Charity bags

I've just been reading back through the posts and realised I hadn't written about the time I worked for a clothing charity. You know the sort- they put a bag through your letterbox and ask you to fill it with your unwanted clothing and leave it out a couple of days later.

I worked for this firm a couple of times. The first time was when they were still based in Kettering and I was asked by my temp agency if I'd do a few shifts shunting the vans as they returned to the depot. The drivers would return to the depot and park the van in a side street. I'd collect the key, drive the van around the block to the loading bay, put the van on the weighbridge while full, then back it up to the unloading bay where a team would unload it. Once it was emptied I'd drive it back to the weighbridge to be weighed, then fuel it and park it in a compound. Repeat until all the vans were empty of goods, full of diesel and parked.
It wasn't too strenuous although it was sometimes stressful getting thirty vans into a tiny compound. It was just possible if you turned all the wing mirrors in and squeezed through the tiniest gap between the vans. Sometimes I was sure I'd miscalculated and wouldn't get the final van away and the gates locked, but somehow I managed to park them all. Once the vans were parked I could go (and still be paid for the full shift) so there was always an incentive to work quickly.

I was offered a job driving a van but turned it down. There were better jobs going at the tims, but a few months later I was offered the work again. By now the firm had moved to Wellingborough and I had to drive there and get there by 6 in the morning, pick up the van and assistant (who sat in the passenger seat all day without exchanging a single word in conversation, listening to Radio 1 at full blast- o joy!)and then drive to the town where we'd be working.

I'm not sure how many vans there were. I guess there were at least thirty. The firm had a contract with a large charitable organisation, and the bags we distributed all had the charity's name printed on it. We'd drive to a town, buy an A-Z street map in order to keep tabs on where we'd been and where we had to return to, and then we'd start work.

Our brief was to distribute 1000 bags to homes in the morning, have a break, then drive around the streets where we'd left bags two days beforehand, pick up any bags that had been left out, and then drive back to the depot. Simple? Er, no.

Some towns were easy to work, especially those with street after street of terraced houses. In some towns there were over a hundred houses in a street, and you'd soon polish off a thousand bags. But once you'd covered those streets you'd move into the more up-market estates where the houses were set back from the road, and there were fences between the gardens. These streets took much longer. Once you'd done those houses, then you'd move on to the detached houses with the long drives, then to the villages surrounding the town....

Unfortunately the person who allocated the work would tell you that you had say, three weeks to cover the town of Hereford, except that there aren't that many houses, and you'd be scratching around after two weeks. You were expected to return to the depot each night with a full van, and some areas were easy, but others were very hard. I remember being told to distribute 1000 bags a day to Ross on Wye and all the surrounding area. I drove to the area, bought an A-Z and found that there weren't more than a few thousand houses in the whole of the county! There were more sheep than houses to be honest.

Urban areas were good, but the yield from rural areas was always very poor. Why was that?

I expect that people who live in rural areas shop more often. They probably buy more clothes and therefore fill their wardrobes more quickly. Every few months a charity bag drops through the letterbox and the householder sees a way of easing the clothes storage problem, while making them feel they are doing their bit for chariddeee.

My experience would bear this theory out. I was sent to Walton on Thames to cover for a sick colleague, and by the end of the afternoon it was hard to get any more bags in the van, it was so loaded. It really was rich pickings compared to deepest rural Herefordshire.

What else did I learn? I loved the different archtectural styles in the old building wherever I travelled, but I'm sad to say that the new builds were all depressingly similar. I'd walk down a street on an estate near Colchester and realise that I could be anywhere. All the houses looked the same. In a lot of cases they were decorated the same, with the same front doors in the same colours. I really could be anywhere. And that's a shame.

In the end I had to pack it in. The money wasn't bad for temping through an agency, but the firm wanted me to work for them direct, and to be paid according to the tonnage I collected. I'd seen enough to realise that the area they offered me (half of Essex outside the M25) would never yield as much as the area within the M25 , so I declined. I was also fed up with the 13 hour days. I was leaving home at 5.30 in the morning, leaving the depot at 6.00, driving for anything up to 120 miles before starting the rounds, walking for three of four hours, then driving around picking up bags and then driving back to the depot, arriving back sometime after 5.30 most nights.
By this time the work arrangements had changed so the drivers were now responsible for weighing and unloading their own vans and then parking them. They were also responsible for fueling them and washing them, and I'd not get home until after 7 at night. That's lot of hours and a lot of miles for minimum wage.

I did a couple of days driving to charity shops collecting bags of unsold clothing. That may come as a surprise to you, but charity shops rely on new stocks coming in every day or week, and they don't keep stock for more than a few weeks at most. If it's unsold after that time, it's bagged up and sent back to the depot.

I recall one journey where I had to drive to Brighton and collect some bags. I arrived at about 9.30 and found the shop. Once I'd loaded up I then drove across country to Tunbridge Wells, then on to Whitstable. My last pickup was supposed to be Minster, but I chose the wrong one and ended up driving around Sheerness instead of further east near Canterbury. By this time it was late afternoon and I still had to drive back. I got back at about 9 o'clock, fifteen hours after i'd set off.

One of my colleagues would drive from Wellingborough to Penzance, then to Falmouth and Plymouth and back- almost every day! He'd be on the road for 15 or sixteen hours a day. There's no way I could do that week in week out. Of course there's nothing to stop a van driver driving these hours- there's no tachograph and so no driver's hours regulations.

Looking back I must admit I enjoyed my time on the charity collections. Although there are many shady operators, the firm I worked for did a good job and performed a useful role in keeping people's wardrobes just empty enough to fit a few new clothes in. The clothes we collected were sold on to Eastern Europe and Africa, providing needy people with good cheap clothes and making a few pounds for the charity in the process.

Did I tell you about when I used to

Did I tell you about when I used to work as a washer upper in a hotel restaurant kitchen? I've had so many different jobs over the years it's hard to remember which ones I've described. So forgive me if I repeat myself.

When you work as a temp there's a dead period over Christmas that lasts up to four weeks. All the factories would shut down and if there was no work, there was no pay. In 1997 or 1998 (I can't remember now)it was fast approaching Christmas and the job prospects looked bleak. A family friend worked in a local hotel and through her I managed to land a job as a lowly kitchen porter on minimum wage.

I remember my first day there. It was obvious that no-one had been taking the cleaning seriously for months. They did just enough to get by, and that wasn't good enough for me. The front of house plates and cutlery were ok (but the cutlery should have been polished to remove the water marks. The kitchen utensils were a different matter. They needed a good scrub, but all they were doing was to put them through the dishwasher. It took a few weeks but I eventually got rid of all the accumulated grease and stains from the pots, pans and platters. We then looked at the deep fat fryer. It was obvious that it may have had the oil changed but no-one had dismantled it for years. There was so much grease and sludge it was hard to tell what it was...

One of the drawbacks of working in a kitchen is that you work a split shift. I would get to work for about 8.00 (someone else had cooked the breakfasts). I took all the deliveries in and put them away (taking care to rotate the milk so that the old stock was used first- something i'm not sure was followed before I got there) Then I'd clean up the breakfast things and completely clear the backlog of washing up. By then it was time for the lunchtime serving. There are periods of intense activity followed by times when the restauant is empty. That's when you need to get ahead. I would peel sprouts. A 28lb net of sprouts takes about an hour to peel and cut a cross in the base.
I'd have a couple of hours off, which is not really enough time to do anything and then it was back for the evening shift.We'd have a full restaurant plus a Christmas party in the ballroom.
When there's a party of 150 all wanting a Christmas dinner at the same time, you need to get ahead. For a couple of hours it's crazy, then it's a mad rush to clear up and get home before it's too late, and then it's back the next morning to do it all again.
I think I got six weeks work in all, then it was back to the agencies. I managed to get the kitchen and all the equipment shiny as new before I left. I wonder how long it stayed that way?
The first jobs they found me were as a kitchen porter at the local college, then as a-
kitchen porter in a local factory.
Eventually some driving work came through and my spell in the catering corps came to an end.

