ABSTRACT
I had obtained a degree of reasonable quality from arguably Britain’s, if not the world’s, most prestigious university, terminating in an unaccredited course which would not qualify me for further academic studies. I didn’t want to undertake holy orders (I do in fact know a couple of atheist parsons, but it is not normally part of what is nowadays known as the job description), or end up teaching third-rate Classics in a similarly-rated private school. What on earth was I to do? It was then that fate took a hand, two, in fact. I answered an advertisement for a position which is nowadays known as a systems analyst (then, organisation and methods officer), in ICI (Imperial Chemical Industries) head office in Millbank, London. ICI was then Britain’s largest manufacturer of chemicals, with branches all over the country and overseas. I was invited to a rather special lunch in a distinctly special restaurant in London’s West End, hosted by a very affable interviewer, a bit of a bon viveur clearly able to enjoy his job with a bit of self-indulgence. The flambé was both novel and particularly appealing. Either the meal or the impression I made was sufficient for me to advance to the next, serious stage in the interviewing procedure; I was summoned with 40 or so other enthusiastic applicants for the two offered positions, to a week at an ICI-hosted house party, 1920s-style, in a large country house recently the domain of a duchess. You could fit an entire restaurant in the grand and grandiosely entitled ‘Great Hall of Mirrors’, where much of the selection process occurred. We, the applicant hopefuls, were put through various tasks, such as suddenly being asked to give impromptu speeches on abstruse and obscure topics. My experience at running the school debating society, even though it had been largely an excuse for bawdy behaviour, served me in great and unexpected good stead. We were also assessed during drinks and mealtimes, on our ability with the glassware, eating irons and the various courses – our general capacity to accommodate to the wining, dining, entertaining and general social (and to some extent maybe even the work) ethos of a company that 70openly claimed to be on par with Britain’s prestigious Civil Service or Foreign (and Colonial, in those halcyon days) Office. Why, one even ‘knocked off’ early, at 3.30 p.m., on Friday afternoons ‘so that you chaps can get down to your country places for the weekend’ was a phrase I was to encounter several times. Yet, and yes, to my surprise, and great relief, I was accepted, with an office in Millbank, a sought-after location overlooking the Queen’s stables – although horses failed to make any appearances during my ‘watch’. My boss also was in fact an earl, the Earl of Courtown (to be addressed by the staff as ‘Lord Courtown’ or ‘My Lord’). Actually, he was a kindly, rather delightful and definitely vague old gentleman, seeing out his time before returning to his impoverished family seat in Ireland. Moreover, several others in my section also boasted substantial family seats. Courtown (as he was known informally in the office) dressed untidily, frequently with the decaying vestiges of old breakfasts fossilised on his tie, invariably a yellow one, maybe the better to mask the egg stains. At Christmas, in a charismatic and not uncharacteristic burst of charitable bonhomie, he decided that all 15 of us (there was only a single, token female, a blue-stocking type of dubious personal hygiene despite an abundant use of cheap cosmetics) should be taken out, at his personal expense, to a West End show. For convenience, his secretary told me later, as he had asked her advice on the matter, he settled on the nearest theatre in the vicinity of Victoria, and the show was the long-running Black and White Minstrels.
