Jonathan Dodd‘s latest column. Guest opinion articles do not necessarily reflect the views of the publication. Ed
A few years ago, in limbo time between two lives, I had my very own first, and hopefully only, medical emergency. I was on my own and out of work, renting a well-run-down house in Newbury, licking my marital wounds and hoping for a job again. It wasn’t a good time.
I remember it well. I had just about run out of money, and an agent phoned me about a job in Swindon, working at the Honda plant there. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but there was definitely an odd quality to the conversations I had about it. I found out why when I started there the next Monday morning.
Downstairs, they put cars together, upstairs they do I.T.
The first thing they did was to take me to a large locker room, which I thought was rather odd, since I was there to do an I.T. job. They gave me a white denim suit, some steel-capped boots and a plastic hard hat. I tried to explain that I wouldn’t need those and they must have mistaken me for someone else, but they just smiled indulgently and insisted I got changed. I needed the job, so I shrugged and did as they bid me.
Feeling a bit of a fool, I traipsed up to the top floor into the office and discovered that everyone was wearing the same gear. They explained that they operated the plant the same as in Japan. Everyone, including the Owner, wore the same clothes. Downstairs, they put cars together, upstairs they do I.T. OK, I thought. Think of the money.
Fifty pairs of running steel-capped boots
Apart from the clothes, it felt like a standard first day. I had the usual desk and PC, although the desk layout was odd, since they were all separate to each other and ranked in rows and columns like old-fashioned school desks. It felt like I was taking my A-levels again. I dutifully started to plough through the stack of documents they gave me, trying to think of the money.
At 10am, an immensely loud klaxon rang out, and everybody grabbed their hard hats and sprinted for the door, with a rumble that only fifty pairs of running steel-capped boots can make on industrial flooring. The man on my left was on the phone. He just dropped it, mid-sentence, and practically leapt over the desk in his hurry to get out.
That’s what our mothers both suggested
Naturally, I thought there was some sort of huge natural or industrial apocalypse happening, and they were evacuating the building. “Come on – you’ll miss your place!” one of them shouted, so I followed him into the canteen, where a huge queue had formed. “Only ten minutes to get your tea!” he panted as he introduced himself. Amazingly, after the klaxon rang again and everyone sprang back to their desks, the man on my left picked up the phone and resumed his conversation.
At the end of that day I stopped off at the motorway services to look for Walnut Whips. I’d had a conversation with a friend the night before about there not being any Walnut Whips around any more, because both of us used to buy Walnut Whips for our fathers for Christmas, because that’s what our mothers both suggested when we asked what we should buy for our fathers.
Worn soft with smudgy Santas on
That was in the days when fathers didn’t need anything because they always had everything they could want, and they didn’t want anyone making a fuss or wasting their money on little old them. Each said it would be his pleasure to open a small pile of presents wrapped in last year’s paper (or maybe the year before’s), and beaming when the pair of socks and the jumper and the Walnut Whips emerged from the paper, worn soft with smudgy Santas on after so many wrappings.
I swear my mother was a genius at removing any amount of sellotape without tearing the paper or lifting the pattern, and she would lovingly fold the paper on her lap, hardly noticing the present inside. I used to make bets as to who would be getting that paper next year.
With instant curmudgeonliness
My friend and I had been astonished to find these similarities in our childhoods. It took several years for me to realise that this was the absolutely standard Christmas and Birthday behaviour of all fathers (and probably mothers) at that time. I used to think they were born with different DNA to us.
But whenever my children mentioned Father’s Day I found myself saying with instant curmudgeonliness that it was a load of rubbish and I didn’t want a card or any fuss. So I inherited that pieced of DNA too. I did expect the little beggars to give me a card though, despite what I said. I don’t think they ever have. They keep quoting me though, as if it’s funny.
Romantically, it’s just not the same
Anyway, we were wondering how to find out if there were any Walnut Whips anywhere any more. I remember I said that if they could be found anywhere it would be in Motorway Services. It’s surprising how many things they sell that you can’t find anywhere else, like Chamois Leathers, Haynes Manuals, and weird old-fashioned sweets. And Walnut Whips. I was right. Nowadays you can find everything like that on eBay. Romantically, it’s just not the same, but it’s ever so more convenient.
I fully intended to go back to Honda the next day, but I never got the chance, because of the medical emergency. I’ve used up all this week’s words now, so I’ll have to tell you about that next time. I hope you’ll be patient and tune in for the next instalment, same time, same place. It might be useful to have a balloon, a sheet of rubber, some sellotape and a cardboard box to hand. And a Walnut Whip. Not because you’ll need it, but they’re quite nice, and they’ll remind you of your father.
See you then, I hope.
If you have been, thank you for reading this.
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