crinklybee

The Frozen Wastes of the North

In much the same way that ownership of a dog serves as an excellent excuse for  lengthy, lone woodland rambles, one of the great joys of having children is that it gives you a valid reason to embark on outings which, if undertaken without the alibi of an infant in need of fresh air and diversion, might appear slightly eccentric, not to say outlandish.  Admittedly it helps that Frankie is a little bit eccentric himself, as evidenced by this morning when he demanded, a propos of nothing whatsoever, that we go out and find some canal boats to look at.  

I must admit to entertaining some slight misgivings with regard to this proposal.  For a start the whole country was already under six inches of snow this morning, meaning, presumably, that the national public transport infrastructure would grind to a halt by mid-day.  And then there was the fact that Frankie had been ill for the past week, during which he hadn't expressed an interest in anything more arduous than curling up in front of CBeebies in his pyjamas (I spent one of those days off work looking after him, which was quite relaxing, at least for the first half-an-hour.  By the time Charlotte came home at 3:30 I was near to hysterical, and the constant onslaught of on-screen cuteness had turned my brain to a kind of semi-functioning mush, but that's another story). 

All things considered, then, the suggestion of a day out was fraught with hazards.  I envisaged an aborted journey to God Only Knows Where, featuring several hours spent freezing on a deserted railway platform,  a variety of mild to gale force temper tantrums, and at least one, perhaps two, incidences of pneumonia.  The sensible course of action was to resign the two of us to another day in our pyjamas, battling the particularly virulent strain of catatonia that only six hours in front of Thomas the Tank Engine and his ilk can induce.

Of course, I'm not particularly sensible and was, if anything, more thrilled by the prospect of shinily-painted canal boats than Frankie was.  Some hasty internet research and a phone call were enough to convince me that the trip was viable.  Not much more than an hour later- thanks to not one but two impeccably punctual trains- we arrived in a more or less absolutely deserted Macclesfield.  In the gathering gloom, we set out determinedly and in precisely the wrong direction for half a mile, before coming to our senses and stopping to ask directions of a man with a particularly unconvincing glass eye.  His instructions, unlike the handiwork of his surgeon, were perfectly authoritative (and even if they hadn't been, we would have been obliged to follow them, in order not to hurt his feelings, it can't be easy wandering the ravaged streets of Macclesfield in snow-drifts, permanently hampered by what is to all intents and purposes a billiard ball lodged fast in your left eye-socket)- and just ten minutes later, we found ourselves at our destination for the afternoon.  

The Town Marina- for this was the holy grail we had set our hearts on attaining, turned out to be a Godforsaken and iceblocked enclosure hidden behind a trading estate, where a collection of thirty-or-so primary-coloured barges, huddled against each other as if in protection against the howling gale, were presided over by a family of ducks.  In other words, just what we expected and well-worth climbing a mile up an icy incline from the train station to see.  I took some photographs, which in some future edited version of this post, you may be able to feast your eyes on, and Frankie spent a happy twenty minutes deliberating which of the narrowboats he would live on, if he had the choice.  Those two activities having pretty much exhausted the diversionary potential of the amenity (the Chandler's shop was open, but we had no immediate need for calor gas, lengths of rope, or dusty paperbacks entitled 'An Illustrated History of the Cheshire Waterways) we set out for home.  Well, OK- we set out to an unpromising-looking suburban boozer overlooking the canal bridge, which turned out not only to be warm and welcoming, but to offer children's sausage and chips for £3.75 a plate (we shared them between us) and the second half of Hearts versus Celtic on the big screen (we would have preferred Newcastle versus Middlesbrough, but let's not be picky).

All in all, a succesful afternoon out- particularly when you bear in mind that I, for one, would have defined 'success' at the start of the afternoon as any outcome not involving a visit to casualty.  Those results, then, in full:

Hearts 2 Celtic 1

Newcastle United 2 (Harewood, Ameobi)  Middlesbrough 0

Thomas the Tank Engine 0, Macclesfield 3 

Merry Christmas to one and all.

