Off to Lincolnshire for a long weekend.

On Friday 31 July we shall be driving down to see my youngest daughter Clare and the two grandchildren, Jake and Ellie. It's a long car journey but will be worth it.

And another thing: our private water supply has sprung a serious leak! We are reduced to using bottled water for drinking and cooking etc., as the normal supply has to be fixed. It may take a couple of days.

So, off we jolly well go to Lincolnshire for a short while. Looking forward to seeing Clare, Jake, Ellie and the man of the house, Andy.

By the way, my daughter is a great artist and makes her living by sculpting one-of-a-kind fantasy dolls, such as faeries and things. She sells on commission and via eBay. If you care to see some of her work check out her website: fairytasia.co.uk and see what a clever and talented daughter we are blessed with.

The Earl and Countess of Haddington

Mellerstain House is the only large country mansion built solely by Robert Adam. His father, William, built the east and west wings in the early 1700s but the main house is by his more famous son Robert.

Robert Adam built a large place in London called The Adelphi Terrace but this was largely demolished some 80 years ago. Robert Adam's main works were extensions and alterations to existing houses therefore Mellerstain House is unique. It is also most beautifully designed inside. Exquisite plaster-work, especially on the ceilings, needs to be seen to be believed.

I still can't believe that this place became our home for a few years. I think the word serendipity applies. Life just happens, does it not? No matter how clever we think we are we have no control over the way life treats us.

OK, we all end up in the same way, sooner or later, but what happens along life's highway is, more often than not, luck. Well, that's my story - and I'm sticking to it!

It was pure luck that my wife and I ended up here in the Scottish Borders, living in part of Mellerstain House, the family home of the Earl and Countess of Haddington. Two of the nicest people on God's earth. Two of the best people I've ever known.

Above is a recent snapshot of them, taken from part of their website. The Earl is holding one of his chickens. He is extremely fond of birds and has an aviary in his courtyard with various and colourful examples. Elsewhere there are the free-range chickens and cockerels and on the lake there are two resident swans.

The swans produce up to eight or so cygnets each year. Swans are said to be lifelong mates but this year it seems that there are two female swans now residing on the lake. Ménage à trois mayhap?

One of the great pleasures when living here is meeting people from all over the world who come to the UK and discover Mellerstain House. The vast majority fall in love with the place. Some of them have become friends of ours. None of this would have happened without Lady Luck holding my hand for all of my life.

I don't know if there are ghosts. Or if there is a God. Or if there are leprechauns, fairies and angels.

But I do know Lady Luck exists - for all of us.

The Ghost of the Rose Bedroom

Whether or not you believe in the paranormal - and I do not - one often experiences strange happenings.

Have you ever been certain that you know exactly what is about to happen at a particular point? Do you understand what I mean?

Sometimes I've been having a conversation and I know precisely what is going to be said, just before it is said. The surroundings are exactly the same, everything is just as I know it will be. It's as though I'd experienced this whole scene and conversation some time in the past. Déjá vu is, I think, the term we use.

I cannot understand this phenomenon; I just know I've experienced it more than once.

Well, certain other inexplicable things happen all the time. Not all the time to me, but occasionally - especially since I came to live in Mellerstain House. This is just one of those 'strange things'.

It's now about six months since my wife and I came to Mellerstain House. I've studied the history of the place, its origins and inhabitants over almost three centuries. Fascinating stuff too. I need to know all about its history so that visitors touring the house can get answers to their questions.

Easter, 1996, and we are open to the public. I have a group of 20 Dutch tourists to take on a conducted tour. Most of the group speak perfect English; they put we Brits to shame!

Mellerstain has a strong connection with Holland. Lady Grisell Baillie, the eldest of 18 children of Sir Patrick Hume, were in exile in Utrecht, Holland, for some time, owing to Sir Patrick's alleged involvement in the Rye House Plot. Grisel took care of all the family whilst in hiding in Holland. She is one of Scotland's great heroines.

During this conducted tour I took the group of tourists into the Rose Bedroom. This is the only north facing bedroom in the house. Although it is a pretty room it always has a chill feel to it. One could possibly expect this, after all it does face north.

After a brief chat about the room and its original hand-printed rose-pattern wall-paper, the group filed out of the room heading for the first of the south-facing bedrooms, the Manchineel Bedroom. As the final member of the group entered the Manchineel room I looked back towards the Rose Bedroom. I just caught sight of a woman entering the Rose Bedroom. I asked the group leader to stay with the group whilst I nipped swiftly back to the Rose Bedroom.

As I approached the door I called out "Excuse me madam, but we've been in this room already ..." No reply. There was nobody in the room. I looked behind the black Chinese screen - nothing. I opened the door to the en suite bathroom; nothing, nobody there either. There is only one way in and out of the bedroom and the bathroom. Both were completely empty.

Yet I was certain of what I'd seen. Strange, but the tour had to go on.

Later that day Lord Haddington asked me how I'd got on with the house visitors. It was most enjoyable I said. I also mentioned that I thought I'd seen somebody go into the Rose Bedroom but found nobody there.

"Oh, that's Lady Grisell doing her rounds I suppose." he said. "Was she dressed in grey?"

"Yes, I think so - but it must have been a shadow or something; there was definitely nobody in the room or the bathroom." I replied.

The Earl said: "You're not the first who have seen her. She's our resident ghost!"

Lord Haddington has a great interest in the paranormal. He was, until a couple of years ago, president of a Crop Circle group and still likes to investigate new occurrences of these things. He is a most interesting and knowledgeable chap in many areas.

There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy ... (to quote the Bard's Hamlet).

In the Mood for Love - A brief encounter ...

I thought I'd offer just one of my favourite film clips and theme music, just for something completely different, as Monty Python's Flying Circus would say.

This film came my way via a free DVD with a Sunday Newspaper. It is Chinese and it took years to get right. It is a story about two people who have unhappy marriages and they find comfort in each other, well, sort of. The music is totally hypnotic I feel. The acting is superb, as is the direction by Wong Kar-wai. The two main characters are played to perfection by Maggie Cheung and Tony Leung. Maggie Cheung said that this film took so much out of her that she declined to take part in the subsequent film "2046".

Anyway, I think it's one of the best films I've ever seen; I play it at least once every three or four months and love it more each time.

It'll All End in Tears - Floods of Them

And the days dwindled down, October, November ... and these precious days were spent in peaceful learning of the history of Mellerstain and its occupants over the years.

We all learn something new every day. Often inconsequential things, or even silly things; but we go on learning. I'd say that this is what most humans try to do: keep on learning.

It's a bit like blogging. You read one and it interests you. From that one you link to another. The web expands. It seems endlessly interesting. That started me off writing this potted biography.

I delved into the archives of Mellerstain. Spoke with the Haddington family to get some personal history. Many people I spoke to seemed only too pleased to impart nuggets of interest concerning the house, its history, former occupants and the Scottish Borders generally.

The Borders certainly has a history! Quite bloody for a lot of the time, especially concerning "The Reivers". I learnt quite a lot in a couple of months.

Each year, in December, the Earl and Countess throw a Christmas party for all the staff: the gardeners, the tenant farmers and workers, the cleaners and house-keepers,the gamekeeper, the house guides and some retired people. This December was our first Christmas party at Mellerstain and it was just great.

