The office was on the top road on the right.
Me and Margaret. I landed back in Manchester from Uganda in 1963 carrying two cuckoo clocks and two African drums and with an engagement ring sewn into the lining of my trouser pocket. My Auntie Doris was most confused when I gave her a cuckoo clock.
“Where have you been?” she said.
The clocks had been acquired because London was fog bound and we were diverted to Geneva for a two hour stop-over. I blame the impulse purchase on jet lag and being stupid.
The ring was for Margaret, who had been my long term girlfriend. We met young, others in our crowd got married but we both had our eyes on career. She had ended our relationship before I went to Africa but we had written. I returned with the ring and she foolishly accepted my proposal. Unfortunately, our engagement ended within a year. She went to work in Paris and I ended up, eventually, in Blackpool. What a coincidence, I thought. They've both got towers.
Margaret was a linguist (French, Spanish, German) went on to travel the world as a flight attendant for British Airways, live in Australia and make her home for many years in Germany. We met again five years ago and exchange the occasional email and remain friends.
I arrived back in the UK shortly after the Evening Chronicle closed putting 70 journalists out of work. This was not good timing as my first priority was getting a job. Journalism in those days was a small profession, and is even smaller now, but there were always jobs if you were prepared to move. I ended up in Durham for a year. A beautiful city, friendly people and Newcastle Brown. The office was located close to the castle and Cathedral with a pub next door. Mind you, it took a while to understand the accent. The landlord of the pub served during the war on a Canadian ship whose crew believed he was Norwegian for the entirety of hostilities. Why aye, man. It was good fun. Durham was a university city of great pubs and the nightclubs of Newcastle were just up the road.
I shared a terraced house with another reporter, who shall remain nameless, who was best described by one sub-editor as a "self taught incompetent". He returned from a night drinking and fell asleep with his head in the living room fire. Fortunately, the flames had gone out but the coals were hot. He singed off an eybrow, eyelashes and a large chunk of hair. It gave him a lopsided startled look which did him no favours when trying to interview anyone face to face.
I worked from the head office of the Durham Advertiser, was also for a time district man for the Northern Echo and subbed on the Evening Despatch.
I attended the Christmas carol service at Durham Gaol. This was and is high security and close to the city centre. The night I went with a photographer it snowed. The scene was Dickensian – until we got inside. We were put in the upper choir stalls of the prison chapel where, a warder told us, we would be safe from the hardened male criminals below. He said nothing about the hardened female criminals who were then ushered in to share the benches of our haven. The photographer was a mature chap with a bald head and a paunch; I was 23, slim, reasonably good looking and nervous. The eyes of the ladies fixed on me as if I were on the menu. I needed a pint or three when we got out.
During my time in the North, I dated two or three young ladies, like you do, before acquiring a serious girlfriend. Unfortunately she had a choice between me and a chap on the nationals. Can't understand why she chose him.
It was time to move on. Blackpool beckoned.
“Where have you been?” she said.
The clocks had been acquired because London was fog bound and we were diverted to Geneva for a two hour stop-over. I blame the impulse purchase on jet lag and being stupid.
The ring was for Margaret, who had been my long term girlfriend. We met young, others in our crowd got married but we both had our eyes on career. She had ended our relationship before I went to Africa but we had written. I returned with the ring and she foolishly accepted my proposal. Unfortunately, our engagement ended within a year. She went to work in Paris and I ended up, eventually, in Blackpool. What a coincidence, I thought. They've both got towers.
Margaret was a linguist (French, Spanish, German) went on to travel the world as a flight attendant for British Airways, live in Australia and make her home for many years in Germany. We met again five years ago and exchange the occasional email and remain friends.
I arrived back in the UK shortly after the Evening Chronicle closed putting 70 journalists out of work. This was not good timing as my first priority was getting a job. Journalism in those days was a small profession, and is even smaller now, but there were always jobs if you were prepared to move. I ended up in Durham for a year. A beautiful city, friendly people and Newcastle Brown. The office was located close to the castle and Cathedral with a pub next door. Mind you, it took a while to understand the accent. The landlord of the pub served during the war on a Canadian ship whose crew believed he was Norwegian for the entirety of hostilities. Why aye, man. It was good fun. Durham was a university city of great pubs and the nightclubs of Newcastle were just up the road.
I shared a terraced house with another reporter, who shall remain nameless, who was best described by one sub-editor as a "self taught incompetent". He returned from a night drinking and fell asleep with his head in the living room fire. Fortunately, the flames had gone out but the coals were hot. He singed off an eybrow, eyelashes and a large chunk of hair. It gave him a lopsided startled look which did him no favours when trying to interview anyone face to face.
I worked from the head office of the Durham Advertiser, was also for a time district man for the Northern Echo and subbed on the Evening Despatch.
I attended the Christmas carol service at Durham Gaol. This was and is high security and close to the city centre. The night I went with a photographer it snowed. The scene was Dickensian – until we got inside. We were put in the upper choir stalls of the prison chapel where, a warder told us, we would be safe from the hardened male criminals below. He said nothing about the hardened female criminals who were then ushered in to share the benches of our haven. The photographer was a mature chap with a bald head and a paunch; I was 23, slim, reasonably good looking and nervous. The eyes of the ladies fixed on me as if I were on the menu. I needed a pint or three when we got out.
During my time in the North, I dated two or three young ladies, like you do, before acquiring a serious girlfriend. Unfortunately she had a choice between me and a chap on the nationals. Can't understand why she chose him.
It was time to move on. Blackpool beckoned.
RSS Feed
