2 (24) IN LESS THAN A CENTURY IV.

WELCOME TO CIVVY STREET!

The fifties (continued). 

The difficulty many servicemen found in adapting to civilian life had clearly been recognized in high places: it was rectified by six months of post services training. For me, therefore, 1957 started with two terms at Clark's Commercial College in The Avenue, Southampton. When I left I had become, at 26, the proud possessor of a GCE (Oxon) in English. (It remains my only worthwhile educational qualification.) I was supposedly studying accountancy, but had not the slightest interest in becoming an accountant. 
My father said: “It doesn't matter what job you do, just make sure it's one with a pension.” So, on Monday 2 September, 1957, I started work with the Portsmouth Executive Council (NHS) - miniscule salary but sound pension scheme - and at the end of the month was presented with my first civilian pay cheque (twenty nine thirtieths of the month's total, because that first Monday had been the second day of the month). That's accountancy, friends. (If, as many public service decrying journalists maintain, the NHS has wasted billions over the years, it certainly didn't waste it on me.) 
In the year before I left the army I took my first ever leave to the UK by plane: an Elizabethan from Dusselforf. Passenger flights had taken off and home leave had become a simple matter of booking a seat. The Elizabethan class airliner that flew us back and forth had never...it was proudly announced for the benefit of the wary...been involved in any untoward incident. Those of us who were the wary were glad about that. On 6 Feb.,1958, came the Munich air disaster and the decimation of the Busby Babes. Tragically, the Elizabethan turned out to be not that safe after all. 
My new post seemed to be safe enough, though. The Clerk of the Executive Council met me in the corridor a few months after I started. “Ah...Mr Ah...” he said, “how are you settling in?” 
“Very well thank you, sir.” 
“Good, good. Wasn't sure about appointing you, y'know. Well...years in the army...used to moving about 'n all that... thought y'might not stay...” 
I might not have stayed. 
In 1959, still single and living with my parents, I had filled out an application form to join the Essex police (failed the height stipulation for Hampshire), had been declared medically fit by my GP (late on a Friday evening) and was all set to post off the application the next day. 
Around midnight my father had a heart attack and was rushed into hospital. When my mother and I visited him on the Saturday he was awake and lucid. Before we could get to him on Sunday he suffered a second attack and died. It was, we were told, a massive coronary thrombosis. He was 54 years old. He was a smoker. He enjoyed a drink. And in the Portsmouth City Architect's offices (I was later reliably informed) there was an attempt made after his death to share his regular workload between three qualified (on paper) people. They all said it was too much. His qualification was practical experience. 
“You,” the head honcho once told him (before dispatching him to sort out latrine trouble or suchlike at a council build), “are the only one around here who has seen a loo chain pulled in anger.” 
So I guess nowadays we might have anticipated a coronary. Back then we, he and our doctor thought the chest pain was indigestion. Well, his mobile x-ray results were OK. Seems medieval now, don't it? 
So I saw out the decade clerking and writing monthly payment cheques for the work done by chemists on the Pompey NHS list. (What? Oh, 72 of 'em I think.) 
A police career was never going to happen. 
Just as well. I'd have been a lousy copper. (To be continued) 
HOME. 
A lovely story. 

Christine and Christopher Russell. 
Back in April 2011 (Post 165) I wrote that my Leader and I had met this nice couple when they were signing copies of their first two Warrior Sheep books at our local Waterstones. 
We bought the books on spec for grandson Ellis when he was a little older. He seemed to reach the right age this year and we introduced them into his bedtime reading. Great enjoyment. Great enjoyment. So I enquired and found that the writers had produced two more: The Warrior Sheep Down Under and The Warrior Sheep Go Jurassic (which is set in our home territory, the Isle of Wight). 
Waterstones could obtain Down Under; but Go Jurassic, they told me, was out of print. 
Well, to precis a long story, I emailed the Russells and they gifted Ellis a signed copy of Go Jurassic. It came by post earlier this week and was a gift simply made out of the kindness of their hearts. 
He now has the complete set to date and I know they will be treasured for many years to come. 
Thank you, my dears. 
Our place.
Seems that, subject to contract, we may have sold. 
It has come at a time when Maureen has seen her surgeon and been told she will need to go back into hospital for additional hip related surgery. 
At this juncture I have nothing more to say.
(Back reasonably soon.)