Seven thirty, a Monday morning, June, in the early fifties. The scene, Shirley Road electricity works, formerly 'The Rushden & District Electric Supply Co.' Nationalised several years previously, all the vehicles had been painted grey, with the single word in white lettering - 'ELECTRICITY' - on the sides. At that time not a fully qualified electrician, I was given the small, mainly domestic wiring jobs, no doubt where it was considered least damage would be done to unsuspecting consumers' property.

Foreman Jack Warburton gave me the yellow works order for a job at Melchboume - overhead line, two lights and a time-switch in a poultry shed. I was instructed to get my materials quickly, as the 'Mains Department' lorry would be taking me. Items already collected from storeman George Bollard, and still at the serving hatch, with a wink to others waiting I asked for some earth wire staples. I didn't actually need these but the resulting anguish, and cries of "oower!", "ouch!" and "agh!" from George, always gave malicious delight to the onlookers as the razor-sharp, pointed staples stuck to his fingers. Later, Harold Warner and his assistant George experimented with a large magnet in dispensing these vicious articles, greater mirth ensued when, once attracted, the staples proved impossible to remove. Fun ended when a misguided philanthropist gave them a thick leather glove.

On our way now, tools and materials on board the canvas- covered lorry, the journey improved after bumpy Newton Road was behind us. Cable drums, we found, did not provide the most comfortable seating! My job was at one of the red brick houses below the long row of thatched stone cottages. Linesman Fred Wagstaff, and his mate Dick Hale, stayed on the lorry for their job at the top of the road, installing supply to a cottage still using paraffin oil for lighting and cooking.

I should explain the Shirley Road set-up. Mains Dept. - install and maintain power supply cables, both overhead and underground, to consumers. These were the linesmen and jointers. Transformers and associated matters were the province of Les Burgess and his mate (and bane of his life), Ron Sherwood. The Meter Dept. had Dennis Berril from Irchester in charge. Driving and maintenance of vehicles was the responsibility of Tom Turner and his mate, Jack Cross. Monitoring and adjusting the AC and DC supplies were the shift-working substation attendants. Poor relation to all of the above was our lot - the Wiring Dept. dealing with everything on the consumer's side of the meter in the way of installations and repairs. Our staff included Bob (Ginger) Palmer, Arthur (Mac) McCartney, Dennis Moss, Alfie Butler, Oscar Holloway, Bill Preece, Frank Towers, George Skinner, Dennis Mobley, Bill Lill, Dave Trussler, Tommy Graham, Barry Cave, Geoff Ashby, and John Roberts. Equipment for the whole department included an 'Austin 10' van, autocycle (moped), carrier cycle, a handcart, one ladder and one pair of steps. The High Street premises housed the engineers and drawing offices, accounts department and retail showroom.

The name on my works sheet escapes me - I shall call him Mr Simpkins. Garage-cum-poultryhouse door opened. I was surprised to see an old car inside. The hens were not perturbed as Mr Simpkins and I pushed the car outside. Housed in various nesting boxes the dozen or so birds seemed to come and go as they pleased, taking little notice of my wiring activities - just the odd clucking now and then. At lunch time, I sat on a garden seat eating my sandwiches and ginger cake, washed down with tea provided by Mrs Simpkins. I do remember very well what a wonderful, warm, sunny day it was. Job complete, now the time-switch was set to prolong 'daylight' and, hopefully, to encourage more egg laying.

Work and time sheets made out, kit packed up, we were ready for the lorry's return in about an hour's time. Mr Simpkins, working on his garden, seemed not to mind me poking around the old car. It was a "Singer" 8 horse power made in 1926. The colour was two tone, milk chocolate top half and Weetabix colour to the lower half, original paintwork on an aluminium body, a dud-looking battery fixed on the running board. The wheels were of the forged steel type, with six 1.5 inch wide spokes, tyres inflated but fairly bald, the seats were of leather. The outside of the vehicle boasted a substantial coating of hen droppings. Questioning the owner 1 found out that the car did run, did not require a battery to run the engine (it had magneto ignition), had not been used for a year and, having no further use for it, he would sell. I was given permission to start the car, engaging the permanently fixed starting handle in the dog. No compression could be felt when turning. I knew something about engines through dealing with my clapped-out 250cc "Red Panther" motor cycle. With the consistency of stirring thick cream, and after several spins, the engine started. The noise was like nuts and bolts rattling in an empty tin! Impressed, and needing to find out how much the owner wanted for the car, I was downhearted to learn that the asking price was £15 and not a penny less! I explained to Mr Simpkins, truthfully, that my total savings, put by for a rainy day, amounted to only £10.

