REFLECTIONS OF BENTON WAY

I am eighteen years old. I drive my old Standard Eight in to work and park it on Benton Way. It is the winter of 1968 – cold, harsh and dark. The skin almost peels off my finger-ends as I grasp the chrome door-handle. I am first into the office. I sit down, blowing on my hands for warmth. I put on the kettle, pick up a pile of job tickets and sort them by date. I will process them later. I drink my tea. It is hot, strong, soothing.
I look out of my window. I see the lights on the hulls of the ships in the shipbuilding yard next door and I hear the Wagnerian clangour of hammer on metal. I see Barry Ford bumping down the road in his ancient Rover. His massive frame has wrecked the suspension and the car leans crazily on the driver's side. Alan Robson arrives next. He thinks he’s Oscar Wilde. I get a whiff of his pomade. He’s followed by Ken Wilson – grey-haired, ruddy-cheeked and acerbic. He smells of Listerine and antiseptic. Finally arrives Bill Pierce, bald as a potato and plump as a pot-bellied pig. His shiny old suit is tied around his hips with a greasy belt. He lights a Wild Woodbine and coughs lustily all over the office. I can almost taste the reek of his tobacco. Another day on the journey of life is about to commence for me.