Tomorrow is the date at which the clocks go forwards by one hour, moving us instantly from Greenwich Mean Time (GMT) to British Summer Time (BST).
This has been happening every year since the Summer Time Act was passed by Parliament in 1916, whilst the Great War was raging in Europe. Placing the clocks an hour ahead gave workers an extra hour of daylight in the evening, enabling greater productivity for the war machine.
After World War One the annual changes to the clocks continued ping-ponging back and forth between BST and GMT.
World War Two started in September 1939, and by 1941 the UK was on Double Summertime (DST). This was achieved by putting the clocks forward in spring 1940 and not putting them back to GMT at the end of Autumn. In spring 1941, the clocks were advanced by an hour again – giving even more daylight to aid productivity.
This went on until autumn 1947, when the clocks went back completely to GMT.
Despite a parliamentary enquiry conducted in the late 1950s, involving 180 organisations, which concluded that there was a slight preference to remain on GMT +1 throughout the year, Britain stayed with the system
Why am I telling you all this?
Well, its because I’m in two minds about this.
Research conducted by the University of Colorado (Boulder) has shown conclusively that the fatal car accident rate spikes by 6% during the working week following the clocks being moved forward into Daylight Saving Time (DST). As the research only studied fatal accidents, it may be reasonably assumed that the underlying rate for all accidents will increase.
A further study published by Vanderbilt University’s Medical Unit shows that there is a negative impact upon health during the transition from statndard time to daylight saving time.
The cumulative effects of Daylight Saving Time can lead to increasing risks of heat attacks and ischaemic strokes
It appears that its not just the biannual one hour difference interfereing with our “body clock” or Circadian Rhythm – but the cumulative effects of this misalignment which takes up about eight months of the year.
It is the actual process of changing rather than which time reference is followed.
The European Union (EU) has voted to end Daylight Saving Time in autumn 2021. States within the EU have the choice of making their last change on the final sunday of March, or the final sunday of October, depending on whether they wish to have their standard time based on summertime or wintertime. This would naturally accommodate preferences according to geographic location.
So – moving the clocks back and forward is bad for health, and bad for accident rates.
On the other hand, there is a big argument for doing something more radical.
Lets stay on GMT+1 as our standard time.
Moving the clocks forward every spring, as we did in WW2, gives us effectively two hours more sunlight in the evening during summer, and one more hour of evening light in the winter.
Looking at this from an environmental perspective; extra light means less electrical demand for lighting in the summer, and during the winter months less demand for heat as well.
Research conducted by Cambridge University showed that an extra hour of sunlight every day during winter could save up to £485M ($604M US) annually.
A further benefit is a proportionate reduction in carbon emissions as well.
Now, lets think about trade. Disregarding Brexit, we still do a lot of trade with our neighbours in the EU. However, even the most western part of the continent is always an hour ahead of the UK, and eastern states such as Finland are two hours ahead.
This is an impediment to easy trade, so staying GMT+1 in winter, and GMT+2 in summer would keep us aligned with our european trading partners.
Tourism would also receive a big boost, with longer hours available when people are not working.
The Tourism Alliance estimated that an extra £3.5M ($435.9 US) of revenue would be generated in the UK as a result iof businesses staying open for longer. This would create an estimated 80,000 jobs.
Individuals would also gain about 235 hours of post-work daylight every year,
Now that’s got to be worth having!
What would people do with all of this extra daylight? Well., they would use the opportunity to play sports, visit parks and enjoy outdoor recreational activities.
This has a health benefit, as more people out exercising (Even if they are only walking or cycling to the pub!) means less people becoming unhealthy as a result of inactivity.
Human nature is such that we tend to stop outdoor activities when it gets dark. SImply readjusting our clocks so that “dark” coincides with “later” means we achieve more each day.
The extra hours of daylight could also reduce crime levels, as most criminals do like to do their “work” in the dark.
Well, I would like to use the old WW2 system of GMT+1/GMT+2. Ilike the idsea of an extra 235 useful hours every year. I like the idea of saving power and cutting emissions.
It does seem that on balance this could be the best option for business, the planet and us living on it.
A long time ago, in a work environment far, far away….
The year was 1976. It was autumn, and I was in the second year of my apprenticeship with Post Office Telecommunications – or BT as it has now become.
The beginning of that September saw me transferred from Exchange Maintenance to the Overhead and Underground unit, or Poles and Holes as we called them. Apprentices were rotated through every specialist section of BT telecommunications, so that they are exposed to all aspects of the business.
So far, I had enjoyed working with Subsciber Installations, Planning, Exchange Construction and Exchange Mintenance. I really wasn’t looking forward to working at the industrial end of the business -especially not during the onset of winter!
On my first day of training with them, I strolled into the Telephone Engineering Centre in the sleepy West Sussex town of East Grinsead,
Opening my locker, I pulled my tool kit out, and whistling tunelessly, made my way into the restroom to grab some breakfast, and meet my mentors, before we set off into my next adventure.
I barged into the brightly lit rest room, which was noisy with laughter, and hazy with cigarette smoke. Damn – I just loved the smell of Old Holborn.
I poured myself a cup of tea from the enormous aluminium tea pot, gulping some down as I waited for my two slices of toast to pop. I had to quaff it reasonably quickly as it would have stripped the enamel from my teeth otherwise.
I used the opportunity to discretely assess my new team mates and trainers. In the far corner, sat a small and wizened man, whose leathery skin contrasted starkly with his silver-grey hair, which had been buzz cut to within 2 millimetres of his scalp.
He was chatting loudly with a man of simply enormous proportions, whose bulk leaked like decomposing blancmange into every crevice of the chair he was sitting in.
They were known to all as Laurel and Hardy. The smaller of the two was Jim Smith, and Mr. Blancmange was Bert Handy. I had heard through the grapevine, and from other apprentices, that they were both real characters, but Bert was also “A bit of a Perv.” Whether or not this would prove to be true remained to be seen.
I glanced again at the pair, and was rewarded to see Bert insert one large and grimy finger into his nostril, and enthusiastically start what looked like major excavation work. He didn’t even stop talking to Jim, who seemed oblivious of the fact that Bert was so avidly picking his nose.
So it was that I started this new and somewhat uninspiring part of my training.
My days consisted of driving out to some country lane, somewhere in the wilds of Sussex, looking for faults, or renewing spans of cable.
I had developed a simple routine to avoid the discomfort of wearing my armoured wellies all the time. I left my boots in the box section of the lorry, and simply sat on the bench, placing a foot into each wellie in turn.
The box section of the van contained all that a crew needed to perform its duties, from cables, joints, s calor gas burner, a bench with a vice and a whole spectrum of tools on racks on the inner walls.
The job was frequently a messy one, as the cables were filled with a vaseline type grease to prevent water penetrating the cable. When this was cut, or we were crimping joints together, this messy stuff would get everywhere.
The company had thoughtfully provided hand cleaner, and a couple of large pans for cleaning purposes. They were large and had a long wooden handle – for all the world like a Wok on steroids.
I had been soundly berated a few days after joining the section for preparing hot water for hand washing in the red handled pan. To be fair, I hadn’t been told otherwise.
It seems that the pan with red insulating tape wound round the handle was NOT used for hand washing, but for relieving oneself when working away from public lavatories. such as residential roads, and parts of town centres that had no public conveniences.
Everytime one of the lads needed to go, they would simply discretely climb into the back of the truck, use the red handled pan, and then empty this into the gutter, sluicing it away with water from the jerry cans on board.
So, cutting a long story short…
Once Laurel and Hardy got to know me, they used to fool around and joke.
On this particular morning, they were both very quiet, and I picked up an air of supressed anticipation.
I found out about this, when I sat dowm, popped my size nines into my wellies, stood up, and then face planted myself on the floor.
The rotten sods had screwed my wellies to the floor of the truck!
Oh, how I laughed.
Now, I am not a venegful person by any means, but my nose took a bit of damage in the incident, which caused much mirth and hilarity back at the yard. However, every dog has his day, and I planned my retaliatory mission with care.
The next day, we bumped and groaned our way into the back lanes around Hartfield, eventiually parking up not far from the place where A.A. Milne wrote the Winnie The Pooh stories.
Without delay, we set about locating the fault, and preparing the new piece of cable.
Bert straightened up, and slowly made his way back to the van, whilst Jim and I carried on crimping connectors onto the cable.
I watched as Bert climbed the steps and disappeared into the van, closing the door behind him.
I mentally counted…
“One, two three…” I reckoned it would take about six seconds. “four, five, six, seven….. ARGGGHHHH – You bastards!”
He came rocketing out of the van with the pan in his hand, slopping liquid everywhere. He bent and emptied it into the gutter, and advanced up the road in a very threatening manner.
