in
the long term, I just needed enough to buy a round on a Saturday night.
My eye was caught by an
advertisement for a Cost Clerk at Grants of St. James's in Station Street. A couple of interviews later, I was
astonished to be offered the job as a Cost Clerk/Assistant Section Leader. What did this involve? I had no idea and still wasn't sure 2½ years
later when I left. The attraction, to me
however, was that I would be doubling my salary, would have a generous
allowance of wines and spirits and would be closer to home. Taking all of that into account, the fact
that I didn't know anything about the job seemed of little importance.
I can still remember the day that
I left Wesley's. It was a warm summer
evening as I walked out of my office and headed down the loading bank for the
last time. I looked back at the familiar
bulk of the Victorian former Crescent Brewery and my heart sank. Why, I wondered, was I leaving somewhere that
I loved and knew so well, just for a few more pounds in my pocket. I had a sinking feeling that I might be
making a very big mistake.
If you're wondering how I got the
job at Grants', despite having little relevant experience and no knowledge of
what the job entailed? So was I, but I
think it became clear on my first morning when the Department Head remarked
that he had seen my dad on his way to work that morning. As my dad was 'between engagements' and was
still in bed when I left home, I realised he must be talking about my uncle
with whom, apparently, he was great friends.
You could see his face fall when I told him but he covered it well.