Cleaning

I was walking through the hospital corridors this morning when I saw a man wielding a dust sweeper, painstakingly collecting every fibre of dust along the margins of the corridor, and it reminded me of the time a dozen or so years ago when I worked as a cleaner at Whitworths in Irthlingborough. I'd worked there a few times in the production area doing various jobs. Sometimes I'd run a packing line, where we'd run a machine that put pre-packed bags of sultanas or other dried fruit into the cartons. Easy and repetitive (as long as the machine behaves itself). Another time I worked on the dried apricot production line. When the apricots arrive at the factory they are well and truly dried into a hard mass. They are soaked in a weak acid in order to separate them and soften them. Funny enough, I haven't fancied one since then.
Then I worked in the pepper and spice department for a shift. I was on the floor above the packing line. I had to keep the pepper flowing through a hole in the feed hopper where it was gravity fed into the little pots that you buy in the shops. I used a broomstick.
Such variety! Those little packs of casserole mix? Packed them. Currants, sultanas and raisins? Packed them as well.

Then there was the small matter of disposing of all the cardboard and packaging that the raw materials came in. I worked on the baler for a few shifts before I reached the pinnacle of my time there. I joined the cleaning team.
We cleaned the wash areas and the toilets around the factory. We kept the rest rooms and canteens clean, sweeping and mopping. We emptied the ashtrays in the smoking areas, we picked up any rubbish lying around.
And we spent a long time hiding away, because with all the will in the world it only takes fifteen minutes to sweep and clean the restrooms after the mid-shift breaks,and the rooms weren't dirty anyway. We found an empty office in an old part of the site and made ourselves scarce for an hour at a time. It was a big site and they just assumed that we were working at the other end. The place was spotless, so if we didn't do even the little bit we did, then you'd soon notice.

So we squirrelled ourselves away, reading books and doing the crossword, waiting for the next foray with mop, broom and bucket.
I drove past the site last year. It's gone. All the buildings demolished, with no trace of the busy and bustling enterprise that employed hundreds of staff over three shifts just a decade before. They're going to build houses, but where will all those potential buyers find jobs to pay their mortgages?

Making Bread

A dozen or so years ago I was temping and was offered some shifts at a bakery that had just opened in the town. It was owned by Budgens and they'd relocated from Slough to be near their distribution centre in Wellingborough. Apparently the Factory Manager had chosen Kettering over Wellingborough because staff costs were cheaper. That didn't bode well for me, but I turned up on the first shift at the unearthly hour of two in the morning. I was given an overall and hairnet, shown the toilet and canteen and then we made our way onto the factory floor.

I've worked in a lot of food factories over the years and it is my assertion that our hospitals would not have anything like the infection rates they currently or historically have had if they had to observe the hygeine rules that apply to food production. I regularly see hospital staff walking around town in their work uniforms, even in theatre green gowns.
Anyone leaving the bakery premises for any reason had to remove their overalls. Food contamination is a big deal. So why are hospitals so lax?

I was introduced to my supervisor and was given a job to do. I think it was passing baking trays through a scrubber/greaser. Any bake waste was cleaned off and a film of oil applied. The bakery got through thousands of trays in a shift and some may have been used more than once.

The bakery produced loaves and rolls, plus doughnuts, apple turnovers and hot cross buns. They also produced "part bake" french sticks that, as the name implies, were part baked and then frozen. They were then delivered to the store and finished off in the instore bakery. Sometimes the smell of fresh baked bread isn't always what it seems.

The bakery had two types of oven. One was a conveyor belt when the "raw" loaves were loaded in one end and the baked loaves taken off at the other. The work work was very hot and potentially dangerous. I still have a scar or two on my arms from where a hot tray touched aginst my bare arm.
The other ovens were turntable type. The product was wheeled into the ovens on rolling racks and then rotated until they were baked. Each oven held three racks. I made sure I never worked these ovens. It was far too hot, the racks were too heavy, and it was too dangerous for me.

The reason for my early start became apparent. Each product was produced on a production line. The raw ingredients were loaded into a huge bowl which was then mixed and loaded into a hopper. The machine then extruded the dough according to the specifications and the dough passed through the machine, being neaded and rested until it emerged at the other end where the individual rolls dropped onto the greased trays. These were then loaded onto a rack and then into a proving cabinet. After a while they were ready to bake and they went through the ovens and on to the packing area. It took about 5-6 hours from raw ingredients to packed product.
The main bottleneck was the ovens, hence the staggered starting times. The roll plant started at two in the morning and the bread plant at six.
Over the next few months I worked in every department of the bakery, always as a temp, despite their overtures to join on a permanent basis.
In the run-up to Easter we made so many hot cross buns I was sick of the sight of them. I was working on the packing line loading the trays ready for despatch and we'd be packing them for hours.
Another time I worked on the Part-Bake line. I also worked on the conveyor oven, the bread plant, the doughnut plant, packing the frozen french sticks into boxes. I even worked in the despatch area, picking the individual stores requirements.
My favourite (?) job was when I was asked to produce a product called "Bun Rounds"

They were similar to the illustration except they were covered in icing and topped with a glace cherry. I had to do every part of the process. I loaded the dough into the moulds, into the prover, into the oven, then applied the icing and the cherry before packing them, labelling them and taking them to the despatch.
It was hard work but I enjoyed the challenge of having a deadline to work to.

I can't remember how or why I came to leave. I'd been working on and off for almost a year. I must have had a better offer, or went on holiday and came back to find someone else in my place.
That's what happens when you temp.

Multi Drop

About ten years ago I was working in a distribution warehouse and discussing the rise of the internet. I made the sweeping statement that town centres were doomed because of the rise of out of town shopping centres and the internet. I went as far as to say that one day we would either be warehousemen or white van men. Either picking and packing, or delivering goods ordered over the net.
Nothing I've seen has changed my view. You can go shopping at Iceland and they will deliver your shopping for you. You don't even have to go to Tesco or Sainsbury's, just click on the website.
After I left the retail sector following redundancy about fifteen years ago I've done all manner of jobs including warehouse/distribution and multi-drop deliveries. Yes I've been a white van man. And a white 7 1/2 ton lorry man.
I drove a C15 fridge van around East Anglia for a meat products firm. My round extended from Peterborough in the north to Clacton in the south, from Ipswich in the east to Hitchin in the west. In the eighteen months or so that I worked there I averaged 2000 miles a week and went around the clock at least once. I wore out several sets of tyres and broke down and had to be towed home a few times as well.
I must have driven along every road between the A14 and the A12 looking for a way past traffic jams and making up time. Every customer wanted his goods first thing and you can't be in Peterborough, Cambridge and Colchester at the same time.

Another time I drove a 7 1/2 ton lorry delivering goods to schools in Northamptonshire and Oxfordshire. There were always too many deliveries and I'd always run out of time and have to bring some back. I was working for an agency so I'd only get an odd day here or there and I never ever went to the same school twice. I recall driving through rural Oxfordshire full pelt, trying to make up time, with my map on my knee and trying to get to the other side of the valley. I turned down a country lane that appeared to connect the two roads only to find it narrowing at the bottom and with no way to turn around. I decided to continue and forced my way through the trees overhanging the road. The sides of the lorry were quite scratched and there was branches and foliage all over the road.
Another time I managed to spill a tin of emulsion paint all over the floor of the van. What a mess. I talked my way out of that when I got back to the depot.
I wasn't so lucky a few weeks later when, as I drove past some roadworks, a digger suddenly turned and caught my wing mirror with its shovel, shattering the glass.
I took the van back and explained that it was a genuine accident.
I don't think they believed me because I wasn't asked back.

