Permy Wanker

Almost a third of 1991 had gone by and strangely I found myself sitting back at Dowty with most of the old familiar faces around me once again.

As though I'd bonked those ruby red slippers together and returned back to Kansas.

Well, Ajax.

The Chief of Stress, Barry Levoir, had asked me at the interview "I hope you're not going to run away and leave us for jobshopping again as soon as the market turns around" and I had said, hand on heart, that I would stay for at least a few years.

Looking back, I am happy that I made that promise, even if within a few days of starting back at Dowty my words would start to cost me a thousand bucks or more every week.

It was like some evil plot turn in the film of my life the April Tuesday morning that the office phone rang.

It was a familiar Lancashire voice on the other end of the phone, like a favorite Uncle the man began with "Hello me old fruit" and asked if I wanted to go jobshopping once again down at Brand-X.

The other landing gear emporium.

Unfortunately, I had made my daft promise and for some even greater daft reason I told Larry that I would honour it and had to decline his invitation.

Thus, with the knowledge that my panic shopping for a salaried position hadn't been necessary after all, I began my three year term as a born-again permy wanker.