His overalls had a horizontal wet line running across his upper thighs – in fact he appeared to be soaked in a broad stripe about two inches wide.
It’s amazing what a 1/16th drill can do if applied to a red-handled pan in a circular fashion.
Jim just looked at me. “You nutty bugger!”
Bert was still fuming by lunchtime, but I think he forgave me later, when his overalls had dried out.
There is a further episode to this ongoing battle of wits (or should I say half-wits) but that willl have to wait for another time.
Technical authorship isn’t all about writing the prose that is needed in a document.
Regardless of the type of document being produced, a good technical author will work alongside the client to ensure that they fully understand the exact process or policy before even putting pen to paper, or more correctly, finger to keyboard.
This may involve the writer in accurately observing a process, and then encapsulating the required steps in a simply-worded procedure.
In some cases, it may be quite challenging to articulate a process, particularly if it is a particularly complex operation, but that is where a skilled writer can help.
Your technical author must be highly observant, inquisitive, and have the ability to write a document in the language of the intended reader.
The instruction manual for a domestic internet CCTV must be written in an uncomplicated fashion, bearing in mind that the user will not necessarily have any technical ability.
I have read some astonishingly awful documents supplied with various pieces of equipment that I have bought in the past. Some could be excused, as they were supporting items made in China and the far east, and the English used was so woefully inadequate that simple procedures were full of ambiguities.
However, some were for UK manufactured items, where it seems that a well built and nicely designed item was compromised by asking Betty in the sales department and Dominic in engineering to write the instruction manual.
A qualified technical and commercial writer can work with you to ensure that your process for making Peanut Butter and Jelly sandwiches is right first time!
I was enjoying a cuppa in the baggage loaders rest room, catching my breath after working a busy departure in the gate room upstairs. I was working as a Passenger Security Agent for American AIrlines – my first airline job.
Security would’nt have been my first choice of job – I was already a qualified pilot, and had passed all of my Flight Operations and Despatch exams, but nobody gets hired into a blue chip airline in Flight Ops. The only way in is either as a Check In Agent, a Baggage Loader, or a Security Agent.
I chose Security Agent.
The decision was a simple one. After PanAm 103 was brought down at Lockerbie just two and a half years previously, security was uppermost in everyone’s mind. American Airlines were using the profiling system at the time, similar to that used by El-Al.
I learnt behavioural psychology, how to question, how to conduct a proper body search (NOT how Hollywood imagines that it is done) and how to use a security X-Ray machine.
I just thought at the time, that this would be more interesting than seeing a procession of faces, all demanding an upgrade, or doing my back in hefting overloaded bags.
Working in Ops is considered a plum job, as it is remote from the passengers, is conducted in the dry, and is intellectually demanding.
I found an empty space at one of the grubby tables, and sat down to enjoy my brew.
I saw a dark blue silhouette lurch to a stop outside the building, blanking the sunlight streaming through the window, plunging the restroom into a gloom that matched it’s decor.
The door slammed open, and a bearded bloke in his forties appeared. Walking over, he dropped an overstuffed clipboard onto the table, saying “Mind if I join you”
“Help Yourself” I replied, watching as he swiftly made a coffee at the small sink.
Returning to the table, he proffered his hand, saying “I’m Bev, I’m doing the Royal Mail”
I must have looked a bit blank, because he laughed, and said “Mail Sacks – You know, letters for air mail”
I shook his hand, telling him I was in security.
We spent about half an hour exchaning our histories, and it came up in the conversation that we both flew. He had a share in a De Havilland Chipmunk down at Shoreham, and I flew Piper Warriors and Cessnas at Popham.
We went our spearate ways, and it wasn’t until another three years had passed that I ran into Pookie again.
I was the new boy in Flight Operations. Having returned from eighteen months working as Special Services Manager at Stansted, I had finally obtained a position in Ops.
There, sitting at the main control desk was Bev, quietly and efficiently running the entire ground operation at London Heathrow for the 14 daily flights.
I worked with Bev closely for the next three years, and came to love his gentle humour and his ability to produce fantastic caricatures of his colleagues.
Once we had got to know each other, we flew together on many occassions, and in any number of different aircraft. I have shared the sky with him in the delightful Chipmunk, pulling gentle loops, rolls and stall turns over the timeless, grassy south downs.
We pottered up and down the south coast of England enjoying summer in a PZL Wilga (A delightful Polish cross between a combine harvester and an aircraft).
We celebrated the 100th anniversary of the first powered flight in a Piper Warrior, and did a low pass at the small grass strip in Sussex appropriately named Kittyhawk.
We have fooled about in the Citabria, and been school kids in the Stolp Starduster Too. And what can be better than flying in a Bücker Jungmann with a friend, whilst another friend formates on you in a Stampe?
Anyhow, getting back on track…
Pookie’s sense of fun has often been unleashed on his poor, unsuspecting colleagues.
Below is his account of an episode that amused us all back in Ops whilst he was on holiday one year..
Thanks for all the laughs over the years Bev…
And as for the flying?
Well – that’s been a blast!
Over to you.
The following was written by Bev Pook, Pilot, Humourist, Motorcyclist, Bon Vivant and Good Friend.
A Lightbulb On Vacation.
Back in the mid-nineties, I was working for American Airlines as a Flight Operations Agent, planning flights, briefing crews, and coordinating everything to ensure flights arrived and departed on time.
The flight operations room had few windows and was lit with harsh fluorescent lights, which are difficult to work with due to their flicker, The flicker isn’t normally discernible unless you concentrate on your peripheral vision and it can then be sensed.
These lights are very good for office work as they cast little or no shadow, but if using a computer screen (which also flickers) they can cause sight problems as your iris struggles to cope with the flickering.
Enough of the technical details then.
Being heartily fed up with the eye-ache, I ferreted around for a solution, and during one very uneventful night shift, I found a battered old Angle Poise lamp which had been discarded into a dark and cluttered corner of an unused office.
Further investigating led me to a new bulb in a cupboard, and once wiped off with a cloth, the old lamp worked perfectly.
I placed it on the main Ops desk in and I would use it whenever I was positioned in that area. I found it particularly useful on night shifts when I worked alone and could turn off the fluorescents and enjoy a softer light emitted by an incandescent light bulb.
However, I found nobody else seemed to appreciate my light as when I returned on shift after a few days off, the lamp had been pushed back out of the way.
Just before I went on vacation the bulb blew, so I threw it away and departed for a fortnights tranquillity. No sooner had I returned from holiday, I was accosted by my work companions who accused me of taking the bulb on holiday.
Because of this, I decided that my next vacation would see me having some fun at their expense. This time I took the bulb out of the fitting and locked it away in my cabinet, leaving the office with the Angle Poise containing no light source.
After a long and boring flight, I eventually arrived in Muskogee Oklahoma and was met by my good friends, with whom I would be spending my vacation.
Over breakfast the next morning, I asked Terry if I could borrow one of their light bulbs, which was greeted by a strange look but I did get the light bulb.
I then started taking photos of the bulb and me on holiday. Each picture got more and more elaborate and set up to highlight (excuse the pun) that I had indeed this time taken the bulb with me.
Here are a few of those pictures.
I hope you enjoy my rather schoolboy humour.
Sorry Bev, I would have published this as an “Illuminated” manuscript, but couldn’t find the correct keys.
When all things are connsidered, I have had a good life. A life that so far, has lasted almost 61 years,
I was born in 1959, one of the “end of the line” baby boomers.
To qualify as a baby-boomer you need to have been born between the years 1944 and 1964. That gives a current age range of between 56 and 76 – and I am a proud and upstanding member, of the baby-boomer club.
Disregarding my near-fatal brush with Scarlet Fever as a five-year-old, I have survived many global phenomena, some natural, and some man-made.
When I was ten, there was a pandemic of the H3N2/H59N influenza virus, known at the time as Hong Kong Flu. This outbreak spread through Eurasia and North America, killing about a million people in its wake.
In 1976, Ebola, a particularly frightening haemorrhagic fever broke out in South Sudan and the Congo. Unlike other deadly diseases, this one did not spread across the globe like wildfire and was mainly confined to the tropical regions of sub-Saharan Africa.
1981 saw the arrival of HIV -1 (Human Immunodeficiency Virus), a condition leading to AIDS (Acquired Immuno-deficiency Syndrome). My research seems to indicate that in 2018 about 37.9 million people were living with HIV and it resulted in 770,000 deaths that year.
An estimated 20.6 million sufferers live in Africa. Since AIDS was first identified until 2018, it is estimated that it has taken 32 million lives globally. This is a bullet that I have dodged, although I have known individuals who have contracted the condition through transfusions of infected blood products.