The Beautiful South

The weekend before last saw a major  event in the Crinklybee social calendar- the wedding of Simon and Sarah, longtime friends once resident in Manchester, now ensconced , along with their adorable children, somewhere in the deep South of England.  I say ‘somewhere in the Deep South’ partly to protect the online anonynimity of our newlyweds,  and also because, quite frankly, my geographical knowledge of the home counties quite deserted me somewhere between Euston and Paddington, leaving me rattling southwards on a commuter train heading for Surrey (or possibly Sussex). 

The confusion as to my whereabouts did not end there.  Shortly after arriving at my B and B I set out into the country lane in what I understood to be the general direction of a village green containing not one but two welcoming local pubs.  I never got to either of them, as I had declined the landlady’s seemingly absurd suggestion of the loan of the household torch, which had left me ill-prepared for that standard feature of the countryside which never fails to catch me out- the absence of streetlighting and consequent absolute, all-enveloping  pitchdarkness.   Thirty or so babysteps down the uneven tarmac – and an unexpected collision with something large and obdurate, which I initially took to be a cow, but which turned out on closer inspection to be a parked landrover, were enough to persuade me that discretion was the better part of valour.  Deciding that the promise of a foaming pint or two of the local ale was perhaps not worth the risk of arriving late for the wedding in crutches having ended Friday evening in a ditch, I dislodged myself from the four-by-four’s bodywork and retraced by babysteps to the lodgings, where nothing more threatening lured in the shadows than a shelf-full of motheaten Dick Francis hardbacks.  .

Fortunately for all concerned  this short excursion into the oblivion of a Surrey (or was it Sussex) evening was last moment of the weekend that was anything other than utterly charming.   On the Saturday morning (accompanied by my B and B companions for the weekend David and Claire from the Far North) there was a walk around the now-perfectly visible village green, complete with duck pond, chattering old codgers seemingly auditioning for walk-on parts in an Agatha Christie adaptation, and – wonder of wonders- a coffee bar offering high-speed broadband.  In the afternoon there was torrential rain, which, if anything, only brought heightened charm to a beautiful humanist ceremony, led by a kind-looking, grey-haired, slightly absent-minded lady preacher who mislaid her lines at a crucial moment of the vows,  muttering ‘now, where’s my page two?’ 

This phrase became a catchphrase of the weekend- and was reprised, with perfect , impromptu comic timing, during the groom’s speech (the Best Man’s one was if anything even better, and would deserve a post on its own) .   A disco followed, which, you will be glad to know, featured that frantic-hopping-on-one-leg-for-a-while-then-on-the-other-one  thing which Gentlemen Of A Certain Age feel mysteriously compelled to perform at the first bars of either One Step Beyond by Madness or Come On Eileen by Dexys Midnight Runners.    

All in all it was a brief but utterly enchanting flirtation with the beautiful South, and Simon and Sarah did themselves (as I hope they will realise if they read this) absolutely proud.   A weekend in rural Surrey (or perhaps Sussex) comes with the recommendation of all here at Crinklybee Towers, although those with eyes accustomed to the neon-lit thoroughfares of the urban north are advised to bring a torch, or maybe a Davy lamp, or a fragment of the illuminated frontage from their local kebab shop.   You really can’t be too careful.

A Rite of Passage

It may or may not have something to do with Newcastle United's megalomaniac owner taking it upon himself to tear up 130 years of history and rename our ground after his own chain of fucking sportswear stores, but I've been thinking about the days of the  terraces a lot over the last week or so.  

If you are much less than twenty-five years old your knowledge of football terraces will be limited to vintage goal clips on YouTube.  Watching them now the swaying masses of humanity -reeling about at each end of the pitch, and uncontrollably crashing forward in waves towards the eight-foot-high fencing whenever a goal was threatened -really do look quite frightening.  Did my mother really quite blithely pack me off on Saturday afternoons to be put to the mercy of the inhabitants of what constituted, to all intents and purposes, giant, crumbling, sloping, criminally overcrowded cages? (actually, as I found out a few years later, my mother was putting a brave face on things. Years before Hillsborough made the dangers horribly apparent to everyone, she used to worry about what could happen in there, and on a February Saturday afternoon in 1987, when I was one of those penned in against the perimiter fence at Tottenham's Whitehart Lane, with the combined weight of 20000 away supporters amassed behind us in an enclosed space designed to hold half that number, her worst fears came just a Newcastle goalmouth chance away from being realised).