Another time I worked in a distribution centre unloading the night time trunkers. You've seen the vans driving around the place delivering catalogue goods. Back then they were festooned with three flying ducks along the side.
We worked from about 9.00 until 6 or 7 in the morning. A trunker would pull up and back up to the loading bay. The tractor would detatch the trailer, hook up to an empty trailer and go back to the hub. He'd return later with another full trailer, unhook and take the by now empty trailer away. And return a couple of hours later with a third.
The back of the lorry would be opened and the goods would cascade out all over the floor. The constant motion of the journey put paid to any stacking of the goods. It looked as though the trailer had been loaded by a hopper chute through the roof.
Our job was to take each item, look at the delivery label and place the item by the back doors of the delivery vans, anything up to 40 of them. There were all kinds of items from clothing to hoovers and garden tools, in fact anything you could order from a catalogue. Our small team worked away and eventually emptied the trailer. Then we had a short break and started on the next one which had just arrived. It was all go and we earned our money.
It was still preferable to driving the delivery vans. Each driver was expected to deliver 60 or more items to household addresses often miles from the depot. If there was no-one home he had to go back later and try and deliver it and get a signature.
I worked as a driver's mate delivering large bulky items that couldn't be handled by one person. That wasn't too bad as the drops were well spaced out and there weren't as many, but I always declined any offers to work on the delivery vans.
That was a hiding to nothing.

More Rubbish

One of the many jobs I did in the late 90s was to drive a furniture lorry. I passed my driving test in the 70s, and my licence allowed me to drive any vehicle up to 7 1/2 ton without any extra training. These days you have to go on a training course.

The lorry was fitted with a tachometer and it was a job to remember to fit a disc and then set it correctly. I've lost count of the times I drove miles while it was set for a mealbreak, or took a break while it was set to drive. The discs were stacked up in the despatch office and I never saw anyone ever look at them.

Two or three times a week I'd deliver furniture around the area. I had a mate who'd help me carry the items into the houses, and we had fun getting overstuffed sofas through narrow doors. Sometimes we had to take the doors off, or remove front windows. I noticed that the newer houses were much smaller than the old ones, and a suite of furniture that looked nice on the showroom floor would completely fill a living room. There was room for a sofa, one armchair and a TV set. Maybe that's all people need these days.

When people bought beds we'd offer to take the old one away. It cut out the hassle of getting the council to collect it, and cut down on the amount of fly tipping.We'd take the beds and suites back to the yard and stack them up. When we had a lorry load we'd take them to the tip.

These old beds and sofas were classified as trade waste and had to be taken to a depot in Northampton where there was a weighbridge. I spent a couple of hours loading old saggy, wet and mouldy beds and sofas into the van. There was a certain amount of covered storage at the yard, but the other staff wouldn't be bothered to stack the beds under the shelter but just leave them where they fell. Once I'd loaded up I'd drive the fifteen miles or more to Northampton and I'd pass these enormous open top container lorries heading in the opposite direction.
Upon arrival at the Waste Transfer Station (to give it its proper title) I'd get the vehicle weighed and drive up the ramp to unload in a cavernous dusty and smelly building. I'd back up to the heap of rubbish and throw all the beds and sofas out. A large digger would drive up and flatten everything and then scoop it up and drop it down a chute into the lorry waiting below.
I then returned to the weighbridge to be weighed again, this time empty (plus me in the cab of course) and then they'd charge me for the difference in weight. Once I'd settled up, I'd then drive back, following the lorry that now contained all the crushed bedding that I'd unloaded.

So why couldn't I just drive the bedding to the landfill site instead of a pointless thirty mile round trip? There's a weighbridge at the landfill site and both sites were operated by the same company.
Whether the beds were collected by me, collected by the council or flytipped, the probability is overwhelming that they'd have ended up in the same landfill site eventually.
There's money to be made from rubbish. All those road miles moving the rubbish around may be bad for the environment, but they're good for business.

A dozen or more years later and the fleet of lorries still travel between Northampton and the landfill site near Corby. They use a different route these days but I still recognise the vehicle livery and the huge trailers that look like forty foot containers with the roof sliced off. They pass close to a windfarm the receives subsidies whether the wind blows or not (it seldom does. It's estimated that the farm is no more than 7% efficient). Plans for an electricity generator powered by burning rubbish keep getting turned down on environmental grounds.
Any methane gas that is given off by the tons of rotting matter in the landfill is burnt off rather than collected and used to generate electricty.

It's all rubbish really.

Rubbish

When I was temping a dozen or so years ago I was happy to take any job offered. Some weeks I could only work for a couple of days due to my music commitments, so I was happy to take the odd one or two day assignments.
One May Bank Holiday I was asked to do a day working on the Domestic Refuse Collection at the basic minimum wage, but at double time for a Bank Holiday otherwise I'd have turned it down. It was hard and heavy manual work for someone in his late forties, but I gave it a go.
I turned up bright and early at the Council Depot, climbed into the Refuse lorry and we drove to a neighbouring town where we were to do our round. There were three of us, the driver and two mates who worked on opposite sides of the street. You've all seen how they do it. It's quite hard and there's a knack in getting the bin onto the hoist and then getting the empties away. The lorry is constantly moving and you have to watch out for traffic. You very rarely sit in the lorry and you're always on the go. I wouldn't want to do the job for minimum wage.
We drove up and down the streets which were quiet as it was a Bank Holiday. As we drove down one street in a rough part of town a man came out of a house, saw me and started effing and blinding "Who you looking at? I'll smash your face in", etc etc. Charming man, charming neighbourhood.
After an hour or two the lorry was full so we climbed in and drove off to the tip. This journey comprised my morning break. We returned to carry on the round and filled the lorry twice more before we finished the round in the early afternoon.
I politely turned down other offers of odd days on the bins at single time. The job is worth more than that.

A few months later I was offered a couple of days work at the landfill site that we'd dumped the household refuse. It had been very windy and paper and other rubbish had escaped the netting surrounding the tip and had to be picked up. So I spent a couple of days litter picking from 8 in the morning until 4 in the afternoon. I turned up at the gatehouse and they gave me a roll of black bags and told to get on with it. The netting that surrounds the tip is very good at catching any paper or plastic that blows around, but if too much sticks to the netting the net becomes a wall and the rubbish is lifted over the netting, so the first priority was to clear the netting. Pick the rubbish off the net, put it into a black bag. When the bag is full, drop it into the tip. Repeat until all the rubbish is collected. Once that was done I cleared all the rubbish inside the boundary of the tip, then all the fields around the tip for a quarter of a mile or so.

Plastic takes forever to degrade. There's a wood a short distance from my house that is the site of an ironstone quarry. The overburden (the soil and rock that covers the iron ore) was removed with a mechanical shovel and tipped so that it formed ridges and valleys known as hill and dale. These were planted with trees and the gullet was eventually filled with household refuse. It's possible to walk through the woods and see the site of the gullet, and also see old washing up liquid bottles sticking out of the ground and showing no signs of decomposing

I spent a couple of days clearing old plastic bags from the fields and hedges, enjoying the open air and being inspired to write a song or two. The only downside was the fact that my trusty Doc Martens finally gave out and began to leak water after a year of hard use, in factories and three months walking the streets pushing charity bags through letterboxes (but that's another story)

The driver of the Refuse lorry told me that when this landfill tip was opened it had enough capacity for over thirty year's worth of domestic rubbish. It had been in use for just over fifteen years and was almost full, such was the increase in the local population and the amount of rubbish they were throwing away.