So far, all biological catastrophes. I dodged them all by chance – the capriciousness of fate and being born into a developed country with good standards of hygiene, healthcare and climate.
Don’t be disappointed! There are plenty of man-made disasters.
On the 26th April 1986, the nuclear power plant at Chernobyl Near Kyiv in Ukraine suffered a serious accident when one of its reactors exploded, creating the worst nuclear disaster in history. The open-air reactor core fire burnt for nine days, releasing huge quantities of radioactive dust, including Caesium 137 and Iodine 131.
A staggering 400 times more radiation than that released by the atomic bombing of the cities of Hiroshima and Nagasaki during the war! The contamination drifted all over Western Europe, reaching as far afield as the Welsh Mountains.
I escaped that too…
2003 brought us the arrival of Severe Acute Respiratory Syndrome (SARS). Luckily for us in Western Europe, the SARS outbreak was predominantly confined to mainland China and Hong Kong. I say luckily, as according to the figures I came up with it had a fatality rate of 9.6%!
There is a more sinister aspect to this, as SARS is actually a strain of Corona Virus.
March 2011 gave us the Tsunami and Earthquake that caused three of the nuclear cores at the Fukushima Nuclear Power Station in Japan to meltdown. The meltdowns caused three hydrogen explosions which blasted huge amounts of radioactive particles into the atmosphere. The breached coolant system released contaminated water into the Pacific Ocean.
I could have been living in Japan…
In 2013, Asian Flu rampaged through China and Vietnam, but spread no further.
Most of these pandemics and disasters have been reasonably self-contained, and appeared to burn themselves out fairly quickly, and whilst they caused significant drops to the financial markets (which eventually recovered), they certainly haven’t caused the huge societal impacts that COVID 19 seems to have done.
This is the first time that I have personally observed panic buying to the obscene levels that are currently occurring in Britain’s high streets and shopping centres.
The first time in my life that I have seen our normally well-ordered society starting to unravel. The UK Government putting the entire country into lockdown. People were ordered to self-isolate. Public gatherings prohibited, with those choosing to ignore the legal ban facing fines. Ports closing, public transport shut down, and the NHS becoming overwhelmed. Shools closing and restaurants and leisure venues shutting their doors.
Thousands of workers being allowed, wherever possible to work remotely.
It must be truly bad, because even MacDonalds is closing its “restaurants” because of the dangers to staff and customers alike.
More seriously, my local branch of Costa Coffee has also closed its doors…
Adversity always brings communities together; volunteers helping neighbours, local businesses assisting their community, very often for free.
Those of us who are baby-boomers benefited from a reasonably good education; some of us had the privilege of attending grammar school where we were taught the values of self-reliance, respect and self-discipline.
It appears that some of the “snowflake” generation – those in their mid-twenties have such a level of ignorance and an over-inflated sense of their own self-worth that they feel it is their “right” to breach the social separation rules instituted by the government to reduce the transmission of COVID19.
Some younger adults in the UK are even holding Corona Parties despite the risks of infecting each other, and the obvious collateral damage to older people who have less resistance to the virus.
Its not just younger people who consider themselves above the rules. Older individuals, who, theoretically, should know better are still choosing to travel on packed commuter trains to go in to work in defiance of medical advice. I suppose that working as a middle manager in a stockbrokers office confers superior medical knowledge about the spread and control of contagion.
So now, we, in Britain, are facing a governmental lock-down – where we are now forced to confine ourselves to our own homes for the immediate future.
This is the worst situation I have ever faced. And I’m not referring to the loss of a local coffee shop.
As baby-boomers, we may not have the stoic resilience of our parents who lived through the blitz, and the horrors of World War Two. They faced their deprivations with good humour and the proverbial stiff upper lip for over five years.
As a posting on Facebook put it, we are not asking anyone to go to war, but merely to stay in the comfort of their own homes.
Unlike them, we have access to much better communications and infrastructure than they did. We have the internet, giving us access to the outside world and its many entertainments, Netflix and Amazon streaming services, Skype and Face Time for video calling, Facebook, LinkedIn, Twitter, Instagram and online shopping and food delivery.
We have fridges, freezers and microwave ovens. We have a huge variety of tinned and dried foods. The world hasn’t come to an end.
We have friends, neighbours and communities.
Maybe this is an opportunity to re-connect with better values.
So it is now time to just Man up and get on with it.
Stuffing my ear plugs in securely, I peered out of the open jetbridge as the Boeing 767 slowly turned onto the ramp, following the centreline precisely as it slowly advanced onto the stand.
I waved to the captain as he majestically coasted past me, and he nodded in return, still focusing on steering the jet to the correct position so that the jetbridge could be aligned around the aircraft door.
The howl of the engines died, and I caught a lungful of burnt kerosene as the engines spooled down; a smell as familiar to me after fifteen years of aviation as my own aftershave.
The beacon stopped flashing, the jetbridge was attached and it was now safe for me to open the aircraft door.
Following the published procedure, I rapped hard on the door three times, and then checked through the porthole, waiting to see a thumbs up from the cabin attendant – the signal that the emergency evacualtion slide had been disarmed, and that there were no personnel standing near the door activation lever.
I saw Sherry-Ann one of the regulars smiling back through the porthole, giving me the signal, so I grasped the cold door release handle, pulling it upwards and away from the fuselage. The door moved gently inwards, and I then pushed the small switch inside the panel, and the door was electrically lifted up into a recess over the door aperture.
Pulling the PA Handset from its cradle by the cabin attendants jump seat, I smoothly announced
“Good Morning Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to London’s Stansted Airport, where the local time is 1040. Please follow the yellow overhead signs to the arrivals hall. Will Mr. Dan Billings please make himself known to Special Services at the aircraft door.”
When I took on the role of Special Services Manager in Spring 1992, AA had just opened up the route and my job at the time was to look after Commercially Important Passengers, and VIPs. This included not only stars of screen and stage, but singers, politicans, religious leaders, sports personalities and senior executives in commerce or industry.
Dan Billings was one of the first passengers out. His hat arrived first, a simply huge white Stetson, curled at the brim. The rest of him followed a little later, looking all the world like a walking advert for Levi Strauss clothing. Peering out from a sea of blue denim was a leathery tanned face, a bootlace tie dangling from his throat.
So, this was the world famous Dan Billings.
Proffering my hand, to welcome him, he silently shoved his small valise at me, and started to move off up the jetbridge. Surprised, it took me a second or so to react.
Catching him up, I asked “So, welcome to London Mr. Billings, did you have a good flight?”
“Do you have checked baggage?” I persisted
Ah. So Mr. Billings conserved his affability to use it on stage, in front of his fans, rather than waste it on an airport flunkey.
I didn’t mind; after doing this job for a few years, I had swiftly realised that it was nothing personal. I am sure it must be exhausting to be your screen or stage persona constantly.
“Do you have a car waiting Mr. Billings?” I enquired, reaching for my mobile radio.
“Oh” I said, “Do you need a cab?”
We stopped at the baggage carousel, and I looked him in the eye, determined this time to get more than a monsyllabic response.
“How are you getting to London Mr. Billings?”
Heaving his bag off the carousel, He turned to me and shoved a gnarled hand at me.
“Thanks. Y’all have a nice day now”
With that, he abruptly turned, and walked swiftly out through customs, heading efficiently towards the coach and bus stops.
I sighed. I had enjoyed being the Special Services Manager for American Airlines at Stansted Airport in the UK. I had met a great number of influential people, and seen through a great deal of the Hollywood tinsel and glitter.
An internationally famous female singer spotted two children travelling unaccompanied on her flight, so she invited them up to first class, and looked after them all the way from Chicago. What a lovely lady.
A celebrated British songstress who wanted no fuss or recognition – and who gave up her seat in first class, unbidden, to an elderly lady who looked worn out. That never got reported in the media.
Members of a heavy rock band with a hell raising image, who were polite, helpful and courteous – nothing like how they are reported.
A famous comic who spoke to me as an equal, and was still, despite his age a true man of the people, yet so sadly misunderstood.
The all-male dancing group that cheered up the entire gate lounge by performing an impromptu routine, and then going round signing autographs for no reason other than they were trying to spread some happiness and maybe make a difference.
I had to deal with the mean and the downright nasty as well. I well remember the very senior British business man whom I upgraded to First Class who, once in his seat, was then incredibly rude and agressive to the young cabin crew member who was trying to offer him champagne.
Having witnessed this, I took my career in my hands, and confronted this arrogant bully. Leaning down close to him, I explained very bluntly that I could, and would have no hesitation in very quickly and efficiently putting him back in coach class, right next to the toilets where he belonged.
Having made the statement, I decided that if I were to go out, I would go out with a bang, so I added that I expected him to make a full apology to the young stewardess if he wanted to remain on board at all.