Thankfully for us Newcastle never scored that afternoon, and I kept on spending my Saturday afternoons on the terraces, even as the clubs' gradual response to the post-Hillsborough safety legislation rendered their days numbered.  One of the last clubs to replace its standing areas was Manchester City, where, on what may have been my last two hours on a truly iconic terrace, my iconic John Lennon-style glasses were sent flying into the crowd during the euphoria attending a David Rocastle goal versus Arsenal.  In response to my panicked wails - 'Me Glasses!  I've lost me fucking glasses in there!'- the massive crowd parted good humouredly, for just a moment, exposing a two-foot square of concrete.  I had just enough time to dive in there and retrieve my mangled eyewear before the assembled humanity knitted helplessly back together under the pressure of its own weight.  I stumbled away and took in the rest of the game from the comparative safety of the back corner of the giant stand.

That was all a long time ago.  Nowadays the big stadiums are identikit all-plastic-seater affairs, and the nearest we can get to the terrace experience is by going down to our local Sports Bar on a Sunday afternoon, leaning on the bar, and craning our necks to get a glimpse of the action on a giant Plasma screen screwed high into the wall.  Occasionally this is a life-affirming experience- such as on Saturday teatime, when I popped out to take in the second half of Wolverhampton Wanderers versus Arsenal, and fell into conversation with an urbane native of the Black Country.  We covered subjects such as the ongoing travails of Newcastle United, and the classic mid 80s Wolves forward pairing of Steve Bull and Andy Mutch, before parting at full-time with hearty, half-drunken handshakes. 

Other times- more times than I care to admit, really- the plasma screen experience can be just depressing.  Such as on Sunday afternoon, when I stopped off in the same bar to take in the second half of Chelsea versus Manchester United.  Maybe it was the addition of local partisanship to the occasion, but the atmosphere was, quite simply, vile.  At one point the Chelsea centre-forward was accidentally caught in the ribs by a flying kick, and fell to earth, crumpled, immobile and, quite possibly seriously injured.  Amid great hilarity, the bloke behind me yelled out:

'Get up, you lazy fucking bluenose arselicker!'.

That wasn't the depressing bit though.  The depressing bit was the same words, repeated just a moment later.

'Get up, you lazy fucking bluenose arselicker!'

The venom was just as apparent- but this time the shout had come from somewhere at knee level and a couple of octaves higher in pitch   I looked down to see a child, dressed in United replica kit.  Maybe about six years old.  Presumably the bloke's son.  Brought along for the afternoon, maybe, to take in the big match atmosphere for the first time.  Get a taste of the banter.  A rite of passage, if you will. 

All of which- I hope- goes some way towards explaining why, for all the attendant drawbacks (casual racism, loss of vintage eyewear, inhalation of pipe fumes, unspeakable pies, death) associated with the terraces, I still, you know, miss them a bit.  And I'll be damned if I'll let that bastard Ashley play about with the heritage of a club I damn nearly died watching, one Saturday afternoon in the eighties when he was presumably earning his first fortune as a till assistant in the Aylesbury branch of Foot Locker.  Damned if I will.

Unproductive

 Even by my own workaday standards, I’m having a ridiculously unproductive Friday.  So far it has gone like this:

 

10AM:  Arrived at my workplace somewhere in Manchester’s fashionable Westside (late start due to having to wait in for the Man from the Council to arrive in a giant catsuit to chase away the fieldmice who have taken up residence behind our kitchen cupboards).

 

10-10:30AM: Scanning emails while suspecting there is something more important I should really be doing.   Leave messages re non-urgent matters on a couple of people’s phones. 

 

1030AM:  Realise that no, there is nothing more important I should be doing.  Occupy myself with some papers in vain attempt to look busy.  Give in, and occupy myself by staring into middle distance instead.  Realise that this perhaps isn’t having desired effect of communicating purposefulness and endeavour to assembled colleagues.     