Since then the council has introduced a two weekly refuse collection and recycling for domestic customers. We're quite happy to sort out our rubbish, with different bins for garden and household waste, and boxes for glass, paper, metal and plastic containers. What I'm less happy about is this.

I'm responsible for making sure my firm's rubbish is collected. It's a small firm with only a few staff, but even so we can produce a lot of cardboard and waste paper, drinks cans etc. I called the Council to ask if they had any facility to separate the recycleable stuff from the rest of the rubbish. They said that hadn't and had no plans to extend recycling to business customers.
Our business rubbish is collected in blue plastic bags that currently cost about £1.60 each. If I separate out the recyclable items I'm left with one or two blue bags that we have to leave out overnight as the binmen go by before the office opens. At the moment we don't have an urban fox problem and the rats are well fed from the rubbish left outside the many takeaways at the end of the street.

I can see the benefit of recycling. I've worked as a binman and I've worked in the landfill site. I'm happy to separate my household rubbish so that the council can sell the cardboard, cans and paper to offset the cost of landfill.
What I don't understand is why the council can't or won't extend the recycling scheme to their business customers.
I suspect that it's more to do with taking money from businesses than recycling.

World Cup Cricket

I was watching the cricket this afternoon and it reminded me of the time I worked in a call centre selling tickets for the 1998 Cricket World Cup. The main centre for getting tickets was at Lords and it was soon apparent that they couldn't cope with demand. People were hanging on the phone for hours trying to get through, and there was a real danger that the matches would be played before the tickets could be sold. Something had to be done.
I had a call from an agency asking me to turn up at a location in Market Harborough where I would be trained ready for going live the next day.
This was the first time I'd worked in a call centre so I was interested to find out how it worked.
The computer programme was fairly straight forward to use and we were soon up and running. The phone would ring in my ear and I'd find out what match the person wanted tickets for. Tickets were finite and many matches had sold out. We mostly had games featuring the smaller nations like Bangladesh, Kenya, Ireland and Holland in provincial grounds. All games featuring England and India were sold out and we had only one Pakistan game with unsold tickets.
I won't bore you with details of how the process worked. I've worked in a number of inbound call centres since then, selling magazine subscriptions and booking engineers for photocopiers. They all use versions of the same software, so if you've seen one, you've seen them all.

I did learn one important thing regarding Indians and Pakistanis. I'm not being racist, just telling you what happened.
If someone rang asking about a game featuring India and they were told that it had sold out they expressed dissapointment and rang off.
If someone rang about a Pakistan game and I said that it had sold out, they wouldn't accept it. Are you sure? You don't have one or two left? I can pay a bit extra etc, etc. It's as if it's built into their culture that tickets can always be obtained with a little backsheesh.
They wouldn't take no for an answer. If I said there weren't any tickets they would take it as a personal affront, as if their money, their offer of backsheesh wasn't good enough.
There was one Pakistan game that had some tickets. We were told that tickets were limited to two only per caller, so we had the spectacle of the buyer asking for ten or twenty tickets and being told no. Then they said can my brother/sister/auntie have two tickets? I checked and was told that they could if they came to the phone and ordered them in "person". So another voice would then buy two tickets for his brother, another voice would buy two for his sister, then his auntie/uncle/cousin/grandmother all had two. Once he had his ten or twenty tickets they'd all be paid for with one credit card.
Specially obtained to buy tickets for the World Cup.
The tickets were specially printed with the buyer's name, but when people in the same family are called Hussein or Ahmed or Mohammed who knew if the tickets were genuinely for family members or to be touted outside the ground?

We never had this problem with the Indians, only with the Pakistanis.
Maybe if there were tickets available for Indian matches I might have a different view but my opinion of the two nations was definitely shaped by my time selling World Cup tickets.

The Net Book Agreement

One of the many temp jobs I did was at a local print works about ten or so years ago. They needed some extra pairs of hands with a huge print run of magazines. It was all very clean, light and airy and the work wasn't too strenuous. Pick this up, put it there, and so on. There were frequent stops while they worked on the machines and our small gang of temps were moved around the works as required. All in all an interesting couple of days for a couple of reasons.
It wouldn't have happened at all a few years before that. The printing trade was 100% unionised and any non-union labour would have had them out on strike. We can all remember the scenes in Wapping when News International moved production of their papers out of Fleet St.

I drove past the site of the print works the other day. It is no more. The buildings are demolished and the concrete floor is a car park for the local hospital workforce. The other printworks where the local paper was edited and printed was knocked down about fifteen years ago and production transferred to Northampton. It's inevitable that that print works will also close as more and more people get their news on-line rather than from a newspaper.

I thought about this as I was browsing Ebay looking for books by a particular author. This week it's Kurt Vonnegut. I have a dozen or so and I'm looking for more of his books to take on holiday. As I browsed the lists I thought about the Net Book Agreement, which was in force when I managed Volume One Books in Northampton twenty years ago.

According to Wikipedia
"The Net Book Agreement (NBA) was a British fixed Book Price between publishers and booksellers which set the prices at which books were to be sold to the public.
It came into effect on January 1, 1900 and involved retailers selling books at agreed prices. Any bookseller who sold a book at less than the agreed price would no longer be supplied by the publisher in question.
In 1962 the Net Book Agreement was examined by the Restrictive Practices Court which decided that the NBA was of benefit to the industry, since it enabled publishers to subsidise the printing of the works of important but less widely-read authors using money from bestsellers."

I was made redundant in 1994 when the Goldsteins foresaw the end of the NBA and put the company into administration. The new owners and I didn't see eye to eye about how the books were ordered, etc and I was made redundant. I was happy to go. Within a few months the Net Book Agreement was no more and Sunday Trading had been forced through. My employment contract would have been changed for the worst. I was glad to go.

I was a firm believer in the Net Book Agreement. Books are not baked beans. You don't read your Dan Brown or Nick Hornby or whatever your favourite author happens to be, and then pop down the supermarket for another one. Each book is unique. They take time to write. The most prolific authors only manage about three every two years. They are a premium product.

So why pile them high and sell them cheap? Why reduce your margin and even sell them at a loss? Waterstones opened at midnight to sell Harry Potter at half RRP.
Two things. Either the RRP was wrong or they sold it at a loss. All that work , all that expense, all that aggro and they sell it at a loss. They're mad.
Secondly, the books were printed in China and shipped over by the container load.
Hardly any books are printed in the UK now. Since the NBA was scrapped the publishers can't afford to. So all those printer's jobs are gone forever. When they close the print works or shoe factories the machines aren't scrapped. They're sold, boxed up and sent to factories in the far East where they are used to print books or make shoes that are sold back to us.

Cheapest is dearest. Always.

