Did labouring jobs as a young man. Obviously, I knew it was only temporary. That changes everything. Worked in Longsight for a summer, believe it or not.
Once spent a summer working in a bread factory. The conditions were quite simply a sustained form of violence against the human body, and the human soul. That was an education in itself. Worked with a partner who barely spoke to me through the eight hour shifts (the noise was incredible, anyway, you had to virtually bellow to make yourself heard). He'd been there five years. I was just a tourist, passing through, he knew that, so he didn't respect me. I don't blame him. Maybe he hated me. I used to look at him and think, “You appear to be shackled to this”.
Later, worked in a small publishers, in promotions, out in Barking, Essex. It was ok, but I always saw myself moving on. Absolutely every last one of them was a Hammers fan, they used to give me a terrible ribbing when City had lost on the Monday mornings. A good bunch, by and large. I grew to hate the job after two years, mainly because of the managing director, who was a considerable dickhead. Think David Brent and you're not far off.
When I handed in my notice, I told one of the girls in the typing pool. I quite fancied her, and she was an intelligent girl — again, shackled in her own mind to a typewriter. She was seething with anger, because she could see no way out. Nineteen years old. Was always quite aggressive with me. Anyway, I told her, and I'll never forget the really deep melancholy in her voice as she said, without even looking at me, “Oh… I wish I could do that.”
It's getting on for fifty years on, but I to this day regret not sitting down and saying quietly and firmly to that girl (her name was Nicola), “For God's sake, Nicola. You're nineteen. Do not say to yourself, this is my only option. Take your life in hand. Move…”
It depresses to read some of the posts on here, because I understand them very well. I could have just stayed put. The money was shit at that publishers, but it was comfortable enough, in a soul destroying kind of way. Used to get up early on Saturday mornings to train up to Piccadilly on the football special (when there were such things). Back in the evening. That kept me going.
When I first saw The Office I couldn't really laugh. It was disturbing. It was too close to the bone. That could have been me, or not far off — not Brent, certainly not, but maybe Tim, maybe (horrors) Gareth! Maybe even Dawn. People hanging around, frittering their lives away, day after day, waiting for something to turn up. But it's not going to. And they're all kind of sad in their own way. It is truly pathetic how jubilant Tim is when he gets a tiny promotion, which is almost nothing more than changing his job title.
About ten years ago, I had a dream that I was back at that exact same place. I had found nothing better to with my life than go back there after all those years. They were all still there. They didn't seem in the least surprised to see me, some were even smirking, as if to say “You see? Haha, we knew you'd be back…!” The sense of relief when I woke up and realised it was only a dream cannot be exaggerated.
Anyway, I handed in my notice, and changed my life, radically. But that's another story.