 

10:35AM:  Gradually becoming overcome by vague sense of unease, bordering on outright nausea.

 

10:40AM:  Salvation!  There is a man at reception who needs to see me with regard to an urgent although unspecified matter.  

 

10:42AM:  Man at reception dealt with.    Start to write ‘things to do’ list but am distracted by rogue idea of escaping to my ‘secret’ office somewhere else in Westside  (it officially belongs to an organization I work with, but I’m the only person who ever uses it)  and spending long lunchtime updating too-long-neglected blog.

 

10:45AM:  Commencement of battle to the death between work ethic and rogue secret-office blog-writing idea.

 

10:47AM:  On scooter, headed for ‘secret’ office.  Experience return of sense of purpose as vague but not unpleasant tingling sensation.  Stop of at Co-op for ham sandwich and bananas to fuel writing session.

 

11:00AM:  Inserting my very own key into door of deserted room,  deep within bowels of rambling Victorian terraced house longago bequeathed to municipality by merchant benefactor.  Ancient (possibly even Victorian) computer whirs into action at press of ‘on’ button.  Gaze out of non-Health-and-Safety-compliant sash windows at expansive bequeathed greenery, reveling in rare moment of stolen solitude.

 

11:15AM:  Searching for inspiration.  Decide on thoughtful post based on recent chance viewing of BBC4 retransmission of 1959 General Election Coverage.

 

12:15PM:  Retransmitted 1959 General Election Coverage proving less inspiring subject matter than it appears.  Delete first paragraph, for twelfth time, and start writing it again, with the words in a slightly different order.  It doesn’t look any better however many amusing references to Harold McMillan are crammed into it.

 

12:30PM:  Ancient (possibly Victorian) computer crashes.  Groundbreaking if amateur reflections concerning retransmitted BBC coverage of 1959 General Election (fourteenth draft) lost to future students of Post-War British Political History.    

 

1PM.  Ancient (possibly Victorian) computer crashes for third time in quick succession.  Press the ‘off’ button to put it out of its misery, while reflecting that this is perhaps the reason no-one but me uses the ‘secret’ office hidden inside the rambling Victorian terrace somewhere else in the Westside.   Get back on scooter and head back to my main workplace.

 

1:30PM  Arrive back at main workplace…. to urgent email from boss demanding communication to all key parties by first class post! 

 

1:30PM to 2:30PM:  Engaged in battle with defective printer and own defective mailmerge skills, patience, and general attitude.  

 

2:30PM:  Admit defeat in wholly one-sided battle.  Call helpful colleague in branch office with functioning printer, who agrees to take on boss’s urgent task.

 

2:45PM:  Admit defeat in working day as a whole.  Open Word document and start writing post for too-long-neglected blog.  References to Harold McMillan conspicuous by their absence.

 

…………

 

 

So there you have it.  It’s now 3:50PM, and the weekend, thankfully, is upon us.  Or just about upon us.  It turns out the office with the functioning printer doesn’t have a working franking machine so I will need to do the ‘sending out’ bit of the urgent Friday afternoon boss’s job all by myself after all.  Which is fine by me, as operation of the franking machine is my very favourite menial office task, and probably just about as complicated an objective as I seem destined to achieve on this particular Friday… and I think that is my helpful colleague I can hear coming up the stairs with a bundle of urgent letters, so I had better get this post saved and get the hell out of here.  Have a good weekend everyone, and I hope your Fridays have been a little bit more productive than mine has been so far….  

Wide Awake Club

4:27AM, and I have been wide-awake for half an hour.  Any attempts at getting back to sleep are being complicated by the presence of young Frankie, who at some point in the night has crept into the middle of the bed and spreadeagled his five-and-a-half-year-old limbs across approximately 60% of the available surface.  It's like trying to sleep with a cute but ungainly orangutan. 

That is one of the things that is keeping me awake.  The other is the collection of some half-dozen items I have suddenly decided I absolutely have to tell you about, all of which are competing for attention in my head, and none of which (I am warning you now) I can focus on long enough to stretch out into anything like a proper post.