Job Hunting

I've written at length about some of the jobs I've done, so now I want to write about the bits in between- job hunting.
Until 1994 I'd only been unemployed twice.
The first time was after I'd left Town & County Catering at Olympia and signed on with a temp agency. I was hoping for a day or two off but was back working full time within a week.
The second time was when I left Telfers, having had enough of battling against the odds, doing a job I had no training or aptitude for, and hoping to "make it" with my band.
I was out of work for about six weeks that time.
My experience at the labour exchange and trying to claim any kind of benefit influenced my decision to get married a year or so later. One government agency treated me as single for tax purposes, but another treated me as married because I was co-habiting. Both decisions meant no benefits for me. Back then married couples had a tax break so in the end we got married for tax reasons. But that's another story.
After I'd been made redundant from Volume One Bookshops following a takeover (another story for another time- I'm not writing chronologically), I took a year out courtesy of some redundancy insurance that I'd taken out a few years earlier. I used the time to work on my music and record an album for a charity at our church. One thing led to another and I recorded three albums of songs in eighteen months. However, I wasn't earning enough to pay the bills, so I embarked on a ten year career of "temporary" work.
My first "temporary" job was driving a delivery van for a firm that supplied meat and pies to pubs. My route involved travelling around 2000 miles a week around East Anglia, from Peterborough and March in the North, in and around Cambridge, east to Newmarket, Brandon, Bury St Edmunds and Ipswich, south to Colchester, Clacton, Chelmsford, Brentwood and west to Harlow Welwyn Garden City, Letchworth, Hitchin and various places in Bedfordshire. I did this for about eighteen months in a little Citroen C15 fridge van. I drove more than 100,000 miles in it and went through two sets of tires and two engines. I was out in all weathers, rain , snow and heatwave. I remember having to drive at speed through fields of wheat that had caught fire in the extreme heat of that summer, and I also recall driving through some achingly beautiful countryside. Most of the time, however, I was chasing deadlines and failing.
One day my van was in for repair, and the only vehicle that was available was the boss's Vectra. I loaded the boot, packed freezer bags around the goods and set off. I was driving around the Colchester bypass when I noticed two things. One, my speedo read 105 miles an hour, and two, there was a police bike on my tail. The van I was used to driving wouldn't do 70 downhill with the wind behind it, and I forgot how fast the car could go. I pleaded guilty and was fined £30 and had three points on my licence. That is the only time I've ever been caught speeding in more than 30 years driving.
The firm kept losing contracts and although my mileage remained constant, I was carrying less and less, and therefore the turnover was dropping. I did a few days work in the coldstore and freezer, picking orders. That was cold work, and no-one begrudged us taking frequent tea breaks to warm up.
Eventually the firm went bust and I was looking for work again.


I decided to register with the local employment agencies. I didn't want permanent work because I was getting a few bookings including midweek work, and I was spending time in various recording studios. Temping meant that I could work a few days as required and from 1996 until 1999 this was what I did.
I registered with several agencies and would visit them all in turn when I wasn't working, spending a couple of mornings a week calling in to say hello, to see what work was available and to keep my name at the top of their lists.
I occasionally walk around town and I notice that many of the agencies have closed up. There are only about half the number of employment agencies compared to ten years ago, and one of my friends who ran an employment agency for twenty years painted a bleak picture.


A few years ago I worked  at one of the vast car yards in Corby. I didn't stay long, I couldn't cope with the chaos which was due to the manager's failure to plan or organise. Every action was a reaction. They were always fire fighting. Every day the staff would miss their lunch breaks because of some minor catastrophe that could have been avoided if they'd plan ahead.
Even then, six or more years ago, the gangs that collected the cars parked across acres of Northamptonshire and brought them to be loaded onto car transporters were organised according to the country they originated from. There were gangs of Lithuanians, Slovakians, Poles and Bosnians, with only the gang leader speaking English. A few years before I'd worked at the same yard preparing new cars for delivery to dealers. We'd get the car from the yard and while one person fitted the licence plates, I'd check that the heating, aircon, tyre pressures etc were OK. We'd also strip the protective plastic from the wings and bonnet, make sure the lights and indicators worked etc etc. All the staff were English/British. Not any more.


It's tough to find temporary work now. I read that some factories won't employ English speakers because everyone now speaks Polish. Five or six years ago I saw the beginning of that.


But  hey, the food's cheap, booze is cheap, clothes are cheap so why worry?

Good Buying or Goodbye

I've already posted about one firm that went bust because of bad buying decisions, now I want to tell you another story about my time working in retail.
I was working as manager of a large bookstore in Northampton in the late 1980s. The store was set up by the Goldsteins when they were directors of Kingfisher Plc. They d sold Superdrug to Kingfisher a few years before and wanted to try something new. Volume One Bookshops was a new concept in retailing and a complete change from the "libraries with tills" look that characterised bookselling at that time.
Our shops were bright, had acres of space to display books with the covers out rather than spine-on, and sold videos as well. Sell-through video was a very recent concept. Up until that time videos were rental only. No-one foresaw the potential, or that legions of Dr Who or Startrek fans would buy every episode of their favourite shows to watch at home over and over again.

Volume One were one of the first to sell videos alongside books and in time the business grew so that half our turnover came fom selling VHS cassettes. We ordered our stock from a wholesaler called Parkfield. They were the main wholesaler in the UK. We could ring our order in on a Monday and it would be delivered the next day. This meant that we could keep our stockholding to a minimum and reduce our exposure to bad purchases clogging up the shelves.

Sell through video was like pop music with a very short shelf life. A film would be released on a Monday, sell for a week or two and never sell another copy. It made sound economic sense to keep our stocks at a minimum, although the margins were lower than if we had bought direct from the publisher. Using a wholesaler made such good economic sense. The wholesaler held the stocks and we could replace our sales within a couple of days. Constant stock-turn more than compensated for the lower margins. This was good buying.
We started having problems with our video supplier soon after we read in the press how they planned to become the largest video wholesaler in Europe. Each delivery would have lines missing. This went on for week after week. I found out that the firm were taking in so much stock for the Christmas rush that the staff didn't have time to pick the orders going out to the customers. The problem of short deliveries got so bad that we had to change suppliers. Needless to say the video distribution company went bust soon after, having filled numerous warehouses with stock that they couldn't dispatch to their customers.
The firm failed because of bad buying.
We used a couple of wholesalers for buying books. One of them was a small family firm on the South coast. Nothing was too much trouble. You could get in your car and pay them a visit, walk around the warehouse and choose some stock which was then scanned, an invoice/delivery note printed there and then, and the books packed into a box which you could either take away or have delivered the next day.
Our other supplier had a huge brand new state of the art warehouse, and a computer system that was unable to update fast enough to keep up with the business. Every book had a bar code, yet the warehouse lacked bar code readers to input the stocks, which had to be input manually. The stock levels were only updated each evening, so they never knew what stocks they had. The computer said one figure, but the reality was always different. We d place an order and their computer system was unable to distinguish whether the books were on the shelves ready to be picked, in the loading bay ready to be unpacked, or already picked and waiting to go to a customer. Once again we were faced with unacceptable shortages in our deliveries and we switched supplier. They went bust soon afterwards. They had no control over their stock.

Bad information equals bad buying.
Bad buying equals goodbye.

A few years ago I worked in a warehouse that supplied tenpin bowling equipment to the various bowling complexes in the UK. If you bowl regularly you will soon buy your own ball.
The technology of bowling balls is very complex.The normal ball you use when you go bowling for fun is a far cry from the highly complex balls that are used by the serious players. Everything from the shape of the core (the middle of the ball) to the type of material that covers the ball will have an effect on how it moves down the lane. Serious bowlers buy their ball from the bowling pro in the same way that the golfer buys from the golf shop at his course. When you buy a bowling ball it comes without holes. The pro will measure your hand and will cut the holes so that it fits you exactly. You can choose the weight of the ball. Years ago the serious players would use a heavy 16lb ball in order to get the swerve and power to score consistently high. As the technology developed and the players got older they found that they could get the same power and control with a 15lb ball. To all extents and purposes the 16lb ball was obsolete. My friend and work colleague was responsible for ordering the stocks of balls and although he knew as well as everyone else in the industry that 16lb balls were obsolete, he would still order "a few" each time.
Every time a new ball was introduced we would sell out of 14 and 15lb balls, leaving the 16lb balls unsold. Eventually we had a warehouse full of 16lb balls that no-one wanted. We ended up giving them away,although it might have been better to send them to landfill.
The company is no more. Bad buying contributed to their downfall.

