Well, back in the early nineteen seventies it wasn’t like that. If a job as a managing director came up, folk who fancied being a managing director would rush along and apply for it and the first in the queue would get it. You don’t believe me, I can tell. But ask yourself this: what has Richard Branson got that you haven’t got? A beard, a toothy smile and a jumper? And that’s it, right? Richard Branson answered an ad in the early 1970s: “Young man wanted to run soon-to-be multimillion-pound music empire”. He won’t own up to it now, of course. He’ll tell you he worked his way up from nothing.
But then, he would, wouldn’t he?
No, in truth, that’s the way the seventies did business. It was a seventies tradition, or a new charter, or something.
And it worked.
It did.
It really did.
And I’d been offered the job of telecommunications engineer. Not “Young man wanted to start off multimillion-dollar computer industry. Name of Bill would be a benefit.” Some other specky twonk got that one. I got telecommunications engineer. I didn’t want to. But I did.
“Up and at it,” called Harry through the now open window. All now open because he’d put his big elbow through it.
“I’m not well,” I said. “I’ve got Bright’s disease.”
“Take it up with Bright,” said Harry. “You’re off to an interview. I’ve a car waiting outside.”
“Is it a Mini Metro?” I asked.
“No,” said Harry. “They haven’t been invented yet.”
“I hate you, Harry,” I said.
“And I respect you for it,” said Harry. “But up and at it, or – and this is not a personal thing, but merely in the line of duty – I will come in there and smash your face in.”
I got up from the table.
“Put your tie on,” said Harry.
I put my tie on.
“And your trousers.”
I put my trousers on too.
“Put them on the right way round.”
I took them off again and did so.
“There,” said Harry. “You look very smart. You really should get your hair cut, though.”
“I’ve tucked it into my trousers, haven’t I?”
“You’re a weirdo,” said Harry. “Although, don’t get me wrong, weirdo has its place in the overall scheme of things.”
“You have a heart of gold,” I said.
“Let’s go,” said Harry.
I had never seen the inside of a telephone exchange. And I can’t say that I liked the look of it. I did like the smell, though. A kind of electrical burning smell of the type that you only get now in the carriages of intercity trains. The smell is called ozone, apparently. I’d always thought that ozone was the smell you got at the seaside when you sniffed near the sea. But apparently that’s something else entirely. That’s sewerage. Ozone is different. It smells ever so nice, though. I was really taken with it. Mr Holland showed me around. He’d been in telecommunications all his life so far. His dad had known Alexander Graham Bell and Faraday.
“Let me tell you something about the history of telecommunications,” said Mr Holland.
“Must you?” I said.
“I must.”
“Go on, then.”
“It all began with Adam and Eve.”
“This would be quite a long history, then. Could we move on a bit?”
“And then the 83102 superseded the 83101 and the coil-exchanger really came into its own.”
“Fascinating,” I said. “I never knew there was so much to it.”
“You start on Monday, then.”
“But what do I have to do?”
“Ah,” said Mr Holland, and he led me to a tiny booth. It was even smaller than my kitchenette. And it didn’t have any windows at all, although it did have a door and a table.
“Sit there,” said Mr Holland.
And a chair.
I sat on the chair.
“Now,” said Mr Holland. “Do you see this?” He pointed to a bulb that was attached to a Bakelite fitting that was in turn attached to the table.
“I see it,” I said. “It’s a bulb.”
“It’s an attached bulb. From the fitting, wires extend through the table and down into the floor.”
I peered beneath the table. “You’re right,” I said. “They do. Bravo for those wires.”
“And do you see this switch?” He pointed to the switch in question. It was also attached to the table and certain other wires ran from it, through the table (which to me seemed a pretty sad table, what with all these holes cut through it and everything), and similarly vanished into the floor.
“I spy this switch,” I said. “There it is: I have it.”
“Good,” said Mr Holland. “I can see that you’re a natural for this job.”
“Hm!” said I, thoughtfully.
“The nature of the job is this,” said Mr Holland, whom I noted wore a bow tie – always a bad sign, in my opinion. “At certain times the light bulb will come on and it will be your duty to press the switch and turn it off.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Because it has come on.”
“Oh,” I said. “But why?”
“But why what?”
“Why does it need to be switched off?”
Mr Holland laughed. “Because it has come on, of course.”
“I see,” I said, but I didn’t. “No,” I continued, “I don’t see. Why does the bulb come on?”
Mr Holland stared at me queerly. And it wasn’t that kind of queerly at all. “You have applied for the post of telecommunications engineer, haven’t you?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“So I am assuming that you do know how to switch a light bulb off.”
“Of course,” I said. “Everybody knows how to do that.”
“You’d be surprised,” said Mr Holland. “You’d be surprised.”
“So this is what a telecommunications engineer does: switch off a light bulb?”
“Switch it off when it comes on. And not before. You didn’t think it was going to be all glamour, did you? Out joining broken wires together?” Mr Holland laughed again.
“Perish the thought,” I said. “My constitution would not survive such constant excitement.”
“Are you taking the piddle?” asked Mr Holland.
“Definitely. Yes.”
“Well, it’s not a necessary requirement for the job. But it’s not prohibited, as long as you do it in your own time. Do you have your own gloves?”
I shook my head.
“You’ll need your own gloves.”
“Why?” I asked.
“For when it’s winter,” said Mr Holland. “When you’re coming to work, if it’s cold you’ll want to wear gloves. I can’t lend you mine. I only have one pair.”
“I’ll get some from Woolworth’s,” I said.
“False economy,” said Mr Holland. “Buy a leather pair from Rowse’s in Ealing Broadway. You’ll pay the extra, but they’ll last you a lifetime.”
“I’ll bear that in mind,” I said.
“I think you’re the right man for this job,” said Mr Holland. “Do you want me to run through your duties once again?”
“It’s switch off the bulb if it comes on, isn’t it?”
“Are you sure?”
“Sure,” said I, nodding my head.
“You’re a natural. I think we can say that the job is yours. Any questions?”
“Why does the bulb go on?” I asked.
Mr Holland laughed once again. “You young blokes,” he said. “Always trying to run before you can walk. Always wanting to know more, more, more. You tickle me, you really do. Where will it all end, eh?”
“In the heat death of the universe, or so I’ve read.”
“Well, let’s hope that doesn’t happen before I go on my holidays. I’ve booked a caravan at Camber Sands, one of the most beautiful spots in the country. Ever been there?”
“Only in my worst nightmare,” I said.
Mr Holland laughed once again. And then he stopped laughing for ever. “Enough of humour,” he said. “Telecommunications is a serious business. You do your job, young Barry, and I’ll do mine, and everyone will be happy for it and able to make phone calls as they like.”