I stalked off the aircraft, telling the cabin attendant what I had done,
Just before pushback, I boarded again, and she told me that the passenger had offered her a sincere apology.
I closed the aircraft door, and the flight duly departed.
A few days later, I received a letter from the business man offering me a full apology for his boorish behaviour. Maybe a lesson learnt?
Despite the daily flight performing reasonably well, after just over a year of operating, the company had decided to cancel the Chicago – Stansted service.
I walked slowly back to my office and small special services lounge for the last time. I filed my reports, and then signed off the system, wishing my opposite numbers in Dallas and Chicago all the best.
I picked up my briefcase, and walked out slowly through arrivals, stopping on numerous occassions to say final goodbyes to my friends and colleagues; The girls who manned the small cafe just down from my office; The lads and lasses from the security checkpoints that littered my journey into and out of work.
They all wished me well, and told me they would miss us.
Once landside, I dropped by the general office, and said goodbye to the check in and gates staff, many of whom were in tears as their short careers had come to an end.
I walked out of Stansted, not looking back, wondering how things would be on Monday morning.
It was 0550. I sat across the desk from Jim Shortling. He smiled wanly at me, saying “I know its not much, but at least you keep your management pay and grade”
I knew that I had been offered a lifeline – but it didnt reduce the feeling of abandonment. Not one other single department had offered help. The other managers with whom I worked at Stansted had all been found alternative management roles in passenger services – either at Heathrow or at the corporate head office in Hounslow.
So here I was, sitting in the dismal office of the aircraft cleaning department. Oh, the irony.
On Friday last week, I was rubbing shoulders with the wealthy and influential, and on Monday, I was rubbing shoulders with the lowly paid, souls with no influence over their future.
I had two choices. I could either accept it, and get on with it, or leave.
So, in the words of one of my more camp US based colleagues, I would have to “Suck it up Cupcake!”
Having managed people before, I was told that I would run a cleaning team, which consisted of a a crew of ten. Additionally, I would be trained to drive a ten tonne truck, fitted with a high lift body.
I soon became adept at weaving my truck in and out of the congested stands and service roads around Terminal 3.
I came to know two things within a few days of completing my training.
I swiftly realised that my team were a truly ecclectic group. Sukhi was an educated young sikh, with a degree in mathematics. Well-read and urbane, I really used to enjoy my daily conversations with him.
Bizarre in its own way – working my way down the aisle with Sukhi, between the seats, cleaning up rubbish, and servicing seat pockets whilst discussing anti-matter drives and the paradox of time travel.
It was only my team that made life bearable – being confronted with the debris that passengers dump when they leave their aircraft sometimes made the bile rise in my throat – used syringes left in seatback pockets. Used condoms dumped in the same place. Rubbish of all kinds just thoughtlessly left for the invisible ones to pick up.
Suk became my right hand man. Once he discovered my love of Indian food, he invited me to his local gymkhana where I was the only non-indian present. I was made hugely welcome and met many members of his family, and sampled the wonderfully spicy home cooked foods provided. Thank you Suk!
Pete, an ex Warrant Officer in the UK Special Forces, came out of the military with PTSD, and fell by chance into working for an airline. Previously a passenger services agent, he frequently (and bluntly) defended the weaker members of staff against bullying from their supervisors. This made him unpopular with the junior management in the terminal, so he was redeployed to aircraft cleaning. A few months prior to this, he was totally responsible for the welfare of up to 120 soldiers.
I doubt that any of his managers knew this, or even bothered to find out.
Harri, a middle aged Indian lady, with a degree in sociology, had been unable to get into an airline in any other capacity, so despite the costs of childcare, and the hardship of her daily commute by bus and underground, she still pitched up every day, and worked hard for the duration of the shift.
Jill, who had been widowed a year previously, and wanted a job that involved no thinking. I was convinced that she was finishing off un-used spirits from discarded minature bottles, as by about 1200 she normally had a glassy look, and emanated a faint odour of polo mints. She toughed it out though. Sometimes she would shyly joke with me as we cleaned the galleys, or serviced the toilets.
Then there were Phil and Bugsy. Both late teenagers, they were only doing the job as it was easy money, and gave them time to work on their music careers.
What do all of these people have in common?
Well, despite their qualifications, experience, knowledge and skills, they had all, like me, unwittingly assumed a cloak of invisibility.
It was an interesting exercise for me, as I was only on temprary attachment in the department, awaiting a suitable vacancy elsewhere in the company.
Having served two years in the terminals before being promoted, I had worked with most of the ground staff at one time or another.
I learned about people. Many of those that professed they were my friends, and who would have sat with me in the canteen, and chatted during work, now looked through me when they saw me disembarking from an aircraft, carrying bags of rubbish, covered in sweat and dust.
To them , I had become invisible, sinking into the uderclass and detritus of forgotten people who perform more fundamental and mundane tasks,
Others still greeted me warmly, and shook my hand, regardless of my appearance. Some would find the time to sit with me, and share a cigarette. These were the people for whom I have great respect. Some of them I am still in touch with. You know who you are.
In due course, I was redeployed, and spent the rest of my aviation career working in various parts of Flight Operations.
Over the years, I have been promoted, and moved into several different organisations, and was shocked to see that despite their claimed intellectual or cultural work ethics their cleaners were still all invisible.
Some years ago, I was walking down a corridor at work with a senior manager. We passed several cleaners, all of whom I greeted by name, and all of whom greeted me in the same way.
My senior colleague asked me “Why do you keep talking to the cleaners?”
I was, in common parlance, gobsmacked. This was a senior and ostensibly well-educated man, who was questioning whether I should acknowledge a fellow human being.
I responded by saying that if he had to ask the question, then he wouldnt have understood the answer. I heard that he has happily retired now, and is probably being an ignorant git on his own time.
Subsequently I have always remembered the feelings of being invisible.
I still know the names of all of the cleaners with whom I work, and still greet them by name.
It doesn’t take much to stop people becoming invisible.
This is another modified extract from my forthcoming book, “A Salesman’s Story (Or Don’t Spend the Commission)
In the early 1980s, the cutting edge of office printing machines was an electric typewriter, and I sold many different models, from a simple “sit up and beg” typewriter, right up through the range to the latest electronic machines that offered a single line LED display, a 4,000 character memory and a Daisywheel printer.
Even in the early 1980s, standard electric typewriters still had a market, particularly with solicitors, as the weight of paper used for legal documents presented a problem to the electronic machines, mainly due to the hammer not striking the character hard enough against the paper to place a successful image on the underlying copies.
Now, I should explain here, that the Eagle 800 was built like a tank, and normally printed via fabric ribbons, which were bi-colour, with one half of the ribbon being impregnated with red ink, and the other half with black.
When powered up, a motor would run, which would spin a powered rubber roller. If a key were pressed, the associated type hammer (bearing a cast image of the appropriate character) would press against the spinning roller, and be flung upwards at great speed.
A simple mechanical link would lift the ribbon carrier to coincide with the type hammer striking the platen, upon which the paper sheet was clamped. The type hammer would then fall back to its rest position.
Now, some of the keys were fitted with a repeat function. For example, the letter “X” key could be held down, and the letter x would be repeatedly typed onto the page, enabling lines of incorrect text to be obliterated from the page.
So, now you know the basics…
As salesmen, we not only had to know the basics, but also had to know every feature, advantage and benefit that each machine in the range was able to offer. To ensure that I had the necessary tools in my sales kit, I was sent to the manufacturers premises in Leicester to attend a product course.
Our instructor, a portly little chap called Richard Scratcher, was explaining the features, advantages and benefits of the Eagle 800 machine. He was extolling its virtues as a very tough and well-built piece of equipment.
“Now, I’m going to show you a very powerful sales technique, guaranteed to help you get the sale”. We all gathered close as he fumbled in his trouser pockets, finally producing a penny coin. He held it aloft like some kind of Devine talisman.
“To show how tough the mechanism is, simply hold the penny against the ribbon guide, and hold down the repeat “X” key, thusly”. So saying and with a very flamboyant flourish, he proffered the penny into the top aperture whilst holding the aforementioned key.
With a noise like a juvenile machine gun, the X type-hammer blurred against the ribbon guide, the carriage advancing at high speed with each impact, stuttering from right to left with a mechanical clatter.
The demonstration complete, the silence was deafening. He passed the coin amongst us; I was surprised. It was deformed, and deeply embossed with a capital X.
The theatrical impact of this would be impressive, and I determined to use this approach when I next went to demo an Eagle 800.
I didn’t have long to wait, and it was two weeks later that I received a call from Mr Rayne of Babbage de Chelwode solicitors in Crowborough. I had met Mr Rayne before when I sold a dictation system to the practice.