Money money money

My last post about being mugged on the way to the bank reminded me of the time that I was involved in a bank raid. I don't think I mentioned this before, but it was when I worked at the Westminster bank in about 1968. We were having new strongroom doors fitted in the basement, and being the most junior male staff member I was assigned to watch over the workmen as they drilled and hammered away.
One Monday morning at about 10.30 I was in the basement when I heard a commotion from upstairs in the banking hall. A few seconds later one of the bank clerks rushed downstairs looking a bit scared. He had an imprint of a size ten shoe on the side of his face.
I should point out that we had no security screensin front of the tills. The powers that be thought that they were an unnecessary barrier between the bank and the customer. Well, several robbers thought that a four foot high counter was no barrier to them helping themselves so they ran in, spraying ammonia everywhere. Ammonia was the bank robber's weapon of choice. It was easy to get hold of from your hardware store. You used a squeezy washing up bottle and sprayed it into people's faces, causing minimal damage as long as the victim was able to wash the ammonia out of their eyes. What it did was immobilise the bank clerks while they scooped the cash.
Anyway, one of the cashiers had seen them come in and was turning away as the thief jumped the counter, catching him with his foot. By the time he got downstairs and we knew what was happening it was all over.
That didn't stop me almost wetting myself with fear. What if they'd heard that the strongroom was open and they were coming down the stairs? We all hid where we could. It was a bit like that scene in The Life of Brian, where the Roman soldiers search the place and can't find the rebels, even though you can clearly see them behind the curtains and under the table.
After a few minutes we ventured out and upstairs. The bank had been cleared and the doors closed. The police were there within minutes- yes minutes, no more than five.
Someone from head office came and made us a cup of tea and went there, there. No-one was seriously hurt. A few people were splashed with ammonia and had stinging eyes. One of my colleagues saw what was happening and his mouth fell open, in time to catch a mouthful of ammonia. He burped for the rest of the day.
We were all sent home after lunch. The contractors came in the next day and fitted security screens. Then it was business as usual. The robbers were caught before they had a chance to dispose of the money. No CCTV, no DNA database, just good policing.


Down the years I had to handle a lot of money. Some firms used security vans to collect the takings while other firms left it to the manager to bank the cash.
I used to smile at the advice given by head office. It was all about varying the time and the route you took to the bank. However, there was one flaw. Whether I left the shop by the front door or the back, whether I took the long route or the short cut, I still ended up at the front door of the bank. Anyone wishing to jump me only had to wait there.....


After I'd been mugged in Corby the company arranged for a security firm to collect the takings each day. I still had to go and get the change from the bank, but if anyone fancied their chances at grabbing two bags of coin and outrunning me while carrying it, I'd have said, go on, make my day.


By the late eighties and early nineties I was working in a bookshop where the average sale was £5 rather than the £1 or so in a drugstore. We were taking more and more credit card payments and we'd installed EPOS and credit card terminals. However, half of our takings were still in cash, and one of the stores I managed had an annual turnover in excess of £1m. In the run-up to Christmas the turnover would increase by 50% each week, then double each week, until we took more than a week's takings each day. The week before Christmas' takings amounted to 10% of the total turnover for that year.
My day revolved around counting money. We opened the shop at nine, and empty the tills every hour or so. At about eleven my chief cashier and I would start counting the money that we'd taken from the tills. As soon as we'd finished counting, we'd go and get some more, and so on,
By Christmas Eve I was sick of the sight of money. My hands hurt to hold the notes and my fingers ached from counting them. It was not uncommon to count £15,000 in used fivers and tenners in the course of a busy day.
That store is no more. I doubt whether the firms that took over the business ever approached the levels of turnover that we achieved. The end of the Net Book Agreement and the stupidity of selling a premium product at a loss put paid to that.

Good and bad bosses

I've had a few bosses in my time. I've worked alongside a few, and I've been a boss as well. Here are a few of my observations down the years.
When I worked at the bank the manager was a seldom seen figure who occupied an office and hardly ever emerged. He left the day to day running of his branch to the deputy or assistant manager, who then delegated down to the various department heads. It worked well. Because the business was run to deadlines, the overriding concern was to getting the job done to the highest possible standard in the shortest possible time. Once everything was completed and the assistant manager gave the OK, we could go home. Because it took a long time to progress to branch manager, and because there was a well defined career path, one rarely encountered a ruthless, devious and ambitious individual trying to short cut his way to the top by fair means or foul. One did, however, encounter a bunch of bank clerks who had reached the limits of their ability and whose career path lay in a series of sideways moves.
My lack of ambition caused me to be transferred to the various sub-branches of the bank, along with the other no-hopers, and each day was spent in doing the work as quickly as possible so that I could go home.

It wasn't until I worked in retail that I encountered an environment that rewarded ability rather than length of service, and these observations are based on my retail experiences.


The first thing I noticed was how some managers would employ tactics that kept their subordinates fighting each other. Divide and rule. While your departmental and assistant managers are fighting each other, they're not fighting you.


Then I noticed that some managers rule by fear, while others by encouragement. In every business the manager needs to stand out. He need to be head and shoulders above the rest.
Some managers do this by kicking their staff so that they are always on their knees. The manager is the only one standing.
However, the best managers that I worked for and with would encourage and equip their staff, making them strong and able to stand tall- with the manager carried on their shoulders.
As I travelled from branch to branch, either assisting or training managers, or relieving them for days off or holidays, or taking over from them and managing their store, I noticed another difference between good and bad managers.
Some managers would deliberately hold the store back, rather than allow turnover to increase to its full potential. They would hold the store to the level that they could manage,and not allow it to grow any further. Success brought problems to them. A bigger turnover meant more stock had to be ordered and handled. A busier store brought problems of staff training and retention. It brought security and shoplifting problems. If turnover was held to the rate of inflation, it meant a quieter life.


I was a pioneer rather than a settler. I preferred the challenge of taking an empty shell of a shop unit and fitting it out, of recruiting and training my staff, of ordering the stock and filling the shelves, and the bustle and excitement of opening day. I enjoyed working hard and growing the turnover week by week and following it through a complete year, with the Christmas build up and climax, and the post Christmas doldrums. After about eighteen months I was ready for a new challenge.
I was lucky in that most of the firms I worked for, namely Superdrug, Share Drugstores and Volume One Bookshops operated at a time when it was possible to open new shops in town centres, that there were new markets to break into, and big profits to be made.
As a manager I opened five new stores, and assisted in the opening of several more.
I trained many a new manager, some of whom went on to greater things.
I got out of retail at the right time and have never looked back.

Temporarily speaking

I was reading through my post about the temp jobs I'd had and I realised I'd missed a few out.
A few years ago I worked at a plastics factory in Kettering on the 6.00- 2.00 shift. I made black plastic dustbins. And yellow builders buckets. And the perspex "glass" windows for red telephone boxes. And casings for modem units, etc etc etc.

The principle for each of these products is exactly the same. You have a steel mould and some plastic pellets. When subjected to enormous pressure, the pellets liquify and flow into the mould. When the sequence ends, you take the product, examine it, trim off any excess and stack it ready for despatch. If the product is faulty, it's ground down into pellets and re-used.

The products are very hot when they leave the mould, and you can't wear gloves, so you handle them carefully. The dustbins were the easiest because each one took a minute or two to form. The hardest to make were the ubiquitous plastic stacking chairs. I just couldn't trim the seat and fix the metal legs in the time between each extrusion. I was a failure.
I didn't care to be honest. I was a temp, and more interested in my music career. Other temp jobs came along and the plastics factory was taken over by another firm and production moved up north. The factory remains, an empty shell.


