It certainly was nice to get back home
again. The day hadn’t been too bad,
sitting around in a car park for four hours you might think could be rather
boring, but remember I was in the middle of North Welsh Wales, surrounded by
mountains and rivers and sheep, let’s not forget the sheep. The cadets and children handled it pretty
well, but it was the following four hours, in a mini bus, that was a little tedious. There was no rest for me when I got home for
I was now on double top secret standby; Irene was pregnant and about to give birth
to our fourth child. The whole thing did
cause us some concern as we had, after some detailed scientific research, put the cause of pregnancy down to me being on detachment for six or seven weeks.
We could never actually pin point the exact cause,
but we knew that there was some sort of connection between long detachments and
pregnancy. This time I hadn’t been on
detachment, I wasn’t even in the air force anymore, so I would have to reopen
my research and run it alongside my continuing research on how pillows caused
hangovers. Apart from my scientific
research projects I was determined that someone’s head would roll for the
mistake with the camp site, however, my presumption that the senior positions
in the Merseyside wing of the air training crops, were being handed out to
members of the masonic lodges and had nothing to do with ability or commitment
were confirmed as no one was interested.
I can remember cornering the wing commander and
demanding an explanation. I told him
that someone had not updated the maps. “Oh,
is that what the problem was?” He said,
before he walked away. I could see that
they had no concern if it happened to anyone else; I would have expected an
assurance that the map would be checked and updated, but no, nothing. In fact the only reaction to that memorable
weekend was that we should have a car wash to raise some funds to pay for the
recovery and repair of the coach. It was
as if it was more important to talk about something rather than do it. I could see that there was no point in me
getting myself worked up about it. I had
mentioned that I had used the Duke of Edinburgh’s award scheme as an excuse to
get the cadets out and under canvas; this was now brought back to me.
Every air cadet squadron was part of a Wing,
and each squadron competed against each other, using a points system. Various points would be awarded for positions
gained in marching competitions, or swimming competitions. Points were awarded for the number of cadets
on the squadron and for a number of other activities and levels gained in them.
One of the activities where points were awarded was the number of participants
each squadron had on the Duke of Edinburgh’s award scheme. The scheme is open to anyone between the ages
of fourteen and twenty four. There are
three levels, Bronze, Silver and Gold. For
each level participants select and set objectives in four areas, volunteering,
physical, skills and expedition with an additional fifth level at Gold being residential,
which involves the individual staying and working away from home on a shared
activity.
Andy told me that we needed to score some decent
points from our Duke of Edinburgh’s participants that would ensure we were
placed high up in the squadron rankings.
Apart from bringing points to the squadron the cadet’s would use their participation
in the award scheme on their CV’s if they were applying for jobs or courses, so
it was regarded as quite an important activity.
What I was really being asked to do was falsify records, you may think
that in such an unequal society I would have no problem in helping my cadets
with a few little white lies, I wouldn’t, what concerned me is that I was being
asked to do this by a policeman. The problem
was much greater that a handful of cadets on a squadron, it affected every news
story you might read in the newspaper.
The cadets were already at a disadvantage, if
they moved anywhere outside the Merseyside region because of their accents, and
who should know more about that than me.
I had no problem falsifying their records, I wasn’t that interested in whether
the squadron got extra points or were rated higher than some other squadron, if
I could help one cadet in their search for a better job or higher position then
I was happy. I find it strange these
days that most people accept that most CV’s are exaggerated, and no one does
anything about it. The cadets didn’t even
question the fact that their handbooks contained write up’s of activities they hadn’t
completed, they had achieved their awards and were given their badges. Not one person complained.
The only people who were complaining to me at
the time were TPT, where I was working.
I was used to being told that I didn’t understand things, such like when
I was a publishing executive in advertising, I didn’t understand business, I
did it was called blackmail. In the world
of insurance and investments, I didn’t understand achieving personal sales
targets, I did, it was called lying and cheating, or basically theft. In audiology, it wasn’t being successful; it
was called being a confidence trickster.
Seems now that I didn’t understand the world of government sponsored
training schemes. I was amazed that I
was being told off for getting people jobs.
One person joined the course, he was male and
in his mid-fifties. He had suffered a massive
heart attack and now, with limited mobility, was classed as disabled and also unemployed. I began talking to him and discovered that he
had been a member of the REME, the Royal Electrical and Mechanical Engineers, a
highly efficient unit of the British Army.
After talking to him for a while I could see that he had the correct
attitude, in that he loved working with mechanics and the like and he didn’t want
to be unemployed or disabled, he wanted a job.
There was the hard fact that physically he was restricted but it would
be a shame to lose all those years of experience.
That evening, even without the use of a bath, I
had a eureka moment and couldn’t wait until the following morning. I took a leaf out of the book of fellow who
had started TPT, the priest with the truck full of unemployed parishioners, and
went around to a local garage who offered MOT tests. These are the mandatory tests that every vehicle
over three years of age must undergo and pass to legally drive on the roads of
the United Kingdom. After a brief
discussion with the garage owner we agreed that my fellow could come around for
a two week trial as an MOT inspector and if they liked him and he liked them,
oh and he was good at the job, then he would be offered a full time job. I was happy, Action For Blind People, who
sponsored my course, were happy and the fellow himself was very happy, for he
was no longer consigned to the human scrap heap.
TPT on the other hand were not so happy. I had fifteen places on my course with each
place lasting six weeks. Great that I had found this fellow a job, but I should
have kept him on the course for the six weeks, before passing him on to the
garage. It was all my fault, I didnt
understand; again. I agree, but what I didn’t
understand, up until then that is, is that TPT, as are all training
establishments, paid per pupil per day.
Each course or trade received a certain level of payment and the disabled
category, my course, received the highest payment of the lot. So by all means, get people jobs or secure
them courses but keep them on the course for the complete six weeks so that TPT
would receive full payment.
Action For Blind People agreed with me, so I knew
I was right, people came first, not profit. The managers at TPT were getting quite angry
with me as were the local social workers, so I knew I was doing something
right. I knew I had been quite
successful in getting people jobs and placing them on to training courses. Action For Blind people were very pleased
with what I was doing so I typed a letter explaining that I needed a pay rise,
as you do. This was no ordinary letter
asking for a five or ten per cent pay rise, as I was doing so well and so many people
were now queuing up to get on the course, I asked that my salary be
doubled. I know it might be considered a
little bit cheeky but it would only bring me in to line with what other people,
doing the exact same job as myself, were being paid elsewhere and I have
already said that the money TPT was paying me was rubbish.
I was dithering about looking for the best time
to drop the letter on the general manager’s desk when the decision was made for
me. Irene had gone into labour and was
on her way to the local hospital. I went
to the general manager’s office and gave his secretary the letter, explaining that
I was immediately taking the two weeks holiday we had discussed as my wife was
about to give birth. I left TPT and, carefully
observing all the local speed and traffic regulations, made my way to the local
hospital. Once again I was smothered in
fear as I had always been told that my mother had died giving birth to me so
not only was I hoping that any child produced would be alive and healthy but
that Irene would too. I knew I would probably
faint, again, but that really didn’t concern me. I arrived and found that Irene was already in
the process of giving birth. The midwife
refused me entrance to the delivery suite so I sat outside waiting and
worrying. I don’t know how long I was
there, I know it wasn’t long but the doors opened and the midwife poked her
head out. “Mother and baby are doing
fine,” she said, with a big smile. I was
relieved, but had a question which she knew I had, and she answered before I
asked. “Irene said to tell you it’s a
Charles.”
No comments:
Post a Comment