So clearly there is nothing for it but to get up, make a cup of tea, and write it all down in a deranged, sleep-deprived flurry.  In order to bring some semblance of order to the proceedings, I will extend to you the small courtesy of a series of sub-headings.  Thus:

1. Boy

A year or so ago, as you may recall, Frankie was given to remarking that it was 'complicated being a boy ', and indeed had made a conscious decison to revert to babyhood, complete with a retro penchant for nappies.  This identity crisis was short-lived, partly (I like to believe) due to a masterful parental intervention, in the form of the purchase of a Euro 2008 Panini sticker book, followed up by a regular nightly supply of adhesive-backed photographs of stern-looking Bulgarian centre-halves.

That was a year ago.  Now Frankie is altogether positive about everything to do with being a boy, or as he prefers to call himself, a 'feller'.  Suddenly, everything I do is fantastically interesting, and Charlotte finds herself banned from the living room for half-an-hour at at time, on the grounds that some not discerbibly macho show on CBeebies (Charlie and Lola, say, or The Night Garden) is 'just for fellers, like me and daddy'. 

Secretly I suspect that Charlotte is not overly upset by this development, although other aspects of Frankie's new-found identification with his gender are slightly more alarming.  For instance for some quite unfathomable reason he's got it into his head that maleness equates to drinking beer and watching football, so has taken to asking anyone who will listen (such as the neighbours, or any of his little friends who come round to play), whether they fancy 'coming down the pub for a pint to watch Newcastle United'.  And on the way to the park the other day, he made a valiant but vain effort to effect a diversion into Hennigans Sports bar, which, he informed Charlotte, was 'just for fellers, really.  That's probably why you don't like it'.

Having said all this, Frankie's best friends at school are still all little girls, and he's suddenly become interested in the idea of learning to read (until now, any effort to point out the words next to the pictures has been met with indignation bordering on outright tantrums).  And he's also completely besotted with Amaya, the half-Spanish, half-Mancunian seven year old whose grandparents live two doors down, to the extent of wanting to do anything at all that she does, even things he would in normal circumstances flatly refuse to consider, such as going to swimming lessons or eating a banana.  So all is not lost (apart from the devotion to Newcastle United of course- I can speak from experience there and affirm that there is absolutely no going back on that one, God knows I've tried).

2 Allotment

For some time now I've been telling anyone who will listen that I am going to get an allotment.  Not any allotment, either, but one on the much sought-after plot up at the 'nice' end of Levenshulme near the biscuit factory, where depending on who you listen to the waiting list is either six months or three years.  Me and Frankie have even taken to wandering up there on Sunday mornings and spending an hour or so admiring the potatoes (or leeks, or strawberries, or whatever they are; we are very much still at the beginner's stage here) and striking up conversations with passing gardeners in the hope that one of them will turn out to be An Influential Member Of The Committee.

We haven't succeeded in this quest yet, but we have been given a guided tour of three separate plots, one of which included a free fifteen minute step-by-step tutorial on the basics of shedmaking (Frankie was transfixed).  And in a new development, we have been reliably informed (by my mam, who knows about these things) that in order to get an allotment it isn't actually compulsory to stake out the committee with the aid of small children- you just have to ring the number on your Council website and get yourself put on the list.  It turns out she's right, which is slightly dissappointing as me and Frankie were quite enjoying the subterfuge aspect of our weekly excursions.  But  I'm going to make the call anyway, and am already making plans for the first potato harvest, scheduled provisionally for sometime in 2015.   

3 Bike

Not content with nearly getting an allotment (or at least nearly putting myself on a list for one) I've been preoccupied with nearly getting a bike.  Partly this is due to a realisation that since I ...

