Determined to make the most of my enforced year out, I found a job with electrical retailer, Grady's. My parents had very nearly disowned me when they found out my A level grades. My argument that considering the amount of revision I did I must have done really well didn't cut much ice. I vowed that I would earn some money before next year to help them out with my tuition fees, when I would take up my place at the College of St James and St John, the thinking man's University of York. Apparently signing on wasn't good enough and they said I'd have to find a proper job.
My main duties at the store were hoovering the carpet before the shop opened, making the tea for Graham, Dave and Sue, and hiding in the stock room. I didn't know the first thing about TVs, videos or washing machines, and I certainly wasn't going to take one of Graham's trade manuals home to read up on like he suggested. But it was embarrassing; every time a customer asked me something I'd have to say, "I'll just get someone who can help you." If Graham, Dave and Sue were busy I'd have to run upstairs and pretend I was getting another member of staff. One time this tactic failed and after fifteen minutes hiding behind a large tumble-dryer, the bloke was still there. He wanted some new speakers for his record player. I sold him a pair of top of the range Bang and Olufsen for thirty quid - 80% off the recommended retail price. I had no idea how to use the till.
Fortunately, Grady's retail was subject to the same harsh economic realities as Dan's Caf and went into liquidation three months after I started work. Mr Grady was evidently caught watching The Young Ones on his black and white portable, too.
The summer of 1990 was a memorable one. England in the semi-finals of the World Cup, long hot evenings spent roaming the fields behind my village, games of basketball on Matt's front drive that only ended when one of us collapsed, and parties around campfires with huge moons and REM and golden sparks flying up into the seemingly endless night. They were the last days of innocence.
I had been working at the petrol station on the main road since November. There were two shifts worked on a rota: six till two or two till ten. Amazingly, in those days I used to make the morning shift. It was the first time I actually shouldered any real responsibility in a job. I was a 'key holder' - the gravity of which position I further embellished in my imagination having just finished The Lord of the Rings. The red v-neck jumper and name badge simply heightened my aura of importance.
It wasn't a bad job. There were perks. For instance I got to put the new magazines out on some evening shifts. Surprisingly, fewer top shelf editions found their way back to the newsagent after I began working there. It was also quite funny selling them to people.
"And, er... twenty Lambert please, mate."
"Sure. Twenty Lambert and Big Knockers Monthly. That'll be £5.90 please, sir."
After a while, either because the mornings finally got to me or because I was scared of going blind, I gave it up and got a job in the pub in the next village. I didn't have a car, so I used to cycle the two and a half miles. I also didn't have an adult's bicycle. The only one that survived in the shed was one my sister had had when she was eight. I did my best to customize it. I replaced the white girl's saddle with a racing one, the white pedals with black reflective types; I raised the handle bars and seat extension as far as they would go, and on the back I attached one of those nifty flashing rear lights. Despite my modifications I still looked like a chimp on a tricycle when I rode it. I cannot believe this now, looking back, but the final half-mile of this journey was actually on a main road - the A436. No front light, and a top speed of five miles per hour with my legs going like the clappers. I remember straining to hear if any cars were coming in the distance when I reached the junction with the main road. If the coast was clear I would then try and make it to the pub before a car passed me, for fear of embarrassment as much as anything else.
Once parked up, I began a six-hour shift on the wash-up. Fortunately, my space was round the corner from the main kitchen where the poor lads and lasses who were unfortunate enough to work with Veronica, the red-faced Chef and Landlady, had to simper and cower and avoid flying frying pans until closing time. The major benefit of this job was the cheeseburger that I received after each shift. Veronica made the best mincemeat in the country, it was well known. Now that I have taken ethical exception to the consumption of lamb and other animals, I can only savour the memory of that delicious food; of the warm, golden polystyrene box glowing in my hand as I made the hazardous trip home - made even more hazardous by the fact that I now had only one hand on the handlebars and it was pitch black - of opening it lovingly on the kitchen table and breathing in the rich aroma of melting cheese, finely minced meat and fresh and slightly soggy granary bread before raising it to my lips and taking the first exquisite mouthful. Momentarily, £3.10 per hour seemed a decent wage.