He was a curious individual, a cross between John Lennon, with his long, lank, greasy hair, and Marty Feldman, with his bulging eyes lurking behind large, round glasses.
He also had a bad habit of suddenly stopping speaking in mid-sentence, and after a variable amount of time would suddenly recommence. It was like his brain worked slower than his mouth, which had to stop until it had received the next packet of data. It was most disconcerting.
Anyhow, he was looking to upgrade a manual typewriter and had received my letter offering good prices on the Eagle 800.
So here I was, sitting across the desk from him, in the wonderful old Jacobean room that served as his office.
“Now, you see, we have legal engrossment paper here, Judi………………”
I waited. And waited. He was still staring at me through his glasses, like a scene from a Wild West poker game.
I leaned forwards. “Judy?” I ventured, hoping to re-activate his speech system.
“Yes. Judy. You know. Judicial paper for wills and stuff. It’s thick and that’s why we need a manual typewriter as it needs to cut a carbon copy underneath”
I nodded, explaining that there was no typing job the 800 couldn’t do, said with a confidence that was belying my uncertainty.
Paper is graded on its strength in terms of the weight it will bear, expressed in grams per square metre. To assess the standard weight of paper, a square metre of it is clamped into a frame, and weight is applied to it until it bursts or tears.
General-purpose paper is anywhere between 70gsm and 90gsm. Luxury and specialist paper is over 100gsm, with legal paper at the top end of the spectrum at 120gsm.
Naturally, a copy would be needed, so the carbon paper would be beneath the Judicial paper and the copy paper beneath that. My guess was that the total paper weight would be almost 200gsm.
I seriously wondered whether the Eagle electric 800 would be man enough.
I really shouldn’t have worried.
I had set the machine up in his secretary’s office, which was gloriously untidy, with files everywhere, flowing as if a waterfall from her desk, over the carpet.
Now was my moment!
I walked over to the machine and pulled a penny piece from my pocket. I could see they were both regarding me in confused silence.
“To demonstrate the power of the 800, I would like you to watch this”
With a flourish, I placed the penny inside the machine, locating it against the ribbon guide. Whilst looking them in the eyes, I confidently pressed the “X” key and was rewarded with the high-speed clatter of the type hammer reverberating against the coin.
I lifted my finger from the key and passed the coin across to Mr Rayne. He took the proffered penny, and held it up, examining its distorted shape and the deep impression cut into it by the machine.
“Wow!” He exclaimed. “Take a look at that Mary”, passing it to her.
She looked at it – a bit dubiously, I thought.
“So, now let’s have a crack at your heaviest legal paper. By the way, if it does what you want it to do, will you be in a position to place an order today?”
“Oh, I think so….we really need to……………………”
Mary and I both watched him in silent anticipation, waiting for him to finish
“……..bring ourselves up to date”
I inwardly smirked. The 800 was superseded a couple of years ago by the golf ball typewriter, and the golfball was now being superseded by the daisy wheel. Up to date indeed!
I watched as Mary pulled the bail bar forwards, and wound the unwieldy paper onto the carriage.
She started pecking away at the keys, suddenly exclaiming “Oh…it’s not working”
I smiled as I reached forwards, switching the machine on “You now have the luxury of electric power. You don’t need to hammer these keys as heavily as on your previous machine”
The machine was quietly humming, and she hesitantly started typing, speeding up as she became used to the feel of the keyboard. At the end of the line, I saw her left hand reaching for the carriage return lever, which would have been used on a manual typewriter to push the carriage back to the right-hand stop, and advance the roller by one line.
“It’s a common event” I laughed, showing her the key marked RETURN. She pressed it, and the carriage smoothly moved. “Oh My,” she remarked.
Now she was up to speed, and we allowed her to type a few paragraphs.
She pulled the document from the carriage, and we all inspected the output. The print was crisp, dark black, and perfectly aligned. The carbon copy was just as good.
I dramatically passed the carbon copy to Mr Rayne, and he was suitably impressed.
Twenty minutes later, I was happily sitting in my car in the car park, filling out the rest of the rental agreement. Tapping away at my calculator I worked out that a thirty-minute meeting had netted me a cool £60* commission. Snapping my case shut, I started the car, wound down the window a crack, and stoked up a Bensons. I idly watched the tendrils of smoke being slowly and gracefully sucked out.
Twirling the key in the ignition, I decided to head back to the office.
I swung into the office car park in what I considered to be my exuberant fashion. The Managing Director referred to it as “You arsehole” fashion. I know this, as he indicated his feelings by bellowing into the car park from his office like a fairground barker, calling into question both my driving ability and my parentage.
I smiled, and waved cheerily up at him, which, judging by the further incoherent ratings, merely proved to enrage him further. I strode briskly into the office, charging up the stairwell two at a time, running into the Sales department, and plonked myself down at my desk. I bashed away at the calculator, which confirmed that so far, I was having a very good month, and would hit target without breaking a sweat.
I checked my diary for the next day and saw that I had a fairly relaxed day, starting with a local farmer, a simple drop off on the industrial estate, and then a visit to an author to sell a binding machine.
The next morning dawned bright and sunny, as I made my way to the rambling old farm in Turners Hill.
This was going to be a simple drop off, and a demonstration of how to set the machine up. I knew that he was pretty switched on, and would pick it up in no time. I was confident that this would be a mere formality prior to me raising an invoice for £400!
My assessment proved to be accurate, and I was finished with him by eleven o’clock. I drove sedately down passed the fruit farms and into the industrial estate, cutting through the side roads of Three Bridges.
Parking up at Worldwide Injection Moulding’s Goods Inwards, I hefted their new typewriter – still in its box – into the bay, and got the warehouse foreman to sign for it, and then I was off again, heading back south and cross country for the pretty village of Horsted Keynes.
The Author was an elderly American chap, called Cyrus J Whittaker. He was the archetypal hippie, with his long grey hair pulled back in a ponytail, secured with a bandana, and wearing a battered old straw hat which I think was actually an integral part of his head – I had never seen him without it.
He was always friendly, and frequently offered me some of his homegrown pot. Today was no different, and on this occasion, I decided to accept his offer. He passed me his tobacco tin, some papers, and a plastic bag full of leaves. I duly rolled a respectable reefer, and we both lit up.
I ambled back to the car, and pulled out the thermal binding system, which I was to demonstrate.
Once the machine was plugged into the mains, and up to temperature, I showed him how quickly he could bind a book. The folders all had pre-glued spines, and the required pages were simply laid into the spine in the correct order, and the whole book placed spine down into the mouth of the machine.
A simple timer would indicate when the process was complete, and the thermal glue had melted and stuck the pages securely to the book.
In his chemically-induced pliant state of mind, he readily agreed to sign the paperwork, which I happily secreted away into my briefcase – just in case he had second thoughts.
It was well gone one o’clock when I walked slightly unsteadily back to my car. I drove very carefully over to the next village and parked up at the Coach and Horses. I was a little disappointed, as none of my friends were about, so I ordered Ham Egg and Chips, and a pint of Harveys.
As usual, the food was excellent, but the combined effects of one large organically grown reefer, and a pint of Harvey’s Best made me very sleepy. I knew that I would have to sleep this one off, so I drove a mile or so up the road to Ghylls Lap car park on the Ashdown Forest, rolled back the seat, and took a restorative doze for a couple of hours.
I woke up refreshed and decided to finish off the promised deliveries. I would need to get a hustle on…
I finally arrived at Babbage de Chelwode’s at a quarter to five, so it would be a quick dash. Happy Jack the town’s parking warden would be on his way back to the Town Hall to sign off duty, so unless I was very unlucky, I could park on the double yellows for the duration of my call.
I switched the hazard lights on, and trotted up the steps, and into the cool reception area.
I was swiftly shown in, and Mr Rayne stood to greet me. I walked forward, extending my hand to shake hands, but he recoiled away. I soon saw why. He held his hand aloft, the thumb was thickly bandaged.
“Ohh – that looks nasty” I exclaimed “What did you do?”
He looked at me very sheepishly. “Well, I had a colleague from Bennisters here yesterday……”
He stopped. I waited. He was still looking at me, and I nudged him “Yes….”
“Well, I decided to show him how tough my typewriter was, so I tried your trick with the penny”
“Yes…” I said, encouragingly.
“Well, it must have slipped, and I engraved a letter X through my thumbnail, and about a third of my way through my thumb”
I visualized this, and immediately had to suppress the desire to laugh out loud.
“Oh dear” I sympathised “That must be really painful”
He grunted his agreement, and I carried on “Does he want a machine as well?
“He didn’t say – as I had to go to the Village Hospital to get the bleeding to stop”.
Flipping my notebook open, I swiftly jotted down that Bennsiters could be in the market for a new machine.
