Moving away from being horribly religious
So I returned to Bristol with my tail between my legs after the failure of my stellar attempts (!) to become an Evangelist. The year was 1965 and I was 21 years old.
I was 21 years old and utterly unqualified for any career. After all, I had gained only two O levels in “High School” - in English Language and English Literature. Most white collar employers demanded a minimum of five O levels, and I was totally unprepared for blue collar work.
So I went on the “dole”. In order to receive unemployment payments I was required to sign in twice each week at the Employment Exchange on Nelson Street in Bristol.
I would shuffle through the lines of unemployed men and women to await my “interview” with a clerk. Most of the unemployed smoked cigarettes, and I joined them. We would puff away as we awaited our turn.
The dole lasted for ten weeks. Then I landed a job as a Civil Servant - at the very lowest level. I clerked at the “ Inspectorate of Armaments” (IArm) and the “Inspectorate of Fighting Vehicles and Mechanical Equipment” (IFVME) located in two lovely Victorian houses on Woodland Road in Clifton, Bristol.
On my first day my new boss took me to every room to meet my new colleagues. He introduced me as “Michael” - my middle name. I was too bashful to correct him. Five days later he came into my room to apologise. “I should have introduced you as John” he said. I countered with “yes, but there is another John in the office, so I will stick with Michael”
Thus I became Michael, the name with which I now identify myself. Only my siblings and a few old friend know me as John. The name change was more than an accident. I was emerging from the old “John” (compliant, obedient, conformist) to a new “Michael” who would be much more free.
Mum and Dad complained about this name change, but I countered with a rather snooty “but you gave me two names, and never said that I could not use my middle name”. Brother Martyn was concerned about mail addressed to “Mr. M. Povey” and I gave him permission to open any letter with that address.
My immediate boss was Miss Gwen Pragnell. I liked her a lot. She lived in Bitton (half way between Bristol and Bath) with her “brother”. Later we discovered that he was not her brother, but her lover. An unmarried woman with a lover had to keep a secret.
I was always first to arrive at the office. Gwen Pragnell would be next. One day she arrived in a fit of giggles. “I know that I am an older woman” she said, “and you are a young man, but I have to tell you that I lost my knickers (panties), when walking up the street from the ‘bus stop. The elastic snapped, and they fell to my ankles. A young schoolboy waiting for his ‘bus could not believe his eyes”. That was worth rich laughter.
One of my junior colleagues was one Terry Caie. He and I would walk across the street for a beer at lunch time (yes a new Michael was emerging from the “Peeb” darkness) and we would listen to Simon and Garfunkel on the juke box. Terry later became a policeman.
And there was Miss Jones, another colleague. She was a gentle “maiden lady”. That Christmas (1965) the IArm and IFVME held a dinner dance at the Royal Hotel - my first.
Wanting to dance, in a moment of sheer inelegance I approached Miss Jones. No “may I have the pleasure of this dance?” from me. Instead I said “How about it Miss Jones?” Well, Miss Jones was up for “it”, but she fell flat on her bum as I inexpertly danced with her.
I was changing. I was a Plymouth Brother who smoked, drank and danced. Tisk, tisk.
And I was a Plymouth Brother who wanted a man in his life. Thus I began my flirtation with the Church of England.
I was 21 years old and utterly unqualified for any career. After all, I had gained only two O levels in “High School” - in English Language and English Literature. Most white collar employers demanded a minimum of five O levels, and I was totally unprepared for blue collar work.
So I went on the “dole”. In order to receive unemployment payments I was required to sign in twice each week at the Employment Exchange on Nelson Street in Bristol.
I would shuffle through the lines of unemployed men and women to await my “interview” with a clerk. Most of the unemployed smoked cigarettes, and I joined them. We would puff away as we awaited our turn.
The dole lasted for ten weeks. Then I landed a job as a Civil Servant - at the very lowest level. I clerked at the “ Inspectorate of Armaments” (IArm) and the “Inspectorate of Fighting Vehicles and Mechanical Equipment” (IFVME) located in two lovely Victorian houses on Woodland Road in Clifton, Bristol.
On my first day my new boss took me to every room to meet my new colleagues. He introduced me as “Michael” - my middle name. I was too bashful to correct him. Five days later he came into my room to apologise. “I should have introduced you as John” he said. I countered with “yes, but there is another John in the office, so I will stick with Michael”
Thus I became Michael, the name with which I now identify myself. Only my siblings and a few old friend know me as John. The name change was more than an accident. I was emerging from the old “John” (compliant, obedient, conformist) to a new “Michael” who would be much more free.
Mum and Dad complained about this name change, but I countered with a rather snooty “but you gave me two names, and never said that I could not use my middle name”. Brother Martyn was concerned about mail addressed to “Mr. M. Povey” and I gave him permission to open any letter with that address.
My immediate boss was Miss Gwen Pragnell. I liked her a lot. She lived in Bitton (half way between Bristol and Bath) with her “brother”. Later we discovered that he was not her brother, but her lover. An unmarried woman with a lover had to keep a secret.
I was always first to arrive at the office. Gwen Pragnell would be next. One day she arrived in a fit of giggles. “I know that I am an older woman” she said, “and you are a young man, but I have to tell you that I lost my knickers (panties), when walking up the street from the ‘bus stop. The elastic snapped, and they fell to my ankles. A young schoolboy waiting for his ‘bus could not believe his eyes”. That was worth rich laughter.
One of my junior colleagues was one Terry Caie. He and I would walk across the street for a beer at lunch time (yes a new Michael was emerging from the “Peeb” darkness) and we would listen to Simon and Garfunkel on the juke box. Terry later became a policeman.
And there was Miss Jones, another colleague. She was a gentle “maiden lady”. That Christmas (1965) the IArm and IFVME held a dinner dance at the Royal Hotel - my first.
Wanting to dance, in a moment of sheer inelegance I approached Miss Jones. No “may I have the pleasure of this dance?” from me. Instead I said “How about it Miss Jones?” Well, Miss Jones was up for “it”, but she fell flat on her bum as I inexpertly danced with her.
I was changing. I was a Plymouth Brother who smoked, drank and danced. Tisk, tisk.
And I was a Plymouth Brother who wanted a man in his life. Thus I began my flirtation with the Church of England.
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