My first job was not a success! It was 1969, election year, and a local North London Labour Party agent needed a temporary assistant to answer the phone, take messages and keep things up and running in the office when he was not there.
I took one look at the rather complicated switchboard and knew I was in trouble. From day one, John, the agent, made it clear that he would not suffer fools gladly and that his initial impression of me was not altogether favourable. This increased my anxiety so that even simple tasks became major obstacles.
But I stuck it out, got there punctually every day, gradually learnt the routine and for a time all went well. Then one day I was in the outer office when the phone rang. Still rather wary of all the knobs and wires, I picked it up, ‘Islington North constituency,’ I said carefully.
‘I have Harold Wilson on the line for John W. Please put this call through to him.’
Harold Wilson! My hands shook as I pressed down the switch to activate the phone in John’s office and when he picked it up I said, ‘The Prime Minister is on the line for you. I’ll put him through to you.’
I flicked a switch. Nothing happened. I looked at the board. What had I done wrong? It was not at all obvious to me. What should I do next? I flicked back to John.
‘Good afternoon, Prime Minister,’ his confident voice reverberated in my ear.
‘Er, I’m sorry, it’s not Mr Wilson,’ I stuttered. ‘Something’s wrong. I’ll try again.’
‘Do that and make sure you get it right this time!’
But a second attempt produced the same result and, after much fiddling… a dialling tone.
John burst out of his office, fury in every line of his face and every muscle of his body.
‘You’ve just cut off the Prime Minister. You’re bloody useless. I don’t want to see you back here again. You’re just not capable of doing this job.’
I agreed with him and, with some relief, left behind the pressures of local politics, forever.