We got to know all the people who help to keep this wonderful estate in pristine condition. Everybody is invited, including wives and children. Towards the end of the festivities one of the Haddington children would delight in handing out the carefully wrapped Christmas gifts. A genuinely warm and pleasurable time.

And this December we had an abundance of snow! Scotland and snow go well together as you probably know. The whole area was blanketed in virgin snow. For days and days, sheer white. And it was cold. Never mind, we had the boilers going full blast and cosy log fires blazing away in the sitting room. Almost a fairytale situation.

December 31st, 1995 and we were still snowbound. We retired at about 1 o'clock, having spent a while seeing the New Year in. Three months had flown by.

Next morning I got up and looked out of the south-facing window of the bedroom. And the first thing that struck me was patches of green showing through the long sweep of lawn down to the frozen lake. A thaw had set in. Much as we liked the snowy scenes all around us it was good to see some colour at last.

But what was that odd sound I could hear in the background. Sounded a bit like a splashing fountain, a waterfall even. Got dressed quickly. Went downstairs to the Stone Hall. The sound of rushing water increased. Unlocked the door from the Stone Hall into the east passageway into the main house and I stood aghast!

Water was pouring through the ceiling, from the electric lights. Gushing down; the carpeting was sopping wet. I rushed down to the basement. It was swimming in water! A good inch or so was swilling away on the stone floor. It was a nightmare on New Years Day!

I phoned across to the Earl. He came running through the basement area from the west wing. We placed buckets under the water but they filled up so quickly it was hopeless.

The Earl had no idea where the stopcocks were; neither did I. Oh! this was calamitous. And the water kept flooding down. I phoned the now retired security/caretaker, Brian Ellis. He told me to find a door in the basement, next to the wine cellar and shine a torch inside. There I would find two iron wheels, like steering wheels. These were the stopcocks!

Shutting these down was fairly easy, but the water still cascaded down. The whole supply comes from an elevated supply about a third of a mile from the north front of the house. It rises to large storage tanks in the central tower. This central tower then feeds two other large storage tanks: one in the west tower and one in the east tower. It would take a while for the east tower tank to empty when the water to the central tower was cut off. But stop it did, eventually.

All this on New Year's Day! In Scotland this day is a regular holiday. Hogmanay the night before so today would be a getting-over-it-day for most Scots. The Earl and family were the only other occupants of the house today and we all spent hours mopping up as best we could. Fortunately it was only the east tower tank that caused the problem. The supply pipe had frozen during the cold spell and expanded the joint leading into the tank. This pipe was where the water was gushing from.

The next thing was to see the full extent of the damage, get the insurance people involved, and the plumbers, electricians and other necessary people.

There were many other flooding problems reported that day. A bank in Kelso was badly damaged and other homes and businesses suffered likewise. We were not alone, but that was cold comfort, so to speak.

Enter the Dragon - And the Police

Peering into the far darkness of the night waiting for the flashing blue lights and headlamps of the cops car. The immediate surrounds of Mellerstain were now bathed in bright white lights from all the floodlights triggered by the alarm system.

A few minutes had gone by and then the fast-moving headlamps came snaking through the pitch darkness from the west gates along the driveway leading to the main house.

Scrambling down the well-trodden stone spiral stairs in my slippers and dressing gown I opened the front door of the Stone Hall. A sergeant and a constable entered. Two minutes later another car arrived with two more officers.

If there were any intruders they would soon be sorted out.

"Which area caused the alarm?" asked the sergeant. "The east basement area." I replied.

We all trooped down to this area, unlocking a series of doors on the way. This basement corridor is a lengthy one. Running from the old east wing, through the newer Robert Adam main building and ending at the home of the Haddingtons in the west wing. Probably about 300 feet or more long, with various rooms on the south side and stairways on the north side leading up to the ground floor.

Everything was securely locked still. All doors and windows intact down here; better just check the ground floor though. It took about twenty minutes before we were confident that it was sweet F.A. - or a not so welcome False Alarm.

What caused it? Who could say. These things happen the sergeant said. That may be so I thought but it's not something I relished.

We were retracing our steps through the basement corridor, locking doors on the way, when something flashed by our heads. Then another!

"Bats!" yelled a policeman. "You've got bats in the basement!"

Well I never! I'd heard of bats in the belfry, but bats in the basement? Yoiks!

"That's probably your problem." said sergeant policeman. "They can be a bit of a menace when it comes to these sensitive movement sensors. You need to get the Chubb security engineer to see if he can do something about it."

Next day I rang the security company and the engineer arrived that afternoon. He said that this had happened now and again. "We've adjusted the sensitivity as much as we dare. We cannot decrease it further I'm afraid."

Not a happy outcome as far as I was concerned. Bats are a protected species in the UK and must not be removed or disturbed, even if you found where they were hiding. It seemed that I'd just have to live with the problem, but I wasn't too keen on that.

The security engineer explained that a bat flying close to the sensor could set the alarm off, as we'd just experienced. He then came up with a possible solution: fit a second sensor, close to the original one, programmed in such a way as to only set off the alarm if both sensors were activated simultaneously.

This would not guarantee a solution but it would certainly go a long way to curing the problem of false alarms in this area. A bat passing close to one of the sensors would not start the alarm; it would need two bats to simultaneously trigger each sensor and this was pretty unlikely. However, if a person was in the area then this would definitely trigger both sensors immediately.

After discussing this with the factor it was agreed that additional sensors would be worthwhile. This made me a lot happier! No doubt it would also make the police a lot happier. So it was quickly carried out and hopefully my sleep would not be disturbed too much in future.

A few days later, as I was locking up in the basement area, I noticed something like a large leaf on the floor. On closer inspection, as I went to pick it up, I saw it was, yes, a bat. It wasn't moving; I thought it must be dead. Bats don't usually go to sleep on the floor, do they?

I went upstairs and put on a pair of gardening gloves. Down to the basement and the bat was still lying there. Gently pick it up. It moved slightly. Took it into the east courtyard carefully placed it on the side of an old stone wall. It didn't fall off; it just seemed to cling there. I left it to its fate. No doubt there were other bats in the vicinity and hopefully it would survive.

I wondered what further discoveries would come my way in this lovely old place.

A Rude Awakening

Slept soundly on our first night in Mellerstain. Strong blustery winds blitzed riotously through the plentiful trees but it actually seemed to lull me to sleep.

The Pickfords van arrived at 9.30 next morning and the unloading of our stuff began. It was not a simple operation! The entrance to our first floor quarters was via a stone spiral staircase. This east wing was built by William Adam, father of Robert Adam, in 1725. The ancient stone spiral was well worn. Each step was concave in the centre eroded by hundreds of shoes traipsing up and down over the centuries.

Romantic it may be, but strenuously difficult for the removal men to negotiate. Heavy work and not something I'd enjoy doing day after day. They completed their task efficiently and without mishap, either to our furniture or the building!

With bags of space in the flat we were soon sorted out. There is a large living room in the centre of the flat, about 24 feet long by 16 feet wide. We never used this room! The grandkids would have it as their playroom when they came to stay later on. We chose a cosier sitting room, about 17 x 18 feet. This had a lovely fireplace as well as oil-fired central heating. The kitchen/diner was a very good size too.