“So” I said, snapping my notebook shut, “I’ll be getting on then. I hope that the machine continues to perform well. I will get the engineers to pop over sometime within the next week or two just to check the adjustments.”
He continued to gaze at me through his glasses, not saying anything, so I picked up my case, and quietly left him alone, contemplating his butchered thumb.
This is a modified extract from a chapter of my forthcoming book – A Salesman’s Story (or Don’t Spend the Commission)
It was a rainy day in mid-April. The year was 1980, and I was approaching my 21st Birthday. Despite the overcast day, I was feeling happy, contended and confident. I was sitting in a queue of traffic, which, as was normal for the small West Sussex market town of East Grinstead, was at a standstill. Light drizzle was spattering the windscreen, distorting the outline of the cars ahead.
I idly flicked the wipers, and they stammered their way across the window in a reluctant arc, redistributing the greasy water around the glass. Out of boredom, I turned on the radio. Martha and the Muffins were extolling the virtues of Echo Beach. I tapped my fingers on the steering wheel, and checked out my image, which was faintly reflected in the window of Baldwin’s, the local Hardware store.
I congratulated myself on my obviously cool look. Despite the gloom and the rain, red framed mirror-finished sunglasses, and a snappy beige three-piece suit can’t fail to impress. You can’t be too under dressed working as an Office Equipment Field Sales Executive can you?
My first appointment was to see the Chief Purchasing Officer of the local Borough Council, who was interested in buying a small photocopier for the planning office.
I do not trust copiers, they are fickle and I am sure they are fitted at the time of manufacture with a malevolent force.
In the early 1980s, the choice for copiers at the low volume end of the market were limited. For very low users, 3M manufactured a small machine that used specially treated paper and a thermal imaging system, and copies were performed individually.
For medium users, there were compact copiers from a variety of manufacturers, but whilst they all operated on a photographic process, some required liquid toner to produce the image, rather than the dry black powder toner used today.
Arriving at the Town Hall, I informed the receptionist that I was there to see Mr Maskell, the Town Clerk to demonstrate a copier.
A few minutes later Mr Maskell arrived, looking a little like a flustered Secretary Bird. He showed me to a large open plan office, which had been freshly decorated, and still smelled of adhesives and paint.
The floor had been laid in black and white carpet tiles, and I felt as if I were a pawn in a forthcoming chess match.
I realised that all was not well when Mr Maskell started getting an odd look in his eyes. He was desperate to interrupt, but I was in full flow, and he was a courteous man, so the first inkling that I had that there was a problem, was when toner fluid suddenly gushed from the machine, vomiting out in a greenish stream, soaking my hand, trouser leg, and flooding onto the carpet tiles below.
“Oh God!” he shrieked, “It’s a brand new carpet –tell me it won’t damage or stain the carpet!”
I decided to play it cool and unflappable. “Of course it won’t Sir” I replied, hoping fervently that I was right. “It’s completely inert, and won’t hurt the carpet.”
He calmed down visibly, and remaining in position, I completed my demonstration. Having seen the quality of the copies, he seemed impressed, so I moved in for the kill.
“Will you be purchasing or leasing the copier?” I asked.
“Oh, outright purchase” he replied airily “We never rent anything at the Council”
“Come this way, and I’ll see that Doreen raises the requisition and the necessary paperwork” He strode off towards the stairwell, and I moved to follow him – and almost fell over.
With sickening realisation, and a sense of impending doom, I looked down, and realised with horror, that I appeared to have a black carpet tile stuck to my left shoe, and a white tile struck to my right.
I furtively tugged at it, but it seemed that the fluid was in fact a solvent, which had bonded the plastic sole of my shoe to the acrylic surface of the tile. Looking round anxiously, I slipped out of my shoes, and attempted to rip them free, but all I succeeded in doing was pulling both tiles from the floor.
At that moment, Mr Maskell reappeared, concerned that I wasn’t following him.
He immediately assessed the situation and was evidently not happy to see a red-faced suited bloke apparently wrenching his floor up. He escorted me to his office, where Doreen kindly cut round the shoes with scissors, leaving each one with a new sole, one white, one black.
With profuse apologies, I withdrew from the Town Hall, embarrassed and sweating, assuring Mr Maskell that the company would pay for the damage.
He did eventually forgive me, and ultimately I did get the order but lost most of the commission in repair bills.
My second brush with copiers came about two weeks later when Geoff Brown asked me to help him demonstrate a Mita Copystar DC-161 copier to a firm of solicitors in Horsham.
I was always keen to help my colleagues, as I learned a lot at these sessions.
“The Mita DC-161 is a beast” I looked at Geoff and wondered quite what he meant.
“It’s VERY heavy, and you need to keep a straight back to lift it. You must lift with your knees. It’s very definitely a two man lift, and it’s not very maneuverable, particularly up and down stairs, so we always take the lift”
I eyed the pink and white monster with a degree of trepidation. It was large, measuring about 4 feet long, by 2 feet tall, and about 3 feet deep. It had a state of the art control panel on the right hand side, and a large plastic cover over the copying bed. It also cost a whopping £3000, so would attract commission in the region of £600.00!
Geoff continued, explaining that in order to carry it, we would need to use his car, a Ford Cortina Mk III Estate, and use the Demtruck, which was a small trolley that could be swiftly dismantled to enable the copier to be slid in and out of the vehicle without breaking the backs of the staff.
So, having loaded the beast, we cruised over to Horsham, and parked up outside the solicitor’s office. It was an old building, so there would be no lift to assist us, and worse still it was a three-storey building.
We wheeled the trolley into reception, and were instructed to carry the machine up to the third floor.
Geoff motioned me to one end of the machine, and I pulled the carry handles from their concealed recesses within the copiers body, and keeping a straight back, and a rigid posture, we hobbled our way to the foot of the stairwell.
Geoff then manoeuvred me so that I would have to ascend the steep flight of stairs in reverse – and, to my chagrin, I realised that he had also slyly ensured that I had the heavy end of the machine containing the bonding rollers.
I began to dot and carry myself up the stairs, puffing with the exertion. Each step was an act of faith, in that my foot would land squarely onto the stair tread. I couldn’t see down, as the copier impeded my view; I couldn’t look behind me, as I was rigid, and my arms were locked straight down
“Am I at the top yet Geoff?” I grunted.
“Couple more mate” He panted
I shuffled a further two agonising steps, and asked again “Am I there yet Geoff?”
“Yep!” came his wheezing response.
Instead of then lifting my foot, I moved it straight back, and immediately discovered that Geoff had lied to me…
There was another step.
At this moment the twin laws of gravity and impetus conspired against me, and I gracefully and inevitably toppled backwards, still holding the copier, which now slowly settled upon my chest.
I was now trapped, lying flat on my back, pinned to the flight of stairs by what felt like half a ton of copier.
“Gerrritoffme!” I shouted to Geoff.
“I can’t mate, he replied, I can’t let go of this end, or the whole sodding lot lands on you or carts us both off down the stairs.!”
The situation got worse, as I suddenly saw the funny side of my predicament, and I started laughing which was a bad move as the copier now lovingly wriggled and pressed harder into my chest.
“HELP!” bellowed Geoff, “Help”
After a couple of minutes, the partners appeared at the top of the stairs. My heart sank, as all of them, appeared to be somewhere between eighty and death – how could they help?
With much huffing and puffing, and the help from an amply bosomed matronly secretary, we got the copier into the office where Geoff proceeded to demonstrate its capabilities.
An hour later, and we were happily wandering back to the car.
“So what finally persuaded them to take it?” I asked. Shooting me a big grin, he replied “I told them that if they didn’t order it, then they would have to help me carry it back down the stairs to the car!”
A few days later, I received a call from Neville Fuller, who asked me to supply him with a copier. Having discussed the various models and price options with him, we decided that a re-conditioned Sharp machine would do the trick, and I made an appointment to see him that Tuesday.
Now, I should explain here, that Neville Fuller was a courtly “Old School” gentleman, a retired accountant who now ran a small consultancy from his home. His wife was a very elegant, house-proud woman, somewhat reminiscent of Miss Marple – even down to her fondness for wearing tweed two-piece outfits and pearls. They lived in a beautiful custom-built bungalow at the end of a very quiet cul-de-sac on the outskirts of East Grinstead.
Before going further, I should tell a little about my company car. I was given a 1978 blue Vauxhall Chevette estate car. It was, to put it bluntly, an amazingly, stupendously awful car. It was a true bitch to start, especially in the wet, handled like a trifle, and leaked water. Its only redeeming feature was a radio-cassette player, and even that was highly temperamental. Unreliable, despite the best efforts of Whites in Redhill, it broke down regularly, and was referred to as the Vauxhall Shove-it.
