THE DOLE QUEUE

It was a cold. wet Monday morning, in early December 1957. when I first entered the local Labour Exchange and tagged on to the end of a fairly long queue. The atmosphere was one of depression, cigarette smoke and damp clothing. A lanky, unshaven character came past from the head of the queue, muttering under his breath, and then suddenly stopped beside me and spoke ”Well, well. what a comedown, especially after all that strutting around in a uniform. The RAF kicked you out eh ?”

I struggled to recall who he was, and still do to this day, but fortunately he did not wait around. He moved on to chat and share a cigarette with a bedraggled little character who had just joined the queue. and I was able to move forward a few more places. (Nobody seemed to take any notice of what was said as it was obvious they had much more serious matters of their own to worry about).  When I eventually got to the head of the queue the clerk grinned at my paperwork and announced loudly that I should be in the ”old crocks” area, just round the corner, as indicated by the sign on the wall! Red faced and embarrassed I crossed over and found a small queue of what I assumed were all ex servicemen, most of which seemed disabled in one form or another Of course, the inevitable happened and I was directed back to where I had just been. Fortunately a smartly dressed character with a handlebar moustache and RAF tie arrived, aided by a walking stick, and immediately took charge.  (I must have looked desperate because he took me to one side and listened to my tale of woe). The upshot was he examined my discharge papers, took them to the head of the queue and got a more helpful clerk to do the necessary.

The result was that I did not have to stand in the dole queue again but I did have to report on a regular basis to provide evidence that I was actively looking for work. ( Not like the lazy skivers of today who still get the equivalent of dole money and claim to have all sorts of reasons for not looking for a job, including so called mental health?) What a joke!! I, on the other hand, was expected to keep a file with a copy of all my job application letters as well as the actual replies (if any) from the companies in question. After a while I began to get a bit downhearted but kept at it and then, on a bright sunny morning in early March 1958, I received a letter which changed everything. I was to attend an interview for the position of Clerical Assistant in the Accounts Department of a local Chemical Company and I jumped at the chance. I had a haircut, put on a decent suit and arrived at the company main offices in good time for my interview with the Chief Accountant.

The girl on reception was very attractive and cheerful and I had a warm feeling about just being there. My interview went quite well and I learnt, amongst other things, that the company had both a football and a cricket team playing in the local leagues. Whether my sporting history helped me to get the job I know not. but I do think my willingness to attend night school went down rather well.  I spent six happy years with the company and can honestly say that it formed the basis for me to get qualified and take up a number of other rewarding accountancy appointments in both Industry and Commerce.  (Yes, I had several lousy experiences as well during the next forty odd years but quite honestly, I have learnt not to dwell on them. Most. if not all, are best forgotten).