Autobiographical

So that was it. One stage of my life was over for good. It had been the most enjoyable to date and even now, almost 40 years on, a period that I still remember fondly. Admittedly, nostalgia may well be leading me to portray those halcyon days in too positive a light. For truth be told, there were family health issues and other commotion that hardly rendered those years either calm or satisfying. And now it was a time for change and I was not at all ready.

Feeling at a loss, I decided to go the following Tuesday to the local Job Centre for advice. After collecting a chit and waiting for half an hour in a dimly-lit and downtrodden building down the road where countless people seemed to roam around, some in search of more information on available unemployment benefits and others checking the noticeboards for information on courses and possible careers, my turn came up. I presented my CV and explained the situation, indicating my previous experience, proficiency in language, knowledge of retail from the months at Selfridges and other customer-facing roles at the camp site and in Sophia Antipolis. I requested advice on any positions that might be tailored to my skills. 

After gauging my competence and considering my relevance for different tasks, the administrative officer announced that he had the perfect short-term solution for me: a temporary three-day job working for a builder at a private property starting the next day. It didn’t sound like the answer to my prayers. However, at least it was located about half an hour’s walk from home,  and I would be paid in cash. As I was a bit short right then, I accepted the offer readily. Suffice to say that I didn’t go down that route again.

On arrival, the burly and stout builder, who was possibly in his mid-40s and boasted a significant beer gut, briefly told me what to do. I was entrusted with a mini digger and instructed to break up the surface of the entire garden with a brief demonstration. Before I knew it, he was out the door as if on the run. He only returned on Friday evening, looking a little worse for wear, no doubt a regular at the local. 

For some reason it happened to be boiling hot with the sun relentless and I sweated profusely as I endeavoured to complete the assignment on time. The owner was a kind lady and offered me coffee and biscuits. Once it was all done, I was duly rewarded with a total of 60 pounds for my efforts. However, my hands shook for days afterwards and I shivered for a while whenever I would hear that tedious hum and rattling at building sites. I was convinced that I wasn’t cracked out for construction. 

Such a turn of events looks unfortunate from where I am sitting today, as it would appear to be an AI-proof profession, that is, until the richest man on earth has achieved his goal of robot supremacy. Luckily, however, to date his predictions tend to diverge from reality timewise or have until now.  

In the meantime, I saw an opening for receptionist at Quinn’s Hotel, Richmond, 15 minutes from home, and was offered the job after a 10-minute interview on a Saturday. The hotel was being revamped by a Sikh millionaire and was run back then by a psychotic New Zealander Rick who was often off his head either from drugs or whiskey, or more likely both. 

Other than limited interaction with Rick, the work was fairly simple, albeit repetitive, although on occasion I would have to rush and clean rooms/make the beds shortly before the arrival of guests when the rooms hadn’t been marked for occupancy. After the first chastening experience when I had to deal with an irate client over the state of his room, I would always double-check bookings and the state of the accommodation at the start of my shift. For some reason I was more competent than the manager in that respect. 

The pay wasn’t great, but the travel was minimal. The hours varied with day and night shifts and the role was mainly stress-free, except when Rick would shout at me for no reason whatsoever or return inebriated or high (or both) to the premises where he had free lodging and blurt out various expletives. In a nutshell the environment wasn’t ideal and made me sour on a possible career in the hospitality sector, an avenue that might have proved challenging, but fascinating. 

However, I decided to return to what I knew best in the UK – temping. I contacted Manpower again and was immediately placed in a cabling job for British Telecom. It sounds impressive when put like that. In actual fact, it was mundane. A cable would be passed from temp to temp located in various spots and rooms. I was given a cramped position high up where I would collect the cable and pass it on. The passage of each such cable would take from 20 to 30 minutes. Growing accustomed to the location, I managed to read the sci-fi classic Way Station by Clifford Simak.

And then I saw a job in the Evening Standard. Based in central London. As I will recount in more detail, the job was reminiscent of the Soviet Union due to the payment practices that rendered customers into hopeless wrecks or expletive cretins, while enabling long-suffering staff on the receiving end of abuse to earn a bit more or even double their basic salary.