Tuesday 14th September 2010

And so, here we are, sitting once again in front of my computer trying to looks busy. Something which is tough with my boss sitting two yards in front of me. At least he cannot see my computer screen, otherwise he would see me looking through Flickr, or the BBC news website.

I cannot report any major victories in recovering monies, sadly. Just more promises that will probably be broken several times. I am trying to remain positive about the situation. And there is some comfort in knowing that a certain man called Knud will make a promise each and every week and then go and break it. That it is the same promise is dispiriting, but you never know, that once fine morning my inbox will have maybe six refunds for me to send on, and be able to tell my boss that we can close six more cases.

One day, one day.

And I still wait for the contract. More promises and then them not being delivered. Well, I am playing it that cool, as I don’t want o upset them too much. But we need to make plans, repairs and the such. We shall see.

On a more positive note, there is a chance that those of us laid off when UTEC went belly up might get some money. I know that seems more unlikely than Knud delivering, but I did get a letter from a new administrator last week, and about 80% of what we’re owed could be coming our way. At this point we will take anything.


Sigh.

Same shit, different day.

Saturday sees the 20th anniversary of me joining the RAF. Well, going up to an office block, holding the Bible in one hand, raising the other and swearing an oath of allegiance. I seem to remember some money changing hand, more than a shilling. Granddad went up with me on the train. He was proud enough of me joing the armed forces; not quite the Coldstream Guards but even still. I know for a fact the enormity of what I did that day did not sink in right away; I was just thinking of a massive piss up that afternoon in the Fighting Cocks, me winning eight straight games of pool, and then the long walk home; getting some sleep and then having to get up for the early train to Norwich.

That had come at the end of a long process; of applying, waiting, applying, waiting. And in the joining as an armourer by mistake. Their mistake, but getting in and getting out of the chicken factory. For the summer, I had an accident in my car, and so spent the whole summer, the last three months as a civilian, on the sick, drinking beer and watching the World Cup from Italy . Quite possibly the best summer ever!

So, by train from Lowestoft to Norwich ad then on to Ely and Peterborough . And finally to Newark where a grim looking bus was waiting to pick us up and whisk us through he mid-morning traffic, out over the fens to a cluster of aircraft hangars and WW2 barrack blocks and general misery that marked where RAF Swinderby lay. My home, our home for the next seven weeks.

Once in, we were given a Wedgewood blue shirt, black tie and blue jumper and so joined the armed forces, the top half of us being in uniform, whilst our legs and feet in jeans and trainers. Although that did not last long. We were given armfuls of kit and uniform, and then taken to our barracks and told to get cleaning and sewing and ironing. The next morning the marching began. And the shouting. But, it wasn’t really that bad, I enjoyed it pretty much, and soon enough we graduated and we all went to different bases for trade training and the luxury of warm showers and less shouting.