Saturday 18th March 2017

32 years ago, I began work at the chicken factory. It was the first full time job I had. Before then, there had been Government schemes that offered zero chance of employment once it came to an end, there was the three months I spent working on the electrical counter at boots, or the four weeks I worked at a Garage along Beccles Road, I last until they got fed up with my, my procrastination got too much for them. And there was the few weeks I spent being the cooked meats counter at Sparrow's Mini Mart, slicing bacon. Not that I did that 40 hours a week, although it felt like that sometimes.

Somewhere intween was the shortest job of all time, four hours spent as a short order chef, two hours per day as a trial. THey asked me not to come back on Wednesday, so 2 days, two hours per day, equals four hours. I did learn how to prepare lettuce.

Somehow I talked myself into selling double glazing. I mean I took part in the week's training course, which made it all seem so easy. Monday the next week I began knocking on doors. Ten minutes later, my illusions were shattered and I knew how hard that would be. The week after I started at the chicken factory.

I was to stay there until September 1990, when I joined the RAF. Like all jobs, its the people you work with that makes it bearable, and that was more true with the chicken factory. The first two weeks I sat on a stool and turned wings as the chickens, hanging from their feet went past on shackles. Within a few days I had RSI, but there was the radio to listen to, and my imagination to run riot in, wondering what I would do if I won the pools. Two weeks later, I was moved into the chiller to pack the completed product of a new line. This meant a quiet life, no one watching over me, and an extra £4.10 a day.

I stayed doing that for some 18 months, working, laughing with friends and listening to the radio. Not a bad job really: I gave my Mum some money for food and rent, but we were all doing well, Dad working a load of overtime in the shipyard, Mum working as a cook at a boarding school. Life was good for us all. We went to play darts on a Friday night with friends.

In 1987, I got a job as a quality inspector. I had no idea what I was doing, but learned well. Learned how to use a sharp pencil some times. But, programming the weighing machines, checking weights of packs and all the other stuff we had to do. This meat I progressed from the blue boilersuit brigade, to having a white coat, trilby and a set of pens. This I did for nearly two years, and I enjoyed it, but fell out with my manager, and went back "on the line", getting a blue boilersuit again.

From then I began to wonder if that was all there was, did I want to spend my whole life with such narrow horizons? I began the climb up the slippery slope of management, being in charge of many of my friends. That was tough, but then there was the thought of what else? I mean I worked hard, and at weekends I went clubbing, dancing the night away pumped up on lager. Apparently everyone else was off their tits on E or something stronger, but I saw nothing. When there was the fuss about acid, I thought it was ironic, as I had never seen anyone taking drugs, nor offered any. And that was the case until I joined the RAF in September 1990.

My friend had joined up in 1989, and I thought I should try it too. I began to run, wanting to be fit seeing how James struggled to get through basic training. I ran at least 5 times a week, doing a mile and a half, then two, then three and beyond. As well as walking much more too. Great during the summer months walking through Oulton Broad. As 1989 ended and turned into 1990, I went for interviews, and was accepted to join as an armourer. The day I got confirmation from the MOD, I was offered a salaried position at the factory. A real choice, but no choice at all. I chose to see the world, wear a blue suit, and declined promotion.

I say that now, as for one reason and another, that day lead to me having quality experience, a friend who talked me into joining the RAF, seeing the world, getting engineering qualifications, both of which, in time, lead me to work in the wind industry.

And here I am. Traveling to Denmark, Belgium and places inbetween and all over, all for work. Amazing really.

Saturday.

Well, I know orchid season is getting close, and I could spend hours and much money traveling all over the county looking for them. But they won't be out yet, and all I would have seen more rosettes, and although I would have enjoyed it, it probably wouldn't have been a good use of our time and money. THe garden still needs much work to do on it. There are even more plants to be planted, beds to be dug and the hedge to be trimmed. Although, for the hedge, Jools had a plan.

Before then, there was shopping to be done, of course, and after ten hours sleep I felt almost back to normal. Anyway, even better after a coffee. I make a list, check it twice, then go to Whitfield to Tesco.

I come back with bulging bags. Sadly, the bakery was behind, so there were no croissants, but it did mean we could have bacon butties a day early if we wanted. Turns out we wanted. So after putting the shopping away, I fire up the grill and get cooking.

The plan for the hedge was to get a gardener to do it; one had put in a leaflet though our door, so we asked him to come round and trim the hedge on the right hand side. We could do it, and have done, but it is large, takes us two days and is all over the place. So just after nine, Rob come round with his van full of tools, gets his trimmer on a pole, and with extension poles, and gets trimming. He does it in an hour and a half, and it looks great. And all for under twenty quid. We say we will pick up the clippings, so he is free to go, and we have a trimmed hedge.

Through the afternoon there are three rugby matches to watch. This is the first year I have done this, but is good if I have the digital radio with the football commentary running.

It is a fine way to spend the afternoon, especially supping from a large bottle of strong Belgian beer, and munching on a bag of paprika baked corn. I know how to live! In football, Norwich win now its too late to matter, can don't concede either. We have a chance of the play offs, but really don't deserve it to be honest.

At five, there is the Ireland v England game, England on an 18 game winning streak. Sadly, England were not quite good enough, and Ireland deserved to win, thus bringing an end to this year's 6 Nations. England are champions again, but failed to get the grand slam.

For dinner I cook Kozani chicken with prunes, a recipe from Rick's Long Weekends book. I wasn't looking forward to it, as the last time I ate prunes, under duress, was at Primary School. But these prunes were no black, were sweet and would take the flavour of the sauce that the recipe created. Apart from chicken, the other main ingredient was saffron. Greek saffron, and so from a selection of the interesting dishes we saw Rick cook, I ordered the ingredients a couple of weeks ago. Now it was time to cook.

Boil the chicken with saffron, then fry some onion, add sweet paprika and the prunes, add to the chicken and the liquor, cook until the chicken is tender and liquor reduced. I boiled some rice to go with it, and let me tell you, it was wonderful. Something to make again.

As Norwich have won, it means I HAVE to watch the highlights, even if they're meaningless. So it goes, so it goes.