Listening to what the course entailed it turned out, was actually more interesting than the course itself.
Day two went something like this:
Sit on the train to college while everyone ignores each other.
Arrive at college where everyone ignores each other.
Get asked to make a plan of how you are going to carry out the first module of your course. (Something to do with market research and asking random strangers random questions about what shops they would like to see opened).
Wonder why you applied for this awful course when you could be downstairs mixing cement instead of trying to convince yourself that you’re the next Richard Branson, when actually what you’re talking about doing is chasing middle aged women down the road while armed with a clipboard.
Accept that suffering two years of this is still better than admitting to Al that he was right all along.
Sit on the train home while everyone ignores each other.
I could have handled all of these things. Just. It would have taken a lot of tongue biting, and midweek drinking, but I’m sure, looking back, that somewhere inside me I still felt that the qualification would be worth it. NVQ level 2 in business management. Surely that would be a good thing to put on my CV. Whatever a CV was.
Unfortunately there’s still one more thing I’ve not told you.
Those three lads who mistakenly turned up in suits on the first day, well they turned up in suits on the second day too, despite the fact they didn’t need to. The only explanation I could possibly think of as to why, is that they thought they were better than everyone else, and that spending two years overdressed would somehow make them stand out against the rest of us when we finally graduated and went out to pursue our careers. There’s a word I reserve for certain people in life, although up until that point I’d never met anyone quite like the three of them. It’s a word that I think but don’t say, and think but don’t write. All that aside, when they arrived on Wednesday looking as conceited as ever, I made the decision to make that my last day. I’d need to find a different career path, the risk I might end up working with people like them was a risk I couldn’t take.
A Group of Hungry Looking Ducks
September 1999.
Having dropped out of college I was given the choice of either moving out or getting a job. Moving out actually sounded the easier option for a sixteen year old with sod all qualifications who lives in the middle of nowhere; but on giving it further thought even that would have meant getting a job, unless I planned on being homeless. Fortunately my dad came to the rescue when he got me a job with him, starting on the Monday of the following week. I knew next to nothing about what my dad actually did at work, aside from that it was something to do with wood and that it meant getting up at stupid o’clock in the morning, to be at work for seven. He cleared things up for me by explaining that they were a specialist furniture makers, building bespoke pieces for an upmarket clientele. That didn’t actually mean a whole lot, so it was just lucky that on my dad’s good word, and the fact that he’d worked there over ten years, I wouldn’t have to have an interview. I’d rather have found something else but seeing as my dad had already taken the initiative and asked on my behalf, it would have been rude to turn it down. Plus it wouldn’t have just been him who I’d piss off, my mum seemed to perk up when she heard I’d be out from under her feet again.