The Idler

Spectacles

Determined to save money for an impending move to America back in 1986, I took a night job at some grotty little factory in Surbiton, Surrey. I had often passed the building sniggering at the unfortunates inside, a thought which kept coming back to me after I accepted 5 quid an hour under the table.

My job was to go into the factory at 6pm, negotiate a stretch of boxes and old work tools which blocked the only access route to my ‘corner’ of the factory, lay enormous 20ft sheets of rubbery vinyl on an enormous table (7 at a time) on top of each other, place a cutting mould at the left-hand side and bring down an enormous electric hammer to pound the shapes out. I would then shift the mould along an inch and repeat until every possible bit of material had been used, whence I would put out more material and do it all again. The manager, a despicable sweaty little fool with lizard eyes and a pot belly, babbled on about what a great challenge it would be to get 8 cuts out of each line. ‘Professional pride’ I think he said a couple of times, though I could be making that bit up. I would do this repeatedly, and without a break, until 10pm, when I would go into his large, dingy office and collect my cash from him as he sat under a light-bulb on string. I would have to suffer 5-10 minutes of shite chatter as he told me that his ‘woman’ (wife) always had his dinner ready when he got home and that if she didn’t he would ‘fucking well do something about it’ (go and get take-away with a whimper I imagine) and then I would stumble home, stupefied, worn down and bitter.

It lasted three months and the cash got me through the first two months of my journey stateside (which, incidentally, resulted in full-time residence). Funnily enough, I treat my soft-glasses case with care and respect these days.

Steffan Balzarak