The main bedroom had all the necessary alarm sounders installed, intruder and separate fire systems. All of the bedrooms had handbasins with hot and cold water.

Lovely views from each window - so waking up to see such abundant beauty was a totally new experience for both of us.

So far, so good. The Countess, Lady Jane Haddington, came to introduce herself that first afternoon. She insisted that we had dinner with them in the west wing later on which we gladly accepted. She is a genuinely kind spirit; a hard working mother of three children too.

Dinner was great, and a couple of glasses of wine made it perfect. We made our way back to the east wing, tired but very pleased with life.

Soon we were in bed. I was fast asleep almost immediately.

I got up at 3.30 a.m. Not by choice, but by the wailing and shrieking of an alarm! It was excruciatingly loud. I didn't know if it was the fire alarm or the intruder alarm. I felt a bit like corporal Jones in Dad's Army: "Don't panic..don't panic".

Dressing gown on I found the control panels: it was the intruder alarm! Then the phone rang; it was the police. "Your alarm has been triggered" the police kindly informed me - as if I didn't know! "Officers are on their way - please wait until you see their headlights. OK?"

OK it was. But I wondered whether it was really OK...

An Englishman’s Home in a Scottish Castle

October 1995 and we are off to a new life in the Scottish Borders. Everything’s ready for the journey; the Pickford’s Removals van has just set off for the journey northwards with our home packed in it. The furniture will be unloaded the next morning as it will be too late for the same day delivery of course.

The plan is to drive to Mellerstain House and hopefully arrive there before 10 p.m. It will be dark when we arrive and we are not overly familiar with the roads, even in the daylight! Fingers crossed.

The head gardener, Gordon Low, has agreed to wait for us to arrive and to guide us into Mellerstain House. I just hope he hasn’t forgotten!

Our route was along the A1 until we reached the branch road A68. It was dusk by the time we turned left onto this road. Perhaps we should have stayed on the A1 for many miles more, passing Newcastle and other towns. However, the map showed that the A68 cut across country and looked to be the shorter route.

The A68 is not a road I would recommend, especially for night driving. It is like a never-ending roller-coaster. Twists and turns, rolling countryside, hidden dips and pitch black! Even if one knew this road intimately it is still very daunting to negotiate at night.

We stopped twice on this road. I was feeling tired and stressed and my eyes just wanted to close. A ten minute rest, Pat having a coffee from the flask and me having a brief shut-eye.

Eventually we reached Jedburgh, the first Scottish town on this road. From there we travelled on until the town of Earlston. Here we turned right, into the town; we were just five miles from Mellerstain.

Gordon Low was waiting for us in his cottage, as previously arranged. It was just before 10 p.m. We met his wife who made us a cup of tea which we were glad of. Gordon had a large torch which he brought with him in our car and we made our way to the east wing, our new home. It was quite scary. It was so very dark and the wind in the trees made a whooshing ghostly noise.

He had a bunch of keys and opened the door of the wing. Our route inside the mansion house had been isolated from the alarm system but even so I tended to flinch as little red lights started to flash as we went through a very long basement corridor. Gordon explained the system just enough for me to re-set the alarm. He showed us how to get into our new flat and finalise the setting of the system and then he left, walking home to his cottage about half a mile away.

There were two camp beds in one of the ten rooms. These had been set up for our night’s sleep. There was no other furniture at all, apart from carpets. It was good to have a sleep at last. It would be another busy day tomorrow.

Lording it up

Interview over. We left the curator's office in the east wing of Mellerstain and entered the east courtyard. The tea-room was open; we went in and had a coffee. It would take us almost three hours to drive back to Lincolnshire and I was in no hurry to set off.

We were just about to leave the tea-room for a stroll around the gardens when the factor came in. "Oh, so glad I caught you before you go; we haven't paid your travelling expenses. How much are they?"

I hadn't considered it. Nobody had said we would be re-imbursed. "I don't really know ... " I replied.

"Well, here's £50 for petrol. Should cover it don't you think?" said the factor, handing me five ten pound Scottish notes. "If it's any more just let the curator know before you leave. Oh, and by the way, Lord Haddington says that if you want the position it's yours!"

I was so surprised. Totally unexpected to be offered the job in this manner.

"Well yes" I replied, after recovering my speech. "Yes, we'd certainly love to take the job."

"When could you start?" asked the factor. "The present chap and his wife will be retiring in September, when the visitor season is finished for the year. October would be a good time for us.." he went on.

"And for us too!" I replied.

So that was it. It would be a hectic two months or so before we took up our new life in Scotland but we were certainly up for it.

We drove back home; a home that would soon be history. It was almost dreamlike. Everything was happening so speedily and yet so smoothly. Yet it was all real. Not a dream at all but something I'd often dreamed of was actually happening...

Sh-Shh Shangri-La

Reading my wife's magazine, "The Lady", I saw a small ad for a security-caretaker. Hmm, sounded interesting. Showed it to my wife.

"What do you think?" I asked. She wasn't sure. Not enough detail in the advert. Well, faint heart never won ... whatever, so a letter was sent off. Brief CV included. Reply received a few days later, asking me to telephone to arrange an interview.

Phoned the writer that day. "When can you come for interview?" she asked. "Any time you like." I said. "We'll get back to you soon ... goodbye for now."

Few days later, letter arrives: Please attend for interview at 11 a.m. on Monday next. Oops ... cannot make that day! School summer holidays were on but on that one day I'd been asked to complete the budget reconciliation with Lincoln County Education staff. I could not let them down.

Telephoned the lady who'd given me the interview date. I was pretty sure she would not think well of me having said "Any time you like..." Well, I was wrong. When my explanation was given she said she would consult the Earl to see if he could see me some other time.

Yes, the job was to look after the home of the 13th Earl of Haddington and his family in the Scottish Borders. A week later another phone call: "The Earl will be available to see you next Wednesday. Can you make it then?" I could, and did.

We drove up to Scotland from Lincoln on the Tuesday, stayed in a B&B overnight. Next morning we found Mellerstain House, situated twixt Kelso and Melrose in the Borders.

Fabulous looking place. Acres of parkland at the front and lovely acres of gardens at the rear. Large castellated central building and east and west wings either side.

My wife and I would live in the east wing quarters with the earl and family living in the west wing. The central part was now open to the public for part of the year and was no longer occupied.

The interview was in the curator's office. Present were Flora T,(curator), John H(factor) and John George Baillie Hamilton, 13th Earl of Haddington.

Wife and I were greeted and we sat down to be grilled. It was a friendly enough grilling. Interviews have never really bothered me. Relaxed and just happy to see this wonderful place.

Towards the end of the interview the Earl asked me if I had any family in Scotland or any friends or relatives. No, none at all I said. In fact, Scotland was about the only place in the UK that I'd never even been to!

He seemed a bit puzzled and said: "Well, tell me why I you want to come and live here?"

"To be perfectly frank" I replied, "I've always dreamed of living in a place such as this - but I've never had enough money. So, I thought why not join somebody who already has one."

My wife looked horrified. The Earl laughed. We were thanked for coming and the curator said: "We'll let you know..." The usual brush off line; or was it?

Survival of the Weakest

In 1987 life was killing me. At times I dreaded the approach of dawn. I was weak. Not physically you understand; more like a car, a good car, but with spark plugs fouled up and a flat battery.

