The New Boy

The walls of grey granite loomed high above as I entered the building.
It was an old building built about a hundred years ago which resembled a church or a castle.
I remember going on a guided tour of it when I was in primary school and doing a project on the city’s history.
The ‘Town House', as it was known, was the municipal building, a place full of history and officialdom, where today I was to start work in the office as a ‘civil servant’.
I was to be an administrative assistant, whatever that was, it was a ‘decent job’, my folks had said, and one ‘with prospects’, whatever that meant.
I walked inside and was approached by a man dressed in a blue uniform, looking very official.
He looked fairly old, about forty-five, with metal rimmed specs, and greying hair like my dad’s.
I told him my name, to which he nodded and said, ‘oh aye.’
He led me along a carpeted corridor to an office and was told to wait for Mr. Blayton, who would be with me in five minutes.
‘You’ll be the new boy, then, that’s you set for life with a job in here, if you keep your nose clean,’ ,said the man before returning to his post, a reception desk at the front door.
The corridor smelt of cigarette smoke, like the smell in my gran’s house, I assumed office workers smoked at their desks in between doing their work and answering the phone.
I wondered what administration work I would be assisting in, nobody had said, I should have asked.
Would I be trained to use the switchboard, like my Mum had done when I was a kid?

The five-minute wait became longer, and I began to think I had made a mistake applying for this job.
The year was 1981, Margaret Thatcher was the Prime Minister, the head of the Conservative Party, and here was I, Gary Shand, would be rebel and former punk rocker in my school days, just a few months ago, on my first day in a job working for the Civil Service, a government department. My friend James said that I was working for ‘The Establishment’ now, and I had ‘sold out’ in his opinion. James was still playing the punk these days, even though that sort of music had become less popular, with synthesizers taking over from guitars in the music the radio played, bands like the Human League and Soft Cell topping the pop charts, sounding totally different from what we listened to in our early teens, the heavy metal of Motorhead and Iron Maiden, as well as the punk of The Clash and The Sex Pistols, angrier, noisier music than what was new these days.
I was dressed in the suit I got for my cousin’s wedding, from Marks and Spencer’s, my new white shirt, and paisley pattern tie, which were the ’ in thing’ this year. My folks had said that I should make  a good impression on my first day, by dressing smartly. They said it was my first step into the ' big wide world' , which it was, however, I felt like a teenager dressed up in businessman’s suit, a recent school leaver in disguise as an adult, which I suppose I was in a way.
Hugely different from my denim jacket, black jeans, and Doc Marten boots, which I wore usually, having discarded the school uniform a few months back in the Summer.
It was early November and getting on for winter, the nights were colder, and the clocks had changed a couple of weeks ago.
I always like this time of year, as my birthday fell on the first of the month, but this year, it was a strange one. I was taking a step into the ‘adult world,’ going to work for the first time, at least working in a full-time job, my previous one had been a Saturday job, clothes shop in town, but this would be different.
‘Mr. Shand,’ said a female voice.
This was clearly not Mr. Blayton.
Nobody had called me ‘Mr.’ before, which felt strange.
‘I’m Hazel,’ said a young woman, about twenty-five, ‘Mr. Blayton’s running late, so I have to show you round the building, and introduce you to everyone.’
She smiled at me, and I blushed a bit.
‘I’m Gary,’ nice to meet you,” I stammered, not really knowing what to say.
Hazel had a hairstyle like Princess Diana, and blonde hair, she wore a smart suit also. I wondered what she did in the office, a typist, a clerk, or something like that, maybe she was someone important.
I followed her tentatively along the corridor to the ‘Main Office,’ where my ‘colleagues’ were milling about busily doing their duties, whatever they were.
People were speaking on the phone, and writing things down in notebooks, typing up today’s documents, and there were a lot of people smoking at their desks, it was quite a noisy place.
Hazel asked for a ‘bit of hush’ in the room, as she had to introduce me to my colleagues, there were six of us in the ‘Team’, she introduced each person to me in turn, a mixed lot of people of varying ages, there was Susan and Gillian, who looked not much older than me, John and Stuart, about thirtyish, Alasdair, who was bald and bearded, looked about sixty, though he was probably not, and Deborah who had long dark hair and looked a bit scary, like some of my teachers at school.
Hazel took me through to a room where I would be based this week, sharing an office with Ethel, one of the typists, who looked a bit like my gran.
I never asked where the other typists were, in fact, I never asked anything.
Had I made a mistake coming here?
Time would tell.