Another production job involved making hydraulic and brake pipes for the automotive industry. There are several ways of making them. I started by placing pre-cut lengths of hose onto a jig. These jigs went through a process that hardened the hoses into the shape of the jig. Easy peasy. The next time I worked there I had to dismantle, move and reassemble a roomful of dexion warehouse shelving. It was hard work and awkward to work with, as anyone who has tried to assemble dexion will tell you. Then I was called back to paint a water pipe that ran from one factory to another at about eight to ten feet off the ground. At least they left me alone so I could work at my own pace. Nobody else was pushing themselves, so I didn't either. Then I was an electrician's mate, pulling cable and helping him rewire a factory. He took very long lunches, and so did I.
It was easy work, and fun while it lasted.

A temporary life

It was early 1972 and I'd just quit my job at Olympia. The next day I wandered down to Hammersmith Broadway and went into an employment agency to register. I quite fancied a couple of days off to mooch around and maybe visit some friends in the Cotswolds, but it was not to be. I left my details and went back to my bedsit. I'd been back an hour and the doorbell rang. It was someone from the agency to say that they had a temp job and they needed me urgently. I went back to the agency and was sent off to do some temporary work in an office block in Victoria.
It seems incredible looking back, but there was full employment in the late 60s/early 70s. If you were a shop, office or factory worker in London, it was quite possible to quit one job and walk next door and get another within the hour.
I went on a couple of assignments with the agency that week. Two days later they fixed me up with an interview at Telfers and I started there the following Monday. Time out of work- half a day.
I worked a day or two at the Gas Board accounts dept. They had fallen behind dealing with customer queries so they got temporary staff in to clear the backlog. It was impossible for a temporary worker who'd undergone all of ten minutes induction to make head or tail of the job. I shuffled papers on my desk and alternated between staring out of the window and going to the men's room until the end of the day. I never did understand what I was supposed to do at the office in Victoria either. I just picked up a piece of paper and wandered around trying to look busy. Nobody asked me what I was doing, so I carried on until the end of the day, had my card signed and went home.

I went back to temporary work in the mid 1990s. For about four years I did anything and everything. I parked vans, delivered charity bags and made house to house collections, prepared new cars for delivery to the dealers, and delivered stationery to schools in a 7 1/2 ton lorry. I also delivered furniture and even made bombproof security doors. I packed chocolate, made all sorts of bread and rolls including several million hot cross buns and even walked around a landfill site picking up litter. I enjoyed that one, except that my DMs finally started leaking. I'd walked mile upon mile in them, trudging around the streets of Hereford and Colchester, delivering charity bags.
If there was work going I'd do it. I packed dog food in an open sided shed when it was snowing outside. It was either do that or not work at all. I worked in a leather belt factory, cutting the belts from the hides. I worked for the Environment Agency, plotting the flood defences on the Rivers Nene and Welland on the national computer. I typed up witness statements and collated evidence. I entered data on spreadsheets. I worked as a kitchen porter and washer upper. And I sold tickets to the 1998 World Cup from a call centre.
Call centres. I worked in a few of them. They need a chapter on their own.

Food glorious food

I've had quite a few jobs working in food production. The experience changes you.

I had two summer jobs working in a banana factory. One of the perks was that you could eat as many bananas as you fancied. I fancied a lot. I reckon I ate several pounds of bananas a day when I worked there. After I left I didn't eat another banana for about ten years.

When I moved out of London I worked for a meat products factory, initially in the production planning department. I missed the hustle and bustle of the sales office, and the pace of life in Northampton was very slow compared to London. I got bored very quickly and when a vacancy occured for a department manager in the factory I applied and was taken on.
The first change was that I had to have a haircut. I couldn't get it all in the hairnet. When you work in the food industry you take hygeine seriously. If you don't, here's what can happen.

When I was a schoolboy there was a typhoid outbreak in the UK, caused by the South American factory cooling the corned beef tins in the local river water.
About fifteen years ago there was a huge rise in food poisoning that was traced to a firm passing off condemned chicken meat as fit for human consumption. The meat found its way into meat products all over the UK.
And there are numerous outbreaks of e-coli poisoning that are traced back to bad housekeeping and hygeine.

Then there are the foreign bodies that turn up in food, like this recent instance

http://www.droitwichadvertiser.co.uk/news/local/5010493.Wire_brush_found_in_burger/
" A DROITWICH teenager got more than he bargained for when he bit into a burger - and found a wire cleaning brush inside.
The Chicken Legend burger was bought from McDonald’s in Kidderminster by Janet Stephens and taken home for her son Brett.
But when the 18-year-old tucked into the burger he made a shock discovery.
The pair say the five inch wire bottle brush was running through the chicken part of the burger. "

Hmmm. Not sure about that one. Nor the apocryphal Kentucky fried rat. But I do know of a couple that happened.

When I worked at Olympia the catering firm also had the Wimbledon tennis contract. The sandwiches and scotch eggs were made in the kitchens under Olympia and they took on student labour to do the work. After a day of making sandwich after sandwich, the temptation to be creative became too much. There was the sin of omission, making a sandwich with the smallest possible sliver of ham showing, so the unlucky customer bit into plain bread and butter. Then there was the scotch egg with a ping-pong ball filling.
Ho ho ho how they laughed at that.

When I worked at Telfers sales office there was a tale doing the rounds of a steak and kidney pie handed back to the salesman. The customer had bit into and found a piece of paper. On it were written the words "Help, I am a prisoner at Telfers meat pie factory". I like that one. very creative and destructive at the same time.

I learned the difference between a uniform and an overall. When I worked in a bread factory a few years ago I was told quite bluntly that I had to wear a clean overall every shift. (The fact that there weren't any was neither here nor there).

The reason was that overalls were to be worn not to keep one's clothes clean, but to stop the food getting dirty.

I used to drive past the hospital on the way to and from work and I'd see the staff walking around outside wearing their uniforms, including the green that signifies theatre staff. In the food factory you had to remove your overalls if you left the factory floor for a smoke or to use the toilet, and you had to wash your hands when you went into the production area. If you didn't, you got shouted at by the other workers. We took hygeine seriously. You never saw food production staff walking around the town centre shops in their overalls, but I see plenty of NHS staff in their work clothes.
It's a pity that the NHS isn't run by food industry professionals. If the NHS was regulated as tightly as the food industry it'd be shut down long ago.

School days.

Anyone lucky enough to have had a primary school education prior to 1970 had the best possible start in life. No calculators, no extra subjects to cram into the curriculum at the expense of the basics.
The teachers had time to teach you how to read. You proved that could read by standing up in class and reading from a book. They had time to teach you how to spell. Our fourth year teacher had spelling competitions that were fiercely fought. I recall as a ten year old standing up in class to spell "encyclopaedia". It was competitive. It was fun.
They taught us arithmetic. We had to learn our tables, up to the twelve times tables. By heart. My dad said I had it easy. There was even less pressure on the curriculum in the 1930s, so he had to learn up to the twenty times table. We were taught fractions. We were taught mental arithmetic. Calculators hadn't been invented.
My headmaster at Penpol Primary School in Hayle was a Mr Mitchell. He was a grown up so didn't have a first name. He taught the fifth year, and got us prepared for the eleven plus exam. Out of a class of about thirty, and without classroom assistants, he enabled five of us to pass the eleven plus and go the grammar school. Competition for places was tough. There were less than 200 places for the whole of West Cornwall. Selection was on merit, on how well you did in your exam. You got into grammar school because you were the best.
All through that final year at primary school his motto was "speed and accuracy". But accuracy first, because without accuracy, speed is useless.

I read recently that GCSE examiners are told to mark as correct any mathematics answer that has the right numbers but with the decimal point in the wrong place.
I also read recently about a locum doctor who prescribed ten times the dose of a drug to a patient who subsequently died.
And they don't make the connection.