The latest fault to afflict this self-propelled scrap heap was that the parking brake could not be fully applied, despite the handbrake lever being applied so much that the handle pointed vertically at the roof. I was therefore quite cautious as to where I parked.
On the day of the appointment, I swung the car into the cul de sac, and executed a precision three-point turn, smoothly reversing down the drive. I stabbed the radio switch, rendering Sad Cafe silent.
I threw open the door, and grabbed my jacket from the hanger behind the driver’s seat. Patting my hair down, I strode to the front door, and pressed the doorbell.
Neville Fuller opened the door, and I proffered my business card, and introduced myself, whilst stifling a degree of incredulity.
For a second I was totally nonplussed – he was wearing what I can only describe as a Victorian Gentleman’s smoking gown, complete with a cravat in a lurid paisley design. Regaining my composure, I put my briefcase down, and stood patiently in the small porch.
Neville took my card, and peered at it, “Ahhh, the copier man. You’d better come in” he said, standing aside and indicating the chintzy hall beyond.
At that moment a loud, dull, echoing, thud interrupted the birdsong.
As if in slow motion, we both turned to see what had caused the noise, and I was astounded to see that my car had decided to make its way down the remaining 6 feet of the drive, and had now come to rest with its rear bumper lovingly contained in the warped embrace of the once pristine up and over door.
“Ohmigod I’m sorry Mr. Fuller” I blurted, I will move it….”
I jumped into the car, started it up, and gently eased forwards, amidst the sound of rending plastic and distorting mild steel.
Resetting the hand brake, I took the precaution of engaging first gear, to prevent my car further raping my customer’s garage.
Neville was busy inspecting his door, so I joined him to review the damage.
“Is it bad?” I enquired.
“No – don’t worry, its popped back into shape, and the paint is just a bit scuffed, but it needed re-painting anyway”
This was very generous of him, as the glossy almost mirror finish clearly indicated that the door was virtually brand new.
“Would you like a coffee?” he asked as we walked into his smart bungalow.
“If that’s not too much trouble, that would be good. White with two please”
“I say Daphne, bring a coffee, white with two” he bellowed into the inner sanctum of his home.
He ushered me into his office, which was quite compact, and quite dwarfed by a huge desk, literally strewn with papers
“Where would you like me to demonstrate the copier?” I asked.
“Oh, just on the desk there will be fine” he said, swiftly gathering up stacks of paper, thus clearing a space on the desk.
Luckily the model of copier that I was about to demonstrate was a refurbished Sharp machine, one that used a black carbon powder to create the copies. It also had a bed that moved left and right upon which the original document was placed.
Being a fairly current model, it was light enough to be carried by a single person, and it had a reasonably low profile, but as a result, it was also quite wide – certainly not wide enough to be carried in a flat level upright manner through a standard UK internal doorway.
I discovered this as I was attempting to carry the machine into the office.
Approaching the doorway, I found that the copier was too wide by about 6 inches, taking my arms into account. I smoothly turned my body through ninety degrees, and tilted the copier towards my chest, thus giving ample room for me to shuffle in sideways through the door.
And that is where the plan came unstuck. Tilting the copier so far from its normal horizontal caused the black carbon toner to spill from the machine.
I heard a loud dull thud as about a kilo of toner hit the pristine white carpet at my feet, and I was temporarily enveloped in a cloud of cloying black dust. Mr. Fuller made a small squeaking sound, and through the stygian haze, I could see that his eyes were bulging, and he had a stricken look on his face.
I was frozen to the spot, not wanting to move, for fear of further contaminating the snowy white floor.
“Darling!” he croaked, “Would you please fetch the vacuum cleaner – quickly please”
I was impressed with his sang-froid. I had just obliterated about two square metres of luxury Persian carpet with fine black dust – carpet-bombing in its purest form.
I gingerly placed the sooty copier on the desk, and looked at the devastation.
Mrs. Fuller arrived with the vacuum cleaner, and took in the scene with one glance. “Ohh! She exclaimed – I’ll go and get the Shake and Vac!”
“No!” I yelped. You mustn’t rub it or it will bond to the fibres of the carpet”
I plugged the vacuum in, and gingerly sucked up the vast majority of the toner, leaving only a small patch of carpet with dark black staining, – the original point of impact.
Completing my task, I looked up to see Mr. Fuller looking at me in a bemused way over the top of his half-moon glasses.
“Err…. I don’t suppose you will still want to see the copier after this” I said, gesturing to the mess on the floor.
“Well – you’re here now” he said, “So you might as well show it to me”
Generous gesture, that.
So, I plugged in the machine, and eventually had it producing crystal clear copies of ledgers, letters and forms.
I plucked up the courage to ask if I could “fill in the paperwork”, and to my amazement, he happily filled in the Rental Agreement, thus committing himself to a three year contract, and earning me just over eighty pounds in commission.
I left a darn sight happier than his insurance company would be, having to shell out for a repair to a garage door, and the cleaning of most of the downstairs fitted carpets – all of which had been contaminated to a lesser extent, despite our care in not walking in the insidious powder.
And this is how I know that copiers are most definitely the work of the devil…
Whilst researching for my previous article covering the climate change impact of mobile communications, I came across further research which claims that mobile communications enables an overall reduction in Mega tonnes of CO2 equivalents per year (mtCO2e/yr).
My previous article presented facts that appeared to prove that the ever-increasing use of smartphones and mobile technology communications was responsible for contributing millions of tons of CO2 into the atmosphere.
It would be useful to define mobile communications at this point. It covers quite a wide range of systems including mobile telephone networks, public Wi-Fi networks, Wide Area Networks, and Satellite networks.
To be fair, most of the carbon footprint was directly related to the extraction of materials and the subsequent production of the technology itself. The remaining contribution was as a result of the use of the equipment and the supporting infrastructure, such as powering data processing centres and the associated communications networks.
The research appeared to take no account of the societal changes caused by the use of such disrupting technology, and the reduction in the carbon footprint of mobile communications.
The counter arguments presented in this article are as convincing and fact-based as the arguments that mobile communications are climate change’s bad guys.
According to a report commissioned by The Carbon Trust, the use of mobile communications actually leads to an abatement of the carbon emissions generated by the use of that technology – approximately five times as much carbon emissions are abated as the emissions generated.
That’s quite a factor.
Use of mobile communications in the EU and the USA is currently enabling a reduction of about 180 million tonnes of CO2 equivalence per year – an amount greater than the annual carbon emissions generated by the Netherlands.
So how does this pay-off happen?
A significant percentage of the total reduction in COe – about 70%, is generated by what is known as Machine to Machine (M2M) systems.
Mobile communications have enabled our infrastructure to become “smart”.
“Smart” buildings are fitted with several types of systems, such as those that monitor occupancy levels and turn lighting on or off as needed, and control heating, ventilation and temperatures according to programmed levels. Sensors fitted throughout the building communicate wirelessly to the controller to enable precise control of energy use and therefore costs.
In some cases, several buildings may be communicating with a server-controller located remotely, and if this is the case, it is likely that the internet or the cellular communications system may be the data carrier.
This type of technology is not limited to just commercial premises.
Flick through some of the glossier housing magazines, and you will find references to “smart homes”
Smart homes are designed and built to encompass the latest control systems. Many household systems may be configured and controlled using nothing more than a standard smart phone using simple software.
Owners of a smart home may be able to control heating, unlock or lock doors, operate lighting, close or open curtains, respond to the doorbell, play music, or switch the TV on or off.
Some systems will have algorithms that learn the users tastes and preferences and will detect when the house has become un-occupied, and will back off the heating, and control lighting as needed.
This is often accomplished by the detection of system-recognised mobile phones. When the mobile phone(s) leaves the home for more than the programmed time period, the system decides that the house is now un-occupied.
When the homeowner leaves work and gets within a predefined distance or time from home, the phone will autonomously communicate with the house, and the system can put the heat on, close the curtains, put the lights on, and be playing music on the owners’ arrival.
So, whilst data is being exchanged (at an environmental cost) the more intelligent use of power and energy compensates for this. In the world of commerce and business the savings may be truly on an industrial scale.
Local Authorities also benefit from M2M communications and are able to control street lighting and municipal lighting based on pedestrian or vehicular activity. Street lights may be able to communicate with each other and be able to adjust to lower light levels when there is no detected activity. This not only conserves energy, but also prevents light pollution from degrading the night time landscape.
Some towns have introduced smart refuse bins, which communicate their fill state to the local authority waste processing system. This enables real-time assessment of refuse collection requirements and enables collections to be scheduled only when needed. This has the net effect of making the collection of household waste much more efficient, saves money, and reduces the number of truck journeys made.
