It was a dark day in November or early December 1983. I remember it was a Sunday and I was down to my last pound. Some of it went on potatoes, baked beans and cardboard flavoured burgers from the local SPAR. The remaining fifty pence went in the electricity meter to cook the food. Then I sat on the settee in my sleeping bag in front of the TV until the meter ran out.
Next morning I stayed in bed under the blankets and sleeping bag, nose sticking out blowing frosty breath. No heating, no money to switch it on.
It felt dramatic but it wasn’t really. I hadn’t made any effort to find a job but it wouldn’t be a problem when I came to it. I had a big sense of freedom. No ties. I could do anything I liked when I liked, as long as it didn’t take money.
In the run up to Christmas I came under increasing pressure from my parents to get a job. I suspect that that dark Sunday made up my mind. Reluctantly, I relented, and got myself employment with Marconi in Lincoln starting in January. I never considered it would ever be a problem. It’s all about attitude.
I hired a van and moved all my worldly goods to Lincoln. Driving away I was leaving a phase of my life behind.
It’s strange to think that it is now 2008 and 25 years since I left. Since then I have pretty much always had a mortgage and have never repeated the feeling of freedom. Deep down I am not a responsible individual, I’m only a big kid, so not having that freedom doesn’t feel right.
It was a dark night in November or early December 1983. I remember it was a Saturday and I was in bed sleepily reflecting on the evening’s entertainment in the pub, and on my first few weeks of student life. Six weeks earlier I had left my parents behind at the Sea Terminal, and distracted by the need to stow the luggage, find out who else was on board, and get a decent seat, I had forgotten to wave at them from the deck. Four years of a different life stretched ahead of me. It felt dramatic. But it wasn’t really. I wasn’t the first to leave home and wouldn’t be the last.
The empty corridors of the student hall were silent. Under the covers in my snug, warm little room, sleep was not far away. Commotion. Noise. Someone shouting ‘Fire, fire’. Instantly awake and alert I listened out for more activity – signs to drag me back into the day. And then came recognition; a deep connection with a voice that was more than just a voice. My big brother. Half annoyed, half-entertained by the prospect of tomorrow’s neighbourhood complaints, I opened the door and the voice walked in. It was showing signs of having had a large quantity of beer, and was sporting a black eye. It had been celebrating getting a new job, and scoring a try all in the space of twenty four hours. My parents would be pleased. He would soon be driving away to a new life in Lincoln.
Twenty five years on, Marconi is no longer in Lincoln. My brother still is. My parents are pleased.