Before February 1971, the currency in use consisted of pounds, shillings and pence. Twelve pence to the shilling, twenty shillings to the pound, two hundred and forty pennies to the pound.
When I started work at the bank, all staff were expected to be numerate, that is to say, they could add up and take away. Each cashier was responsible for the contents of his till, which he would balance each day. He/she had the use of a tally roll calculator for adding up the "meat ticket" cash slips, but we prided ourselves on our ability to do arithmetic, and to do as much as possible without recourse to machinery.

I left the bank in 1970 and for a few months worked as an invoice clerk for a frozen foods firm. The telesales girls would ring their customers and write the order on an itemised invoice. The Invoice clerks would price the individual lines, add up the invoice and deduct the commission to leave the total at the bottom. There were four of us, working to a deadline, and we'd have hundreds to tally up during the course of a day. We were employed on the basis of our ability to add up. And we were good.
Altogether now-
Take 3 3/4% discount off an invoice for £17-6-4d.

No I can't do it now either. But I could back then. Without recourse to paper and pencil.

Our branch of the bank was busy. We had several large local firms, plus many local shops and department stores. At the close of business, we'd have a pile of cheques a foot high that had to be sent away to the clearing house. Each morning we'd receive a huge pile of cheques that had to be filed into each customer's file. This was called sortaway. Then we'd compile the statements, taking the cheques and paying in slips and arranging them into the order they appeared on the statement. and woe betide if a cheque was mis-sorted. It had to be found.
By the time this was complete, there was a pile of today's work to be done. There was always a deadline to hit. It was pressure. It was fun. From 3.30 when the branch closed the doors until 5.00 it was a rush to balance the tills (to the penny), transfer the cash to the vaults, process all the paying in slips and cheques, punch the data, and bag up the cheques for clearing.
It was fun if you could keep up.
I couldn't.
I used to watch the more experienced staff as they operated the various machines. Their fingers flew over the keys and they never seemed to look at what they were doing. And their work was almost always correct to the penny.
I had to be taught how to do that. So they sent me away for a week to learn. It's a skill that never leaves you. In recent years I've worked from time to time in data entry. I easily passed every assessment, both for speed and for accuracy.
Speed and accuracy. But accuracy first.

Smartly turned out

I have absolutely no interest in fashion. As far as I'm concerned, clothes should keep me warm or cool according to the season, and be reasonably comfortable. End of.

Part of this is down to my upbringing and the time that I grew up. My mother chose my clothes. They had to be hardwearing and functional. I was the oldest, so I never wore my sibling's cast-offs. I did however wear other people's cast offs if they fit. Growing up in the fifties in a small seaside town, there were no washing machines or launderettes. Clothes had to be washed by hand and wrung out using a pre-war mangle. I had one school shirt when I went to grammar school. I'd wear it all week and it would be washed at the weekend ready to be worn again the next week. When the collar wore out from all the scrubbing, it was either unpicked and turned over and resewn, or a patch was sewn over the frayed material. Clothes were basic and functional and certainly not fashionable. My mother insisted in kitting me out in corduroy jerkin and shorts. I wore shorts until my legs got too hairy. It was the norm.
Clothes were expensive. They were expensive compared to how much I earned. A cheap shirt cost fifteen shillings (75p), a good one was a guinea (£1-1s). A cheap off the peg suit cost £10, which was one week's wages.
I needed a suit to work at the bank. My parents paid for my first suit. It cost £10. My second suit cost a bit more. I went to Burtons for it.

There was a Burtons in every town. I went to the branch in Portobello Road. Their buildings are very distinctive. They always occupied a corner site and they almost always had a snooker hall upstairs. The former Burtons site in Kettering is now an Estate Agents, with a night club upstairs.
I went to Burtons one Saturday and was measured for my suit. He asked me if I dressed to left or to the right. He had to explain what it meant. Then I had to choose the style of suit. Finally I paid a deposit and the suit was ordered for me.
Burtons had a huge factory in Bradford or somewhere like that where they made up the suits that had been ordered in the local shops. A week or two later I called in and tried my suit for size.
It cost me £30, three week's wages.
My next suit was off the peg, and cost £18 from Burtons. I never bought another for years.

Because clothes were expensive you tended to wear clothes until they wore out. The habit tends to stick with you.
In the early 70s I used to wear loon pants. They were made of cotton and were died in bright colours. They cost about £2.50 a pair. A nice grandad tie dye T-shirt cost about the same.
It wasn't until the late eighties that clothes started to come down in price. And as they became cheaper, people began to throw them out before they wore out.

About ten years ago I had a job working for a recycling firm. I'd clock in at six o'clock in the morning at the site in Wellingborough, and together with a driver's mate would drive a white van to the designated collection area. I started off in Colchester, which was about a hundred or so miles away and took about two hours to get to. We'd buy an A-Z map and choose an area to work in. We'd spend the morning walking the streets putting bags through the letterboxes. Our target was 1000 bags per day, assuming we could find 1000 houses that hadn't been visited. After a month or more we'd walked every single street in Colchester and every village within ten miles.
Every afternoon we'd drive to the location that we'd visited two days earlier, this time we drove around looking for the bags that had been left out. Once we'd collected all the bags we drove home, had the van weighed on the weighbridge, emptied the van and clocked out. The next day we did more of the same.
Our target was one ton of clothing per van per day. Some vans went to areas that produced more. Others produced far less. It must have made money, even with all the miles involved.

Some of the clothing was packed into large canvas bags that were sewn shut and loaded in an unsorted state into lorries and transported to eastern Europe, where the clothes were sold to a poor population. This was prior to the enlargement of the EU. Some clothes were sorted into types, eg cotton, silk, wool and went to be recycled. Some customers would order say, a hundred pairs of used denim jeans, or fifty large ladies overcoats and these would be packed and despatched. Clothes that were given away to charity found their way to market stalls in Africa. The Organisation that gave its name and added credibility to the operation received a percentage of the cash raised in this way.

We performed a vital role in the economy. Many people (but not me) love shopping for clothes. Inevitably they run out of storage space. A charity bag would be posted through the letterbox and it would be filled with unwanted or unloved clothes, thereby releasing space for more purchases and keeping the tills ringing in the high street. A small fraction of the clothes collected would find its way into the charity shops of the organisation named on the bag, but it tended to be the very best stuff. Once a week we'd send a van to these retail outlets to take away the unsold clothes and bring fresh stock in. Almost all the clothing collected got reused, resold or recycled.

Until now. The problem is that clothes are now too cheap. I paid £3 for a pair of jeans from Tesco. If prices had risen in line with inflation that would have been around £90 based on 1960s prices. I don't do fashion, I don't do designer labels, I do do comfort,and they're uncomfortable I'll throw them into a charity bag. Most clothes are produced in the far east. Most of them are made from man made fibres, which can't be recycled. Clothes that sell for a pound or two when brand new have no resale value and can't be recycled so go to landfill. Transport costs mean that the foreign markets have dried up. It costs too much to send our unwanted clothes to Africa. The Africans can buy their clothes direct from the factory, as we do.

I stayed with the collection vans for about three months. Inevitably the longs hours took their toll. I was being paid by the hour, so I was earning well enough. However, I was supposed to be a musician and songwriter and while I found that walking the streets was a great way of working out song lyrics ( I wrote one of my favourite songs while tramping the streets of Wivenhoe in Essex), I didn't have any time to get into the studio to record the songs. I wanted to record another album, so in the end I packed the job in.

I'd walked every street in Colchester, Haybridge, Malden, Mersea and all the surrounding villages. I also walked the streets of Hereford and Ross on Wye. I discovered that every new housing development looks the same, irrespective of local architectural styles. Bland bland bland.