a-can't play football any more

b- have an aversion to swimming owing to the chilly municipal water and attendant danger of drowning, and

c- can't get an allotment for fifteen years,

...a bicycle is pretty much my only route to physical exercise of any kind.  Which would explain why I was to be found wobbling around the backstreets of Manchester's fashionable Westside at 4:15 this afternoon, when I should really have been at work.  I was testriding a gentleman's bicycle in a lurid shade of pink, which had been advertised on a postcard in Sainsbury's at a price of £40.  The vendor was a chirpy Irish chap named Tommy, whose claim that the pink effort was 'me brother-in-law's'; he's just bought a new one' was somewhat cast into doubt by the presence of approximately thirty other bikes in various shades and states of repair, scattered across his drive.  There were also several full sets of golf clubs for sale, and I'm sure if I had enquired over the availability of an unused fondu set, or an olympic-sized trampoline, or a vintage Ford Granada in fetching beige, he would have sauntered off to his garage and come back with a choice of each.  I can't say for sure because I didn't ask.  What I can tell you is that in the end I declined to part with the asking price for the lurid pink mountain bike, partly on account of its doubtful provenance, but mostly because my wobbly perambulation about the backstreets of the Westside had brought to light a troubling slipperiness about the gear-change on the small sprocket.

 

I did have one or two other items that were swirling about my head, such as a recent series of especially soul destroying work meetings, each of them more pointless than the last, culminating in a night-time one which I travelled specially to but was the only attendee at, as they had cancelled it and not let me know (actually that was the most enjoyable one of all, I stayed for some time after finding out about the cancellation, lounging in the communal armchairs and gazing contentedly through the descending dusk at the walls).  And there was also the trip to M19 bar to take in the Manchester derby in the company of the twenty-strong gang of vociferous, snappily-dressed Zimbabweans who you only ever see in M19 bar, and only on big match days.  They drink only lucozade, and are given to sudden pronouncements in African-accented RP, on the lines of 'That was damn shoddy defending, Ferdinand!  Shaky and Shoddy!'

All very mysterious, but it will have to wait for another day, as it is now 5:49 and I am overcome by a desire to go back to sleep, or at least to climb into bed and wrestle for mattress-space with a slumbering orangutan-like figure.  Sweet dreams, everyone...

My Beautiful Career

For reasons which I won't go into here (but you may assume they have something to do with the belated but no-less-scary-for-that effect that this credit crunch thing is having on job security in the public sector) I've been spending rather more time than is good for me lately on the Guardian's Jobsearch Pages.  Predictably enough, the bulk of this time has been frittered away with pointless daydreaming, but just occasionally I have managed to rouse myself into actually reading the detail behind the interchangeably vague job titles (Community Volunteering and Engagement Executive, anyone?  Information Participation Officer?  Social Cohesion Partnership Project Associate?) and tried to imagine myself actually doing one of the jobs advertised.  Nine times out of ten that is as far as it goes; my imaginings leave me so stressed out that I conclude that actually trying to do the job, rather than just think about it, would most likely kill me. 

Just occasionally, however, I come across a post which not even my vast reserves of work-related self-doubt can dissuade me from feeling I might just be able to get away with- and on one such occasion last week I even went so far as to send off an application- for something administrative at the University.  I don't think I'll be sending any more off in a hurry, as

A- it took me two days to fill in the form, in which I had to give detailed explanations of how exactly I fitted every one of their exacting criteria.

B- they were two days spent in vain, as I didn't even get an interview. 

C- The process of writing about my achievements in such detail  has left me completely confused, as I can no longer remember which of the achievements are real, which ones are slightly exaggerated, and which ones are completely made up. 

It is in an attempt to do something about 'C' that I present the following-

My Beautiful Career  (an alternative Curriculum Vitae)

June 1990-November 1990.  Buffet Assistant, Newcastle-upon-Tyne Airport.

What this job was (short version)- General dogsbody.  Table clearing, manning the tills, feeding holidaymakers' plates into a giant industrial dishwasher.

What I say about it in job applications: 'In this role, where shift patterns varied on a weekly basis, I learnt the value of flexibility, teamwork, and most importantly of all, camaraderie'.

What it was really like:  Absolutely fucking awful.  The five-o-clock starts were bad enough, but the real problem was the disdain, bordering on outright hostility, with which the established permanent staff treated people like me- ex-students on temporary contracts.  One particular incident- in which an oversized cast-iron casserole dish whished past my ears, accompanied by the admonition 'Those fucking pots  divven't gan in the bastard panwash, yer little tosser!' has left me with a deeprooted fear of six-foot four Geordie chefs with moustaches.