The solution was simple: re-charge the battery and change the spark plugs.

Leaving a secure job might seem madness to many. To me it sparked a new lease of life and restored the power needed to drive on.

Most people resist change. It's sometimes easier to leave things as they are. Even though we might be uncomfortable we at least feel secure in the status quo. But when the nettle is grasped firmly its sting does not hurt.

Once I'd accepted that my job was the problem my problem was solved. Another job was soon found. Not as well paid but a million times more enjoyable. Some adjustments had to be made to fit our new circumstances. That was easy; like changing gear down a bit. Stop speeding and just cruise along.

We moved house, from Southend on Sea to Lincolnshire. That was a good move. I applied for a job as finance officer in Caistor Yarborough School. The interview was friendly and I felt relaxed. Two days later I got the job.

The Principal of the school was one of the nicest men you could wish to work with. One of nature's true gentlemen. He was quite amazing in so many ways. For example, I attended one of the morning assemblies and he knew each of the pupils by name it seemed; there were about 450 of them! He was always at his desk before any of us, and he was usually the last to leave at the end of the school day.

The job itself was to manage the annual budget and the budgets of each school department. Placing orders for goods and equipment and making the payments. It was something I felt at home with. All the teaching staff were great to work with and my two office colleagues, (the school secretary and the Principal's secretary), were efficient and friendly too.

Compared to my job as a Customs & Excise VAT man this was nirvana. Changing lanes and changing gear was one of the best moves I'd ever made. Could things get any better?

Fastest 15 Years of Life - Very Taxing

I could spend yonks detailing my Customs and Excise years. Instead I'll compress it into this one posting.

OK, OK, don't overdo the cheering and applause! I'm still bound by the Official Secrets Act of 1911, as amended, which prevents me from spilling the beans about my work in HM Customs & Excise.

What I can say is that it taught me a lot about accounting, programming (in COBOL), management (of time and staff), and human nature.

After a year working on the remnants of the old purchase tax I moved into Value Added Tax which went "live" on April Fools Day, 1973. I was involved initially in educating "traders" in the ins and outs of VAT. A "trader" being anybody running a business that was subject to the new tax.

I moved about the country during those fifteen years. Sometimes as a VAT control officer, or as a trainer, or as a programmer. I worked in London, Southend on Sea, Ipswich, Norwich, Derby, Liverpool, Swansea, and various places in between.

At times it was hectic and frequently stressful. By 1985 I was feeling the strain more and more. I did not realise how hard I pushed myself. I gained promotion to Higher Executive Officer. This was, I suppose, a reward for hard work. I must have achieved some pretty good annual reports from my superiors.

This "success" came at a cost. By 1987 I was dreading going to work. Anxiety and depression were my constant companions. Little blue pills were prescribed. They seemed to give me nightmares. I would wake up in the dead of night flailing my arms to shoo the huge black moth that was zooming down on me.

Sweat on my forehead and in the palms of my hands. I had to get out of bed and sit downstairs with a glass of water to calm down. It had to end. At times I hoped that tomorrow would never come.

For the sake of my sanity and my family I had to "retire hurt" from this mad world I'd made for myself.

When this decision was reached a glimmer of light and a touch of serenity eased mental pain. Soon I was feeling relaxed and in control again. How many of us go through such crises in life? Far more than is ever admitted, of that I'm sure.

There is a stigma, a taboo about mental breakdown. I think it can be seen more clearly by those around us than by the one who is so afflicted.

If you have experienced such suffering then I hope you came through it as I did. You have my understanding and sympathy. If your work is causing you too much stress then you have to ask is it worth it? In my case the answer was a definite NO. Life does not end if you ditch a job that has become unbearable. Life may end if you don't change course.

I know we have to work; we are not owed a living. But we are entitled to life - and if work is killing you then change your work. You know it makes sense!

Until next time, take care - and let the sunshine in.

Wanted by the Police - A Shock Phone Call

Soon after the start of my new job the police rang me. Just looking forward to my first cup of tea (well, I am a civil servant now!)when my phone rang. It was the police, phoning from Guildford.

The policeman asked me to confirm my full name and address. Satisfied with my reply he said: "I'm sorry to have to say this but your brother, John, is in custody. He has given your name as next of kin."

At first I didn't understand what I'd just heard. John has been arrested? Must be some mistake. John, about six years younger than I, was a colour sergeant in the Queens Own Regiment. Married with five young children, John joined the army as a boy entrant at age 16. He'd steadily worked his way up the ranks to his present position. No, definitely a big mistake by the police.

"What's this all about officer?" I asked.

"Well sir, your brother shot and killed his wife last night. He walked into the police station and gave himself up. He wants you to come to the station please."

After a few seconds I recovered my senses enough to say that I'd get there as soon as I could. I had no car; I get to work by train from Norfolk to London so I had to get to Guildford by train. My department boss said I could go immediately. What a terrible start to my first few days in the new job!

I'll keep this tragic tale as concise as I can.

John was an armoury instructor. His regiment was based in Guildford, where he lived in married quarters. He was posted to Northern Ireland during "the troubles" and did a six-month tour.

On return to Guildford he heard that his wife, Doreen, had been having an affair. He went to the armoury, took out an automatic rifle and six rounds of ammunition. Went back to his house and fired the six bullets, killing Doreen instantly.

I visited him in the cells at Guildford. He seemed strangely calm. He simply told me what he'd done. His children had been taken into care. He was alone in this cell and it all seemed unreal, a dream ... a nightmare.

There was little I could do. He was remanded in custody, in Brixton prison, until his trial at the Old Bailey in London.

Social Services asked me if I could look after the two young sons of John until other arrangements could be made. My wife and I agreed. One lad, Geoffrey, was 7 and his younger brother, Stephen, was 5. We had seen them infrequently in the past as we had moved about a lot. They came to live with us in Norfolk.

I visited John on remand in Brixton a few times. On my final visit he said he wanted me to adopt his two boys. I said no. Out of the question. I had children of my own and more were planned. John angrily condemned me for refusing. He told me he didn't want to see me again. I felt hurt, but had to make allowances for his state of mind. However, he was adamant and refused to see me when I applied to visit him again.

His trial opened. I did not attend. A member of the Queen's Own Regiment told me that the judge accepted a lesser plea than murder. The judge said that the army had taught John how to kill; that was true. John served under two years in prison. He was automatically dismissed from the army. What had been a successful career, with good pension prospects, was quashed.

Geoffrey and Stephen were taken back into care; they were fostered but we lost track of them. John's three daughters were similarly fostered. One of the girls is now married and living in America. That's all I know about this tragic affair.

This was a difficult phase in life for me and my family. It was not a good start to a new career but needs must when the devil drives. We are all driven to make a living - well, almost all of us. And that means work.

Whom was the wit who said "If work was so bloody marvellous then the gentry would have snapped it all up years ago!"

Defecting to the Enemy - Vodka and Tonic

When I left school at the tender age of 14 the "careers" chap asked me what I wanted to do. No idea said I. He pressed me for an answer. OK, I wouldn't mind your job I said. He chuckled and then gave up. I had a succesion of jobs, including apprentice plumber for 6 months. Laundry worker, 6 weeks. Van boy, potato selling. Working as a car number plate maker for the White Metal Company, Croydon (a one man band).

