The time has come, the walrus said, to talk of many things; of shoes and ships; and sealing wax; of cabbages and kings.
If I am the walrus (not the one the Beatles sang about) then Marion was not the carpenter, but the gardener, and a time did come when we had to talk of many things.
Not cabbages, or kings, but more where the future would take us and if we were to leave Basildon, where she had grown up, then should we remain close or make a giant leap.
Initially when I started to look at management roles in the Rank Organisation we had considered looking for a manager’s role which included accommodation.
Camden Town, where I did get my first manager’s position, had accommodation but it had been let out to the permanent assistant manager, and she had occupied for about 20 or 30 years.
The talk about making a move came to a head one Saturday when I came home early, following an incident at the cinema.
We had a Children’s Cinema Club session every Saturday morning and it always proved popular.
When you talk about children you probably imagine the youngsters at Saturday Morning Cinema in the 1950s or 60s. There is old film footage of these youngsters cheering on the cowboy hero, or gasping as Flash Gordon was surrounded by aliens.
They would cheer and bounce up and down on their seats. At the very worst they might throw empty ice-cream tubs at each other, but an usher or usherette (they still differentiated in those days) flashing a torch soon settled them down.
By the second half of the 70s the age range reached somewhat higher with many in their early teens. The trouble then was that teenagers did not behave the way they did when I was that age.
London teenagers in the 70s were also tougher and rougher than any others.
Rank had policies about what should happen in various situations.
At the top level was the instruction to managers facing armed robbers demanding the day’s takings: Do nothing – let them take the money.
This might be considered as concern for the safety of employees but it was probably based on the compensation they might have to fork out if a member of staff was badly wounded or even fatally wounded.
Unruly behaviour in the foyer or auditorium could be handled by ejecting the troublemakers (if you had enough ushers to handle it). Quite often ejecting the worst troublemaker could end with his or her mates leaving of their own accord.
Anybody trying to pinch sweets from the confectionery counter would also be ejected (after taking back the stolen goods of course).
On this particular Saturday morning I was doing my rounds to keep an eye on staff and the youngsters and I just happened to be in the foyer when the intermission began and hordes of youngsters aged 6 to 60 poured into the foyer to either avail themselves of the toilets or to buy more sweets, drinks, ice-cream or popcorn.
I noticed a bit of trouble starting near the hot dog stall and headed over to calm it down. As I approached I put one hand on one youngster to my right and my other hand on a shoulder to my left.
The next thing I knew was that the character on the left had shrugged off my hand and squirmed away into the crowd and then the one on my right had twisted round and his fist was aimed straight at my face – which it did not take too long to make a connection with.
This was not some weedy 12-year-old, this was a mid-teens with a build and a punch that would have equalled those of Carl Gizzi (a champion boxer from Rhyl).
I ended up flat on my back on the marbled floor and could feel the blood trickling down from my nose.
By the time members of the staff reached me to help me up my assailant was gone. At this point I was more interested in staunching the blood flowing from my nose and ruining one of my favourite silk ties,
The handkerchief from my breast pocket proved adequate and I managed to get to my office where the assistant manager had brought me some cloth and a bowl of ice cubes.
Although the punch in the face had produced what seemed like gallons of blood it hadn’t been a full-on central punch and although my nose hurt like hell it was, fortunately, unbroken.
As it was my assistant was perfectly agreeable to take on the rest of the Saturday shift, I was due to finish at 6 and it was around 12 o’clock, and also suggested I rest up and come in at midday on Monday for the afternoon evening shift.
When I did get home, my coat covering the blood on my shirt (I’d taken the tie off) but not disguising my bruised face, Marion was immediately concerned and suggested I should go up to the hospital but I said I’d rather wait and see how it was in the morning.
The girls wanted to know what had happened and, not wanting them worried I told them I had tripped and fallen flat on my face.
They were curious about the colours now showing up on my nose, under my eye and on my swollen cheek, but at the same time were very solicitous and until their bedtime they were sat either side of me.
Marion and I had a long talk that night and the following day, by which time my face was not looking so bad, although my cheek did hurt.
Our first concern was as to whether or not I should go back to work but I felt that even if we did decide to make a change in either the place where I worked, or even if I would continue with Rank I was not going to allow some young thug keep me away from my work.
One thing we did discuss was a return to journalism, and, if so, where.
I didn’t want to remain in the area, although Tony Blandford would have taken me back, I am sure. At the same time if I was establishing myself in a different area I would prefer it to initially be with former colleagues and in a place where there was family.
Although we made no firm decisions I certainly had as lot to think about before I returned to Camden Town on Monday.
Robin's Nest 