Intimations of Mortality - 5
Being a series of random but loosely connected musings on my life, the world I have lived in and what the future - what's left of it - may hold.
In 1976, the year I turned 16, my birthday fell on a Sunday. On the Monday, I did not go to school. I did get up early, wash and dry my hair, put on some make up and the most stylish clothes I could find in my meagre wardrobe. Oh, and in my big sister's slightly wider collection also.
I would have asked, if there had been time. I reckoned she would not need trendy stuff for a day at secretarial college.
I borrowed three cigarettes from mum's handbag and one from the packet dad had left in the kitchen. Helped myself to a box of matches. Skipped breakfast and set off on the bus to the city centre, clutching my little list of boutiques and fashion shops, pubs and coffee bars.
I had drawn up this list from reconnaissance over the previous six or eight weekends, time spent in apparently aimless wanderings around the trendier areas of the city. I sought out interesting shops, places where I would like to buy my clothes and accessories. Places where the customers had the look I wanted for myself.
I had followed some of the more stylish customers, found where they stopped for coffee, where they met their friends for a drink. These were the places I wanted to be in, the places that would make it worthwhile getting up every morning.
I spent the first five days of my life-after-school going around my target list, talking where I could to the manageress (they were definitely "-esses" in those days) or assistants, offering them my highly desirable abilities as a style consultant, a personal shopper, a fashion adviser. In some places, I lied about my age, became a sophisticated seventeen year old.
In the pubs and bars, I was eighteen - they knew I wasn't, I knew they knew. We both knew that neither of us cared. If enough of the customers looked as though they would like to see me regularly behind the bar or serving tables, I was an asset. I did my best to make sure that most of them did.
By the end of that week, I had sore feet and a work schedule that would keep me as busy as I wanted to be. No one offered me full time employment but my overall programme was as good as - a day in one shop, six half days spread over four shops and odd one and two hour "trial" packages.
I also had two lunch time bar shifts and two early evening shifts. I still had a 9 pm curfew so couldn't really work later than 8 pm.
I was pleased with myself. The money was shite but a vast improvement on nothing. I had made a plan and made it work.
In 1976, the year I turned 16, my birthday fell on a Sunday. On the Monday, I did not go to school. I did get up early, wash and dry my hair, put on some make up and the most stylish clothes I could find in my meagre wardrobe. Oh, and in my big sister's slightly wider collection also.
I would have asked, if there had been time. I reckoned she would not need trendy stuff for a day at secretarial college.
I borrowed three cigarettes from mum's handbag and one from the packet dad had left in the kitchen. Helped myself to a box of matches. Skipped breakfast and set off on the bus to the city centre, clutching my little list of boutiques and fashion shops, pubs and coffee bars.
I had drawn up this list from reconnaissance over the previous six or eight weekends, time spent in apparently aimless wanderings around the trendier areas of the city. I sought out interesting shops, places where I would like to buy my clothes and accessories. Places where the customers had the look I wanted for myself.
I had followed some of the more stylish customers, found where they stopped for coffee, where they met their friends for a drink. These were the places I wanted to be in, the places that would make it worthwhile getting up every morning.
I spent the first five days of my life-after-school going around my target list, talking where I could to the manageress (they were definitely "-esses" in those days) or assistants, offering them my highly desirable abilities as a style consultant, a personal shopper, a fashion adviser. In some places, I lied about my age, became a sophisticated seventeen year old.
In the pubs and bars, I was eighteen - they knew I wasn't, I knew they knew. We both knew that neither of us cared. If enough of the customers looked as though they would like to see me regularly behind the bar or serving tables, I was an asset. I did my best to make sure that most of them did.
By the end of that week, I had sore feet and a work schedule that would keep me as busy as I wanted to be. No one offered me full time employment but my overall programme was as good as - a day in one shop, six half days spread over four shops and odd one and two hour "trial" packages.
I also had two lunch time bar shifts and two early evening shifts. I still had a 9 pm curfew so couldn't really work later than 8 pm.
I was pleased with myself. The money was shite but a vast improvement on nothing. I had made a plan and made it work.
61-69, F