Actually, this was quite an interesting job, using dampish sand and white hot metal. I would press the template letters and numbers in the sand mould and pour the molten metal in. Quite liked this experience other than having to get to work at 7 a.m. to get all the coke fires going!

Moved on to working in West Croydon Railway station booking office, mainly in the left luggage department. When posted to a lonely spot at Redhill, doing a boring rolling stock returns job, I jacked that in. Went to work in an office of a brewery firm (Charringtons) and then into the RAF.

Next it was the bookie business and a bit of selling. Not a marvellous CV as I'll guess you'd agree. So where to next?

Who was "the enemy" of the title of this post? The taxman is the answer. Yes, I had plenty of dealings with HM Customs and Excise during my bookie years. We had the betting levy and betting tax to pay and the Customs were the collectors of the betting tax. I got to know our "collection officer" during his inspection visits. In fact I think I taught him all about bookmakers and their various shennanigans in those days.

I thought he had quite a decent sort of job. He said he was virtually his own boss. He went into his office maybe once a week, otherwise he worked from home. Not bad I thought. Wouldn't mind that way of life.

In 1972 Customs and Excise were recruiting executive officers in readiness for the dreaded VAT, due to be launched on 1st April 1973. Yes, April Fool's Day no less! I applied, ignoring the fact that I had no GCSEs of any description.

Called to a mass civil service examination in Whitehall. Large room crammed with desks - about 60 or more. Sat down at 10 a.m. with a scary-looking female and assistants glowering at us from the front desk.

Scary-face then said: "Before we start are there any objections to smoking during the exam?" Not a murmur in the hushed room. Slowly a lone hand was raised. Just one solitary objector, a young lady. A brave young lady I'd have to say!

"Right then" boomed scary-face, smiling faintly, "No smoking!" She seemed quite pleased with that single objection to smoking. "You may now turn over your paper and begin."

After the first exam, (English), we were told we could have a ten minute comfort break. On resumption of the exams there were quite a few empty desks. Either the exams had defeated the examinee or the no-smoking had!

After a few weeks I was informed that I had passed all the exams which were said to be of GCE standard. I was then invited to interview, again in London. This was to be somewhat more difficult than the actual exams.

The interview board comprised five senior people, with a mature-looking lady in the centre whom I assumed was the principal interviewer. I fielded their questions as well as I could; some easier than others.

On the far left of the interview board sat a rather ruddy-faced mustachioed chap. An ex-military type I guessed. He seemed to take a dislike to me for some reason. Maybe he didn't like bookie types; maybe my accent wasn't plummy enough. He seemed to snort disgruntedly at my replies to his questions.

The other board members seemed very friendly, especially the chair-lady. She smiled encouragingly whenever I looked at her. She brought the interview to a close by saying: "Thank you very much Mr. Harfleet. May I say that I think you handled your fences very well. We shall write to you soon."

She might have been either a lover of racing or of horses. I smiled back at her, saying "Thank you" and left the room. Her reference to "handling your fences ..." gave me encourgement. Eventually I was offered the post of Executive Officer, to work in Adelaide House on London Bridge. Not in the VAT department but in the remains of the old Purchase Tax department!

There were two things wrong with this offer. Firstly, I wanted to get in on the ground floor of this new tax system; secondly I was living in near Diss, in Norfolk!

I rang the personnel department and asked if I could have a posting nearing to Norwich. The answer was a firm NO. Take the offer or decline it. There are no other options.

The distance from Diss to London was around 100 miles. The train journey would take about two hours or so - that is, four hours travelling a day. And this is if there were no holdups or breakdowns on the railway.

Oh well, take it or leave it. I took it.

Bought an annual season ticket from Diss to Liverpool Street station and began my new career in Her Majesty's Customs and Excise - the oldest and proudest of the tax gatherers.

My daily schedule started by driving to Diss railway station (a lovely little station in 1972) and boarding the 6.40 a.m. train to London. Breakfast on the train, and very nice it was too. Fortunately the civil service operated a flexi-time system which enabled me to get into the office at any time before 10 a.m. and to leave after the required 7.5 hours later. I usually caught the 18.40 train from Liverpool Street station, sometimes waiting for it in "Dirty Dick's" bar close to the station.

Dirty Dick's bar was supposedly owned many decades earlier by a man who was jilted by his love. He vowed never to clean the floor of the bar until she returned to him, (or something like that). In keeping with this legend, sawdust is strewn on the floor and there were a few other less-than-pristine effects. Must try to visit this place again before shuffling off this mortal coil.

So that's how I became an E.O. in HM Customs & Excise. The bookies would call me a renegade I guess. Never mind, somebody has to do the job.

Enough for now ...

Filling in the Gaps - 1956 to 1972

This "bio-blog" of mine has been rather rushed through. I guess it's all been work, work, work - and that makes Phil a dull boy. But there were plenty of good times. Some very good times and some not so good.

One reader, in a comment, asked me: "What happened to Joan?" She was my girl-friend in Hereford during my RAF days. Lovely girl, but I drifted away from her when I was demobbed. I don't recall exactly how we split up; it just seemed to happen. The main reason was that I met other girls in the Croydon area as I resumed my ballroom dancing.

One evening I went into the Lonsdale Ballroom, next to the Savoy cinema in Broad Green Croydon. I was alone and just hoped I'd get a dance or two. I got more than I dreamed of: Patricia Teare, my original dance teacher, was in charge of the Lonsdale. The last time we met was about four years prior. She hadn't changed one iota and was as beautiful as ever.

Dancing with her again was terrific. She asked if I'd taken any ballroom medal tests. I hadn't; she said I should. Had a few private lessons with her and in a few months she partnered me in the bronze medal test, at the Café Royal. I still have that medal. Patricia still teaches ballroom dancing!

One evening I went into the Semley Studios in Norbury. I noticed a shapely girl, about five feet eight tall, standing with a couple of other girls. I asked for a dance and we seemed to get on well on the dance-floor. The following week she was there again. She was also named Patricia. A year or so later we were married. All thoughts of ex-girlfriends just faded away.

A couple of years later my wife was pregnant. We were over the moon. Our joy was soon shattered. At about 26 weeks into her pregnancy she was in great pain and rushed to Mayday Hospital. Our son was prematurely born. The doctors said he could not survive and they took me to see this tiny baby. I felt shocked and quite queasy when I laid eyes on him: his head seemed huge in comparison to his body. He died an hour or so later.

Patricia was heartbroken. She so wanted to be a Mum. The doctor said there was no reason why she couldn't eventually have a child. First pregnancies sometimes just don't go right.

The doctor was perfectly correct. Eighteen months later we had our first child, a boy. A strong baby; a perfect child. Eventually we had two more children, both girls. Everything worked out exceedingly well.

Our three children in their turn have given us a grandson and three lovely granddaughters. Who could ask for more.

What became of Joan Turner, my girlfriend in Hereford? Well, about five or six years ago I started tracking down old friends. I started my search for Joan at Hereford United football club. Her father was the secretary or manager in their amateur days and I was delighted to see the name Graham Turner as manager now! What a bit of luck I thought.