January 1991-August 1992.  Teacher of English as a Foriegn Language, northern Spain

Short version:  Teaching Engish at a private academy, to groups ranging in age from 7 to adult.

What I say about it:  'This overseas posting gave me a valuable grounding in the teaching profession- and in particular taught me the value of thorough preparation'

What it was really like:  Absolute bliss, in comparison to getting up at four o'clock in the morning in order to undergo assassination attempts at the hands of alumni of the Newcastle-upon-Tyne Catering College. More than that I can't really tell you, as I was drunk 80% of the time.  I do remember that the 'thorough preparation' consisted of emerging from a lengthy siesta at two oclock in the afternoon and scrabbling around on the floor of our bedsit for a lesson plan hastily scrawled on the back of a cigarette packet while  under the influence of strong licqueur. 

 

September 1993- July 1995.  Completion of Post-Graduate Certificate of Education at Manchester Metropolitan, followed by Supply Teaching of Modern Languages in Oldham.

Short version: Two teaching practices while on the course, two contracts (for one term, then two, at separate schools) during the following academic year

What I say about it:  'On returning to the UK I sought to develop my burgeoning academic career by the pursual of a professional qualification.  This led to a year spent in the  challenging but fulfilling environment of secondary school teaching'.

What it was really like: The least said the better.  I think the lowpoint was the afternoon in Gorton when a near-riot in the 4th year classroom was briefly interrupted by the sight of an onion floating through an open window, bouncing across the floor, and coming to a halt in front of my desk.  Having said that, there were some moments I remain inordinately proud of- such as the time I somehow managed to get through an hour as a last-minute teacher of GCSE Mathematics, with only my faint grasp of the rudimentaries of the seven-times-table standing in the way of utter professional ruin.

 

September 1995- June 1998.  Customer Services Assistant, The Gas Board, Manchester.

Short version: answering telephones, writing letters, dealing with complaints.

What I say about it:  'In this role I dealt with a range of complex enquiries including complaints of a regulatory nature.  Clear written communication was key to success'

What it was really like:  Actually quite enjoyable, and certainly a welcome relief from avoiding airborne root vegetables.  Our team of twentysomething clerks were given a surprising amount of leeway when it came to answering the many, many letters of complaint that used to arrive daily on our desks.  I used to amuse myself by sprinkling the replies with arcane 1950s-esque phraseology such as 'Sir- I thank you for your correspondence, which was received in these offices on the 14th inst.' 

 

June 1998- June 2007.  Customer Services Officer, Company X, Manchester

Short version: answering telephones, putting on orders, doing projecty processy stuff, training freshfaced newcomers.

What I say about it: 'My time with Company X was most fulfilling, but after a decade I felt ready for a fresh challenge'

What it was really like:  Well you read about it on here, didn't you? Actually looking back I can't quite remember what was so bad- but I do remember the desperation that used to engulf me at three o'clock in the afternoon, and regularly spending ten minutes at a time with my head down on the desk, quietly moaning to myself and willing the endless minutes to pass- so I should probably conclude I was right to get out- right?

 

June 2007- present.  Officer With Interchangeably Vague Job Title (pick any one you want from the Guardian Situations Vacant pages), Medium-Sized Public Sector Organisation Y, Manchester's Fashionable Westside.

Short version.... well, I think we will leave it at that, if you don't mind- partly in case anyone in HR is reading (in which case, haven't you got a meeting to go to or something?), but mainly because after two years I'm increasingly uncertain about what the hell it is I'm supposed to be doing.  What I do know is that I'm spending unhealthy amounts of time daydreaming about doing 'proper' jobs, by which I mean ones that people in Frankie's TV cartoon shows do (postman, windowcleaner, cheerful proprietor of market fruit stall in fictional northern town).

None of which vocations, of course, feature heavily in the Guardian Society Job Pages, which suggests that a review of my jobsearch techniques may be in order.  But not right now.  Right now I've got a day off work to look forward to, on account of having booked some leave in hope/anticipation of getting an interview for that job at the university.  Maybe I would have stood a better chance sending them the 'alternative' CV - what do you think?