Deal done, and back at Shirley Road, pal Dennis Mobley volunteered to take me to Melchboume to collect the "Singer". Wednesday evening found us astride Dennis's BSA 500cc twin that he had recently bought from Rushden music teacher Ruby Baxter - she, younger sister Megan (35Occ Matchless) and Rita Gore were, I think, the only young lady motor cyclists in the area. After the quick trip I was very happy to dismount as the gallon of petrol slung round my neck and tied with maroon lighting flex was cutting in and getting heavy. Remarks followed ftom Dennis - "Is that it?", "Why on earth do you want it?", "You must be barmy". The car was now parked in the road and I noticed that Mr Simpkins had washed the windows and windscreen. The £ 10 paid, and the log book handed over, Mr Simpkins told me why he had parked the car in the road; as a Special Constable he did not want to see me driving away, instead of being towed as it no doubt should have been.

Petrol in, engine started, not sure which one but a gear selected, the car moved off smoothly - nothing to do with my driving skills as I now know the clutch was slipping and not fully biting. A left turn now out of the village with escort Dennis, and heading for Knotting. My previous four-wheel driving consisted solely of the "Dodgems" at Rushden Feast and a couple of tractor drives at Alf Wailer's Wymington Road farm and the Abbot brothers' farm at Wymington. There was a lot of play on the steering wheel, and the linkage was tight through lack of use making it hard to keep the beast straight. I had to jerk the wheel left then right all the time. So much concentration was needed that gear changing was impossible. The marvellous, early summer weather changed dramatically to heavy and violent rain. Dennis, very bravely I thought, drew alongside my erratically-steered car, waving and shouting that it was hissing down out there, he was getting soaked and he was offl! All I could do in reply was nod as he left as, besides fighting to steer the car, I was now having to assist the failing vacuum- type windscreen wiper. Through Knotting Green and out onto the A6 - nothing on the road - no stopping at the junction.

Chugging on past Souldrop turn and approaching Avenue Road, 1 could make out a man at the bus stop. He readily accepted the offer of a lift. Still in gear, clutch released, we were on the move. My passenger, sitting in the rear, must have thought I had some sort of nervous complaint with the jerky left-right arm movements and the windscreen wiper job. Probably to ease tension he asked how long I had been driving. I had to admit this was the first time - where would he like dropping off? "Just here would be fine," he said, and before the car had fully stopped he shot out into the rain and was gone. It was just near the water tower and Hanson's garage. I remember thinking what a short ride that had been. The next left turn to Wymington village was too risky; nothing else for it - Wymington Road it had to be. Foot hard down on the accelerator, steering wheel hard left, clutch still slipping I eased the valiant little car up the steep hill. There was no sign of Dennis as I passed 'Lodge Cottage' where he lived, possibly drying his wet clothes. The rain had stopped. With "Singer" triumphantly parked in our driveway, I heaved a sigh of relief.

Next morning, at the stores serving hatch, a 'grease monkey' from the gas works opposite approached the queue. He asked which one of us was Longstaff as my friend Tom Blackwell had sent him over for half a dozen eggs. "I've got no hens," I snarled. Well-briefed, the 'grease monkey' added to my fury by saying that Tom wanted to know why, then, did I have a chicken coop standing in my driveway? Tom, who lived near me, had obviously seen my arrival the previous evening. A very clever engineer, Tom's job (together with Eric Fowell's dad, foreman Frank, Joe Bollard the blacksmith, and others) was maintaining and improving the very complicated gas and by-product machinery at the Shirley Road gas works. A great man was Tom, and an even greater prankster (but that's another story).

The last laugh was mine, however. A few weeks later a fellow with a huge "Flying Officer Kite" moustache and accent to match bought the now shining (but still mechanically imperfect) "Singer" for £ 14-1 0-0d.