What an idiot I was though. I wrote to him asking if he knew what had happened to Joan Turner. He wrote a short note back saying that he had no idea what I was on about! Oops ... what a fool I had been. Graham Turner was a professional football manager, nothing to do with the family I once knew.

Oh well, never one to give up the chase I contacted Hereford United's historian, via the internet. This chap certainly knew all about the early 1950s at the club. He said that Joan had married, in Hereford, around 1959, give or take a year. That was a start. I worked through microfiche records of marriages in the main library in Edinburgh and found her married name. Then, via census records on 192.com I found their current address.

I bought a "Happy Anniversary" card and enclosed a short letter. No idea if Joan had the slightest interest in replying, but she did. She telephoned me. The first thing she said really hit hard.

Her husband had a massive heart attack which killed him; just a year ago! Of course, I had no way of knowing this. The search of the census records gave both Joan's name and that of her husband. I'd just assumed they were both still living there.

She completely forgave me for my wrong assumption. She has a son who lives close by and one of her sisters sees her regularly. We keep in touch, by letter and a phone chat now and then. She and her husband became competition ballroom dancers and she sent me a few photographs of them in their ballroom outfits. We never touched on the when and why we lost touch. One day we may meet up for a meal or something. Not something I would rule out, especially if my wife and I have a holiday in Hereford.

I traced a couple who got married at RAF Bruggen in 1955. I was best man at Bert and Jean's wedding. I found some photographs of that day and sent one to the magazine called "Best of British", with a request for anyone to get in touch with me if they knew of their whereabouts. Strangely enough, it was Bert's mother-in-law who read my letter in the magazine and she rushed round to Bert's house to let him read it. Again, I keep in touch with Bert and his family - mainly via emails and the telephone.

I think a few gaps have been filled now so next time it will be back to the work scene. Again, like in Monty Python, it's a "now for something completely different"...

Moving On - Sort of

Thoroughly disenchanted with the bookmaking game. Fed up and needing something new. A half-page advert in The Sporting Life caught my imagination. It was for a new-fangled electronic calculator!

Phoned the advertiser, Ray Norton. He had an office in the Cheam area. Said I'd like to see one of these new electronic wonders. He said OK, come along and you can have a go on it.

Took a day off and drove to see this chap. He was very pleasant and welcoming. Told him what my job was; this interested him. He used to be a salesman for Anka Cash Registers, selling these machines to bookies throughout the UK. He was now trying to sell these CBM electronic calculators. Completely new to the market in 1971 and perfect now that decimalisation was here.

I was smitten with this machine. It was an eight digit display calculator with just the four functions: add, subtract, multiply and divide. Mains operated, no batteries. And its cost: £200. Yes, £200 - and even at that price I thought it was a real bargain. Never before seen in this country and I could see why Ray Norton had targeted the bookmaking industry.

Ray could see I was thoroughly approving of his machine, imported from America. He then suggested I might like to act as a salesman for it. I said yes, but still had to carry on as general manager for Johnno. I said I'd show the calculator to as many people as I could; I had quite a few contacts in bookmaking.

I was paid £15 for every machine I sold. I found it very easy to demonstrate its uses in the bookie game. Ray was pleased but thought I'd sell more if I went full time as a salesman. Eventually we came to an agreement: I would go full time and be paid a commission of 15% for each machine sold, plus a fixed weekly sum of £40. I took the plunge.

Concentrating solely on betting shop owners I went full steam ahead with this electronic marvel. Devised a method of settling all kinds of bets with it. My main demo being how to settle a 'Yankee' bet in just a few key presses. This never failed to grab the full attention of any prospect who saw how easy it was to use.

One day I'd travelled down to the south coast, just cold-calling in any betting shop I came across. Most managers of these shops were impressed. Some placed an order, others said they'd 'think about it'.

One shop had a female manager and the rest of the shop was staffed by ladies. Most unusual in my experience. This lady said she liked the machine but she'd have to speak to her boss. She made a phone call. Her boss said he'd be there shortly, so I waited.

He soon arrived. I left him and his lady manageress to have a good look at it. He too seemed quite impressed with it.

"Tell you what" he said, "If you can demonstrate its full use to my staff then I'll place an order.Provided all my manageress's like it and can use it." I was happy with this and said: "How many people do you employ?" He replied: "I've got fifteen shops and 65 staff - and they're all female!"

Phew, I thought ... that's a new one on me!

Anyway, we arranged to do this demo the next evening in a room he'd hired in a pub.

It went extremely well. The manageress who had first seen the machine was totally sold on it and she had obviously lauded its praises to her colleagues. After my initial demo I fielded loads of questions about its uses. I let them try it out too, but as I only had three machines with me it took some time to do this.

The boss could see how keen his girls were to get hold of this new toy. That evening he placed an order for twenty machines. No haggling, no request for discount: £200 each, making £4000 in total.

This was a terrific result. I'd been selling just one or maybe two machines when traipsing around the betting shops. But twenty in one hit was exhilarating. And it also meant a £600 commission for me! Wowee ... this certainly beat sitting in an office worrying about staff and racing results. Life seemed so much brighter.

I even took Ray Norton and his secretary over to Dublin to demonstrate it to a load of Irish bookies. That was a great few days and we sold plenty of the machines.

Actually our Dublin visit was quite funny to start with. We went in Ray's Mercedes car to Liverpool and then on the ferry to Ireland. We drove off the ferry and had to stop at the Customs barrier. A young Irish Customs chap asked us what we were going to do in Dublin. "Oh, just demonstrating some calculating machines..." He asked us to open the boot of the car and he saw all these boxes of calculators. He then said: "Well, there's a tax to pay on imports like this you know." We didn't know.

Ray Norton said: "Actually officer we're not selling them; just demonstrating them." The young Customs officer said "Oh, that's OK then, just as long as you are taking them back to England afterwards." And on we went. No forms to fill in or anything else.

We had twenty machines and sold them all for cash on the first night of the hotel demo! Quite a night. The Dublin people are all so friendly and helpful. All the bookies and their wives, all in furs and fine jewellery, were at the demo and they all wanted to take a machine home with them. If we'd have hand fifty machines we could have sold them all. We took orders for more to be sent over later. We drove back onto the ferry without a single machine in the car. Nobody stopped us at Customs. A really good trip, and profitable.

However, all good things must come to an end. And selling this 8-digit calculator was to end pretty quickly. Newer, better and cheaper machines were soon hitting the market. In a matter of months the blue skies would be turning greyer. I just could not sell enough of the CBM calculator to make it worthwhile.

The final straw came when I saw an advert in The Sporting Life for a dedicated bet settling machine called the Genie 247. The advert was cleverly worded:

'If you're thinking of buying a calculator ... Hold Your Horses!'

To add insult to injury I learned that it was being financed and promoted by none other than James Lane, the Brixton based bookie and friend of Johnno. The end of the road for the little CBM machine. But we'd had a good run.


My brief encounter with the selling game would soon be ending. What next could I do? No way did I want to go back to the bookie business; no way José.

Settlers Running Scared - Dreading D-Day 1971

The letter D was looming large in the UK. For some months everyone was being brainwashed by decimalisation literature, television programmes and the radio. It seemed that the country was on the verge of doom and disaster!

Bookies and their staff were worried. Decades of handling and settling bets in good old Pounds shillings and pence would soon be history. Punters, too, were none too happy with the prospect. It was hard to find a person who felt happy about it all.

