Chapter 11 -More Philips, and LOTUS

I bought a Lotus Elan! What a piece of kit! It needed a little work but was pure joy. It went like stink, -100mph was a fingertip, lazy cruise, - its handling, of course, was impeccable. One virtually wears an Elan. The headlamps worked on a vacuum system, and, when needed to clear the road clag, you just pulled the right knob and they popped up and continuously flashed, automatically. - Hardly courteous to the road blockers, (anything doing less than a ton) that you need to shift, but hey, - it got them outa the goddam way!

      I was coming back from Wolverhampton one Friday just bowling along at the usual 100 when some prick in a Jag came up behind me, and the saucy bugger flashed! I hit it; feeling quietly amused, she launched up to about 125 and I watched the knob stropper dwindle in the mirror. Holiday time was looming, and little No1 son Marc had arrived some months before. There was no room at all for baby stuff in the Elan so I was told to sell it, or else! I was never so pissed off, especially when the snotty bastard who bought it smirked and screeched off up the road, and all for a poxy £615. Fokke!

       I bought a succession of white two-door Cortinas from Alexandra Palace auction, and made an easy £40-50 every two weeks or so. This pretty much doubled my income. Why Wolverhampton? Just before Christmas the previous year, most of the staff at the Philips depot there had gone out to get booze or something, and all but one was killed. A huge wheel had come off a truck and hit their car, smashing it severely. I was sent up there every second or third week to run their computer, invariably with a data control clerk. Pretty dreary, but I could use the Lotus in its natural habitat, -the oh-so-fast lane, - at full chat, and the firm paid for the juice! Heavenly!

     Out of the blue came the news that the computer operations were moving to Nottingham. We were all invited to go there and, as usual, in my normal stupid ‘Gob now- think later’ manner, I turned the company’s excellent offer down. I had no real option but to stay in Upminster to look after my Pa. Once their list was complete there was no revision, and Papa died just a few weeks later. Too late! – But my decision was right enough, just mis-timed.

        Philips had kindly arranged for me to work at ‘Belling and Lee’ in Enfield.  There were only two males in the whole place, and a vast number of females of all shapes, ages and sizes. There was only one truly beautiful girl there, and in cold blood, I simply asked her out. It could have been a goer, the signs were there, but she had only very recently taken up with some other very, very lucky bastard. So, instead of being preyed upon by a few hungry misfit girls in Brentwood, I was now actively seeking an affair. Clearly something wasn’t quite right with either the marriage- or me; - blame me, not Eleanor. The computer there was a Univac, and it ran on a barmy system using ‘Octal’- it counted in eights! I stuck it for a week and simply failed to show up on week two, after a damn good weekend at my buddy Peter’s house in Flore, Northants. So many bitchy bickering women- fuck it, - absolutely untenable.   Mr. Philips was a little cross but found me another job as Operations Shift Leader with ‘Green Shield Stamps’, actively metamorphosing into Argos.

     Staying up there with Pete spurred me into wanting a bigger 4- bed house so we sold our lovely bungalow and moved to Cosgrove, near Stony Stratford. On reflection I truly wish we had never moved. Our bungalow was only a few minutes walk to Upminster main line station and handy for open country, shopping, schools, etc. Really, it was the ideal place to live. Too late I realised that. As usual, I’d fucked up. Stupid twat.

 Before that move, I was plugging away in Green Shield/ Argos, well paid, and having a whale of a time screaming home round the North Circular each night. I had a poxy Escort that absolutely flew. There were no bastard cameras then of course, the roads at 3am were deserted, the lights usually on green! One night, slowing for a rare red light, I came alongside a huge thundering American car with ‘Donovan’ stickers all over it, with ‘Himself’ sitting there. He ‘hit it’ on amber, but, I kid you not, that ‘piece of crap’ Escort left him for parked. He flashed and hooted as he dwindled in my mirror. It’s ‘power to weight ratio’ that makes performance pal, not just brute force!