Furthermore, intelligent use of M2M enabled traffic signals can change sequencing according to traffic levels and ease delays, in turn reducing the emissions levels from vehicle exhausts. In the future, as vehicles become internet enabled, they will be able to communicate directly with both the infrastructure and each other, leading to more efficient use of the road system, lowering fuel requirements and hopefully reducing accidents.
Mobile Communications has really come of age with faster, secure networks that have enabled a huge number of individuals to work at home.
According to the Office of National Statistics (UK) in January 2014 there were about 4.2 million people working remotely – an impressive 14% of the UK’s workforce. That’s a good few cars and their associated emissions taken off the road.
With growth in the self-employed “gig economy” the number of people working from anywhere (WFA) is bound to have expanded, which is good for the environment, and better for both the employer and the employee
Using mobile communications, it is possible to attend meetings remotely, using systems such as Skype, which are sophisticated enough to enable delegates to share their computer screens with other team members working at the office or from home.
Mobile comms also cuts down on wasted paper, saving trees. Simple smartphone-based apps enable an employee to submit their expenses remotely, simply taking photos of receipts, and submitting them electronically. This reduces postage costs, as well as saving paper and time.
The rapid acceptance of smartphones and their associated technologies, has also stimulated behavioural changes in people’s personal lives.
Today, an average person may unwittingly reduce their carbon footprint by using video calling to talk to friends and family. In many cases this saves a time consuming drive to each other’s homes. It’s not quite the same as visiting, but enables better use of time, and again, takes another polluting journey off the road network.
Mobile comms also impacts on the provision of healthcare.
Individuals with serious and chronic health problems will often require frequent visits to hospitals and clinics in order to monitor their conditions, or to discuss their symptoms with a healthcare professional.
Smart phones and wearable technologies such as smart watches and fitness trackers are already beginning to enable a far more consistent capture of healthcare data. Suitable software programme can then transmit this over the mobile networks to the individual’s doctor.
Whilst this may not have a huge impact at current levels, as this become more accepted in the medical community, it will save journeys to hospitals, for both patients and visitors. It also enables patients to be potentially cared for at home rather than in hospital, which reduces consumption further.
Even agriculture and forestry benefits from the use of mobile communications.
Arable farmers may make use of smartphone and laptop-based systems to monitor crop conditions and target which areas of fields may require dressing with fertiliser. Natural fertiliser is an animal by-product which subsequently releases methane into the atmosphere.
Applying less fertiliser and targeting it where it’s needed is far more effective and eco-friendly than just applying a regular amount onto a crop that may not need it. This also saves runoff from fields polluting the water table – so a double benefit!
Animal farmers are already using smart apps that monitor the health of pregnant cattle, and herds may be monitored by GPS trackers – all enabled by mobile communications. This allows farmers to reduce veterinary call-outs, and simplify herding journeys, saving both time, money and the environment.
Having researched the information from both sides, my personal jury is still out on this subject. It has to be borne in mind that the report produced by the Carbon Trust was supported and funded by EE, BT, Telefonica (Who own O2 in the UK, and provide mobile comms globally) and Vodafone.
I am, however, a firm supporter of reducing traffic wherever and however possible, and working remotely using mobile comms is an obvious way to do this.
 A key takeaway from our research is that if a work setting is ripe for remote work – that is, the job is fairly independent and the employee knows how to do their job well – implementing WFA (working from anywhere) can benefit both the company and the employee” The Harvard Business Review
If, like me, you have embraced new technology, you will, in all probability have a smart phone. It is likely that you will also own either a tablet computer, or a laptop. Some of you may also have a smart watch as well.
The smartphone has invaded all our lives, and research suggests that there are more than 79 million active mobile phone subscriptions. A recent report by xxx shows that Smartphones have penetrated 71% of the UK market – about 57 million units, all of which are sophisticated handsets capable of streaming video, internet surfing, emailing, and even making telephone calls and humble texting.
Business has been quick to see the potential in such technology, with banks and financial institutions offering account access via self-contained mobile applications – “Apps” in common parlance.
With a smartphone and the correct apps, it is possible to buy railway tickets, check bus times, take photos or video film, and plan a route to walk, cycle or ride.
Smartphones are also able to monitor health, run a diary, shop online and remotely control domestic systems such as heating, lighting and manage solar power generation systems.
Not bad for a device that’s smaller than a reporter’s notebook!
Mobile communications are not just limited to cellular telephones, but also incorporates laptops and tablets, and as any customer of a high street coffee shop will attest to, enables work to be conducted just about anywhere where there is an internet connection.
Work isn’t just limited to processing documents. I have been unlucky enough to be seated next to a very loud woman who was conducting a Skype meeting with her team from the normal genteel environment of Costa Coffee in Haslemere. Not only is this rude and inconsiderate, but she was also revealing an awful lot about her company and its confidential details.
For the price of a coffee, it is possible to hook into a reasonably stable Wi-Fi connection, and work for an hour or two, writing and responding to emails, conducting research, and creating reports and presentations.
No commuting either – so its got to be ecologically sound to either work from home, or from the local coffee shop.
So, you would think.
Its not quite as simple as that though, but to be fair, it never is.
Have you ever thought about the invisible carbon footprint generated by mobile communications?
Let’s forget, for a moment, the environmental costs of producing a smartphone in the first place. Concentrate purely on the actual communicating
In order for your simple SMS text message to be sent, the message must be digitised and transmitted over the cellular telephone network. Your phone sends this using microwave frequencies to the nearest cellular base station. These are easily recognisable as they normally have several antennae mounted upon a mast.
At the base of the mast, is a small building that contains all of the necessary electronics systems to enable the mobile elements of the network to interface with the Public Switched Telephone Network.
The message then has to be processed by one or more data centres, and forwarded back out into the network for onward transmission over the cellular network to its intended recipient.
All of this infrastructure consumes power, and has to be resilient enough to provide secure, continuous and reliable service 24 hours a day, 365 days per year.
Photo Credit E S Wales – Cellular Base Station
The same system supports mobile voice calls.
So – you want to read your emails in the coffee shop? Surf the web?
Emails require multiple data servers, and more computer communications centres, all of which consume massive amounts of power.
Maybe as you glug back your vente white americano you want to order that item on Amazon, or eBay…
More data servers, more computer communications centres, but now with the addition of financial data processing centres, with yet more power-hungry servers.
Here are some sobering facts.
Data Centres and Communications networks together with other parts of the infrastructure were responsible for in the region of 215 mega tonnes of CO2e/yr back in 2007. By then end of 2020 this will have risen to about 764 mega tonnes of CO2e/yr, with data centres accounting for about 33% of the total contribution.
The entire carbon footprint of Canada in 2016 was about 730 MtCO2e/yr!
According to research conducted by McMaster University, the relative contribution to climate change from information and computer technologies (ICT) is predicted to grow from 3.5% (2007) to about 14% by 2040.
Relative emissions generated as a result of smartphone use has risen from 4% in 2010 to an expected 11% by this year.
Absolute emissions (which include the production footprint; manufacturing energy, mining energy for extracting rare metals and gold and end user activities) from these much loved ‘phones will therefore jump from 17 mega tonnes of CO2 equivalent per year (Mt-CO2e/yr) to 125 Mt-CO2e/yr in the same period! That’s a massive 730% growth.
Take out the production emissions, and we are looking at 12.5 mega tonnes of CO2 per year just to use our smartphones.
Our Mobile operators (In the UK, EE, O2, Vodafone, Three) have an unintended impact on emissions. Many of their mobile plans encourage their customers to upgrade to a new phone every couple of years.
I resisted this in the past, and kept my old iPhone 6 for almost five years before I decided to change phones. I would have kept it longer, but the 16GB memory was full, and the software was in danger of becoming unsupported by Apple.
Encouraging and incentivising customers to change phones when their previous model was more than adequate is a good model for enhancing a corporation’s profit, but the negative impact on our environment is unsupportable.
There is only a limited number of ways that we, as a society can stop this.
At a societal level, State intervention and Corporate Governance must ensure that all data centres are powered solely by renewable sources of energy.
As individuals, we must take a bit more responsibility.
It’s all very well for climate change protestors to exhort us all to ditch our cars, and to stop using plastics.
Equally important is not buying a new product unless the old one is either worn out, damaged beyond economic repair, or no longer supported by the manufacturer or network requirements.
Upgrading to a new phone every time one comes out is nothing but technological vanity.
Remember too, if you must upgrade, then recycle your old phone.
Shockingly, less than 1% of all smartphones are being recycled.
Despite this, for the time being, Life’s Good.
 iPhone XR dimensions 150.9mm x 75.7mm x 8.3mm 174gm
 Assessing ICT global emissions footprint: Trends to 2040 & recommendations, L. Belkhir & Elmiligi