But it was going to happen. Nothing would stop it now. It was a momentous task and the logistics must have been quite daunting for those in charge of it all.

I was still working for Johnno as general manager of a chain of 12 betting shops in the south London area. All the staff were worried as to how they would cope with this change. Some could not get their head around the "new" money. A florin, or two-shilling piece, would now be equal to "10 new pence". This coin was usually known as "two bob" but would also be "ten new pence".

It was easy to see why so many people were a tad flummoxed. So what was my part in all this? Well, Johnno just left it all to me to "train" our staff. Thanks Johnno!

Firstly I read books and leaflets on the topic. Then I compiled a booklet of my own, aimed at settlers and counterhands in the bookie business. This item was very basic in content and was nothing more than some 20 pages produced via a stencil and duplicator. The pages were stapled in the top left corner. It showed how to work out bets to base 10 whilst still using the old fractions such as 6-4, 5-2 and so on.

I even advertised this rough and ready guide for bookmaker's and their staff in the "Sporting Life" and actually sold a few copies. Unfortunately there was a postal strike just before D-Day and this hindered my prospects of selling many.

Johnno seemed quite happy with the way things were going. I'd held a couple of "in house" training sessions which seemed to put the staff at ease. He then suggested that I give a talk and demonstration at Brixton Town Hall, mainly for the benefit of a couple of his pals in the bookies game. James Lane was one of these friends. He had more shops than Johnno and thought it would be a good idea to have a go at re-assuring his staff too.

Well, it was all arranged for one evening in January 1971. Public speaking was not my forté and as the hour approached I had a touch of the collywobbles. Johnno plied me with a couple of "stiffeners" and I relaxed enough to take the stage.

I knew it would be a disaster to "lecture" the lads and lasses of the bookie business. They'd either fall asleep or walk away. A short introductory summary of what D-Day meant was all I offered and then put the onus on the audience.

Asking for questions and seeking out their main queries and anxieties was the route I took. After one or two plucked up courage to fire a couple of questions the session seemed to take off.

"How am I going to settle a tanner yankee then?" or "What about a five-bob treble all at odds on?" and similar queries. I used a white-board to show how easy these bets were under decimalisation. The evening was far easier than I'd dared hope. Johnno was well pleased. Next morning he gave me £200 which was a useful sum then. He said Jimmy Lane had given it to him to pass on to me. I don't know if that was really the case but I accepted it with great pleasure.

By now I'd been working in the bookie business for some 15 years or so. I was fast becoming disillusioned with the business. I particularly hated to see a hardworking chap come into a shop and spend half his paypacket on a Friday afternoon on bets. I used to wonder what his wife might feel like when the house-keeping money was less than expected. What a way to make a living I thought to myself.

One day I saw an advertisement in the Sporting Life. It was to be the start of a new phase of my life ...

Who Ate My Sausages?

Just before I switched to working in betting shops I worked for Albert Cook & Son. The office was in 801 Wandsworth Road in London. The 'guvnor' was quite a card in many ways. He was a member of The Magic Circle. Specialised in card tricks. Would never play poker with him; you'd lose!

He told me how he started bookmaking back in the 1940s. First he was a 'runner' for a local bookie. He said:

"I noticed that I always collected more money than I ever paid out to my customers. I decided to be a bookie and hang on to the bets I'd been taking and handing over to the local bookie."

"I had a rule book printed. Just a few pages saying what my 'limits' were. Every bookie had 'limits' as to how much a punter could win in those days."

He went on to say that his limits for a winning double was 12-1, 25-1 for a treble and 50-1 for an accumulator. Most punters stuck to having small win or each way singles but if a punter had a winning double they would never win more than 12-1.

He continued: "Because I wasn't too well-educated I had difficulty in reading. For a few weeks if a punter had a winning double I would pay him 12-1, whatever the starting price odds of each horse were!"

"A friend of mine pointed out the error of my ways. He said that some punters were laughing at me for paying out 12-1 when they were due much less than that."

"I thought quickly and replied: 'Yes, I know, but they'll always come back to me for their next bet!'..."

Albert Cook prospered in the bookie business, but he never made this mistake again.

One evening I was on duty until 7 p.m. which was to take a few greyhound bets from those clients who followed that sport. One of them was a butcher, from the Lavender Hill Road area. He called at the office at about 6.30 p.m. to pay his outstanding account. He was in high spirits. Apparently he'd just won the prestigious "Best Sausage" competition. I congratulated him.

"Tell you what Phil, I'll drop a couple of pounds in for you tomorrow evening. Let me know what you think of them." I thanked him and he left.

I finished work at 5 p.m. next day; young Alby Cook was doing the greyhound duty that evening. On the following morning I was having a cup of tea at about 11 a.m. when I remembered about the sausages.

Looked in the kitchen fridge; no sign of them. Back in the office I said: "Did Butch leave some of his prize sausages for me yesterday evening?"

One voice spoke; it was the boss's son, Albert Cook Jnr. "Oh, were they for you? Butch just rang the bell and just 'here's the sausages..' and he left."

I said: "So what's happened to them Alby?"

"Err, well I just took them home and..." he stammered. He obviously knew they were not left for him. I was quite annoyed. Alby was quite well-off financially and I'm certain Butch would have said that he'd left them for me.

"Well thanks a bunch Alby. Hope you enjoyed them!" And I said no more, mainly because Albert Cook Snr was listening to all this and was keeping very quiet. I felt sure he was most embarrassed by this verbal exchange.

I arrived home at about 6.30 p.m. I lived in Brighton Road, Purley, at the time. My wife, Pat, opened the door as she'd been waiting for me and I soon knew why.

She said excitedly: "Look what's arrived this afternoon!" In the living room was a large wicker hamper, choc-a-bloc full of expensive foodstuffs. It had arrived by van from Fortnum and Masons, one of London's most famous grocers and deli shops. There was a note included, from Albert Cook.

He wrote how ashamed he'd felt about his son purloining "my" sausages. I now felt extremely embarrassed myself; Albert Senior was a decent and proud chap. I was quite sad that I'd blurted out about the sausages earlier that day.

My wife had no idea as to how this had all come about. I explained it to her; she said it was nothing for me to feel ashamed about. However, she did not have to go in the office next day!

I had a quiet word with the boss next day and apologised for causing his embarrassment. He said it was not my fault and he just had to try to make amend for his son's behaviour. He asked me not to mention the hamper to anybody in the office and I never did.

The saga of the sausages was thus closed. No hard feelings. Life trundled on.

Threats, Violence and Robbery - Life in a Bet Shop

There's an old saying: "Where there's muck there's money". You can also be sure that where there is money there's a risk of robbery and violence. Certainly so during the 1960s in the betting shop business.

I first felt a "threat" of violence when I left the betting shop in Streatham one evening. I locked the door and started to walk to my car. I noticed a Jaguar saloon parked a few feet from the shop. The engine was running; I could see exhaust fumes from the twin tail pipes. The sun visor was also down; the driver was reading a newspaper. His face was completely obscured. Hmm .. I thought; never seen this car here before.

Kept my eyes on the rear view mirror as I drove off. Wanted to see if I was being followed. No, all seemed OK.

Next evening, same car, engine running, driver's face obscured. Same again next evening but I ducked back into the shop after noting the licence plate number.

Phoned the police station which was only yards away in Streatham High Road. Spoke to a CID chap; he knew Johnno as it happens. He said "Stay where you are, I'll ring you back in a few seconds." He came back on the phone. "The person who owns this Jag is known to us. Stay in the shop and in a few seconds you'll see a transit van pull up".

I looked out of the window and the van appeared. The doors opened and five policemen jumped out and surrounded the Jag. Within a minute or so the CID officer tapped on the door and I let him in.

"It's OK" he said, "you can get home now. He's waiting for a lady-friend but doesn't want anybody to see him here." Obviously an affair the driver wanted to keep private. The police said I'd been perfectly right to phone them. Betting shop staff were frequently being robbed and as they "knew" this car and its owner they had good reason to pounce on him.

On another occasion, our Brixton shop manager was attacked whilst walking through a park on his way home. He had ammonia sprayed onto his face and was robbed of the cash he was carrying. He was off work for a fortnight as his eyes were hurt in the attack. Badly shaken up, too. Carried on with his job for a few years more but did not take a short cut through the park again.

A smaller shop in our Angel Road, Brixton, branch was robbed at gunpoint one evening. The robber got only a couple of hundred pounds, but the manager was so scared of a future attack he resigned and left the business entirely.

However, the worst event occurred in our Tooley Street betting shop. This had only been opened, after conversion from its former warehouse use, for a few months. It was in August when I had a phone call from a CID officer at Southwark Police Station.
He asked for Johnno. Not possible, Johnno was in Majorca for a month.

He went on: "What I want is permission to plant some officers in your Tooley Street shop on Friday next. We have information that it's going to be robbed then."

I said I'd have to get back to him as soon as I could contact the boss. Johnno was on his yacht when I phoned his villa but they contacted him with a ship to shore radio. He soon phoned me back, anxious to know why I'd phoned him.

After explaining the police proposition Johnno said it was OK, provided I made sure that the police assured me that none of our other shops would be hit. Johnno thought that their "information" might be a blind, in order to divert attention from the real target shop. The CID chap gave me his absolute assurance that Tooley Street was going to be attacked by a known gang of violent villains, so I approved the plan that the police had in mind.

I was now general manager so I stayed in Tooley Street from lunch time on that Friday. The attack was thought to be at around 5 p.m. Evening racing would be on this day but the main afternoon racing would be finished by 5 p.m. It made sense to hit the shop then as there was likely to be more takings in the till.

In place of our usual counter staff we had two male plain clothes officers acting as counter hands, plus the sergeant CID acting as "manager". There were also two other plain clothes police reading the newspapers on the wall, making out they were punters. In the adjoining butchers shop and in other neighbouring shops there were uniformed officers hiding out, ready and waiting to pounce.

Almost on the dot of 5 o'clock a man wearing a fawn raincoat comes in and starts to read a paper. I heard the CID sergeant whisper into a hand microphone: "The first one's in ... get ready."

Another guy comes in a few seconds later, similarly dressed. "Number two's in ..." whispers the sergeant.

Door opens, a third man enters. "That's it, don't wait any more ... go!"

The door bursts open and five uniformed policement charge in. The plain clothes officers in the shop, plus the "counter-hand" officers literally jump on these three villains. They are pinned down to the floor with a heavy uniformed officer actually sitting on each of the suspects.

A strong smell of ammonia filled the room as a "squeezy" bottle burst in the raincoat pocket of one of these crooks. A large revolver was snatched from another one and a sawn-off shotgun from another.

It was all over in seconds. A car roared away from outside the shop and sped off. The police did not give chase; they had plenty to deal with on the spot.

I later found out that the driver of the getaway car was the 'informer'. An undercover policeman who had finally stopped this vicious gang from doing any more harm. They had been robbing shops throughout the UK. The leader was from Scotland and a professional and callous thief. They were fully armed with loaded weapons and had used them on other jobs. They all got hefty prison sentences and they thoroughly deserved it.

People have often said that bookies are there to be shot at ... but not with guns! It simply meant that punters would try to relieve the bookie of his cash by backing many winners!

That's enough sex and violence for now; well, enough violence anyway. As the late, great John Betjeman remarked towards the end of his life: "I've not had enough sex...". He was answering the question: "Do you have any regrets...?"

The Sunnyhill Road Mob - Streatham, S.W.London

Now licensed betting shops were in full swing and there were jobs aplenty for shop settlers/managers/counterhands. I started work as settler/manager in the Sunnyhill Road betting shop owned by John Parry.

Johnno, as we often called him, was typical of many Londoners who came up "the hard way". He was about 5' 10", broad-shouldered and with forearms twice the normal size. Solid muscle; not a guy you'd willingly tangle with. He was a decent chap as far as I was concerned. Play fair by him and you'd benefit. Try to get one over on him? My advice: forget it!

Johnno, like my first bookie boss, was very fond of cars. He was forever changing them and getting something newer and costlier. He once bought the James Bond type car, the Aston Martin DB6. When I first had a ride in this car I seemed to be almost lying down in it. It was traded in after about six months for something much bigger: a large Mercedes saloon. It was light blue and virtually brand new. Johnno had a call from one of the largest Mercedes dealers in London saying that they had this car and offered him first refusal. Apparently a member of the Cadbury family, the chocolate manufacturers, had ordered this car to have a special paint job when he bought it new. On delivery he decided he didn't like the colour! The dealer then agreed to sell it on behalf of Mr. Cadbury - and Johnno bought it. The DB6 was part-exchanged and this marvellous new car took its place.

The Merc looked like one of those state cars used by diplomats and other bigwigs. It had everything. Fully automatic; stereo radio; cream leather upholstery; an engine that literally purred, no matter what speed you achieved.

After I'd been with Johnno for a couple of years he asked me to take over management of the twelve shops he owned. These were in Streatham, Brixton and Bermondsey. All were busy shops; good earners. Our London Road, Brixton shop was known as the "grand shop" as it seldom earned less than a £1000 a week, which was good going in those mid-1960 days. I thus became his general manager. No more "settling" but much more responsibility.

I now shared an office opposite the Sunnyhill Road betting shot with Johnno. I got to know him a lot better. He was easy-going for most of the time; he also spent a lot of time in his villa in Majorca. He had a lovely yacht out there too.

Johnno had a scar running down the right side of his face and down the side of his neck. It was an old scar. One evening we were having an after-work drink in the local pub and I asked Johnno about this scar.

He said that in his younger days, when he was about 18 or so, he was a 'minder' for a south London 'business man'. This person had been threatened by somebody called Jack Spot, a gangster of some renown in the underworld apparently. Johnno was to deter this gangster and he did so by confronting him with a dagger. He stabbed him in the side, threatening to finish him off if he ever troubled Johnno's boss again.

A month or two later, Johnno was waiting to cross the busy London Road in Brixton. He was about to step out when he was grabbed on each arm by two large men. They dragged him into the road as a tram was approaching and slammed him onto the tram-lines. He just escaped decapitation but the steel wheels at the front of the tram caught the side of his face and neck. The deep wounds were now fully healed, but highly visible, scars.

I've more to say about my Johnno days, but that's enough for tonight.