Og's Blog Pt. 10

Og's Blog Pt 10

Og becomes a civil servant. Part 06 More in Devonport.

Author's Note: Because of the Official Secrets Act, this has to be regarded as a fictionalised account and names will be omitted or changed. Any names given will not be the names of real people.

Please note that Parts 01 and 02 of Og's blog are transcripts of posts made on the Authors' Hangout and typed directly as a response to other posts. Og's blogs 03 onwards have been composed at leisure and edited. Where there are discrepancies between accounts in Parts 01 and 02 and subsequent parts the later version is likely to be a more accurate version because I have had time to consult my records.

After the beach party with the nurse mentioned in Part 09, that relationship went nowhere. She was engaged but her fiancé had been in London that weekend. Her roommate was also engaged.

The Civil Service regulations on office relationships were far in advance of legislation that came much later. A supervisor couldn't date an office junior that he supervised. I couldn't anyway. The youngest woman working for me was 25, much older than my age of 19, and engaged to be married in two months.

I used to go to a pasty shop for lunch several times a week and I dated one of the girls serving in that shop. She was a short plump girl and we looked odd together. Her head was lower than my armpit. No matter how often she showered and changed her clothes, she always smelled of pasty. That wouldn't have mattered so much but she didn't share any of my interests, nor I hers. After a few weeks of physical contact we mutually decided that the relationship was going nowhere but even long after we had parted I could still go to the pasty shop and she smiled every time she saw me.

Devonport Dockyard had many more male employees than women. Most of the women were either typists or clerical staff. They were outnumbered about forty to one.

I was attracted to one of the typists in the typing pool that typed my memos. Usually my draft would be sent by internal mail and the typed version delivered the same way. From sending out my draft to getting a typed version to sign was usually 24 hours at least, sometimes a couple of days.

But once or twice a week my memos were urgent and couldn't wait that long. What all the other ANSOs did was send one of their staff, usually a Clerical Assistant, to take the draft and wait for it to be typed. But my office was right next to the Typing Pool. It was nearer for me to walk out of my door and into the Typing Pool than go across my office to ask one of the Clerical Assistants to take the draft. If I was very busy, that is what I do, but if I wasn't, why not take it myself? I didn't have to wait. When it had been typed, a typist could bring it back - just a few yards.

The first time I walked into the typing pool with an urgent draft, I caused consternation. No one of my rank had ever been in there. While I waited for my memo to be typed I sat beside the typists' supervisor, an attractive married lady in her mid-30s and we chatted. She moaned about some of my colleagues who didn't appreciate how hard the typists worked, and if there was more than one urgent memo simultaneously, they could get impatient.

The next time I went in there, she already had two Clerical Assistants waiting for urgent memos. I gave her my draft and told her she could send it back with a typist whenever it was ready. A quarter of an hour, half an hour? That would still be much quicker than the normal way. She smiled at me and thanked me for being patient.

Twenty minutes later the typed memo was delivered by one of her typists, a very large young woman nearly six feet tall, even larger than the nurse at the beach party. I was the only man working for Naval Stores who made her look small.

Over the next few weeks she was in my office more frequently than any other one of the typists. We chatted and it was obvious she wanted to see more of me as a potential partner that was up to her size and weight. I didn't know her every well but I thought an evening together might change that. I asked and she agreed. I would meet her at seven thirty at the church coffee shop she helped run for a youth group. She would have had a meal there, so I should have eaten too. The coffee shop closed at eight and then we could go out together.

My senior Clerical Officer, the ex-Captain RN, said quietly to me afterwards:

"Watch yourself. She has an ulterior motive."

I didn't know what he meant but on a first date I expected that she and I would be very cautious and wary of each other. I was slightly concerned that she was an active church member. I was a nominal Church of England member and usually went to only the major festivals such as Easter, Christmas and weddings.

When I arrived she introduced me to two of the other young typists who seemed very scared of me, and the minister and the youth leaders. Even the minister and youth leaders seemed worried about me, but they relaxed when the evening ended with prayers during which I seemed normal. Or was I? All the organisers and volunteers seemed to treat me as if I was if I was possibly a bull in a china shop. I couldn't understand why.

The evening was a disaster. No. We couldn't go to a pub. They were dens of iniquity. No. We couldn't go to a cinema. They purveyed sinful activities. No. We couldn't go to a dance hall. The Demon Drink was sold there. No. We couldn't go to a coffee shop. They had all shut.

We wandered around the City Centre hand in hand. From time to time she would make comments about other people around going to a pub or club, making it obvious that she disapproved. But, on a bench, she sat on my lap and kissed and hugged as if she was enjoying it for the first time. She went further. She lifted up her top, unfastened her bra, and encouraged me to kiss, lick and nibble her naked breasts. She was moaning so much that I was afraid she would attract the attention of passers-by - but there weren't any. Eventually I was holding on to her as she went into a series of orgasms produced only by my attention to her breasts. Whatever her objections to many things, she obviously enjoyed sex. So did I.

At the end of the evening I walked her back to her parents' home in a suburb of Plymouth. I wasn't sure that I wanted another date with her. Yes, the kisses, hugs and naked breasts were great but her attitude to things she saw as sinful didn't match my normal activities.

On her parents' doorstep she stood two steps up before pulling my head into her clothed cleavage. While I was enjoying the contact she asked if in a fortnight's time I would escort her to a weekend country house party for young people in a house about seven miles outside Plymouth. If I took her in the motorcycle combination we could arrive on Friday evening and be there until Sunday afternoon. She implied that I would have more opportunities with her than just her breasts which were still smothering me. She refused to let me go until I had agreed.

+++

Over the next two weeks on the few times she came into my office she reminded me that we had a date for that weekend. She seemed concerned that I might not come.

My Senior Clerical Officer obviously disapproved. I reassured him. I was quite capable of looking after myself and if the weekend was a disaster I had my own transport and could leave at any time.

+++

The Friday a week before that weekend was another ANSOs pub crawl. I enjoyed myself but only drank about ten pints.

On the Friday evening I collected her from her parents' house. In the hall she was all over me, to her parents' amusement. They were startled when I picked her up and carried her out of the front door. They were not used to men who could pick up their large daughter literally.

As soon as we arrived at the house party it was obvious that not only was it a Church event, it was a prayer group weekend. There were ten young people there including the other two typists. The minister and youth leaders were organising everything. I soon found out why she had been so desperate that I should attend. The whole weekend and everyone present had been organised to 'save' me for Jesus.

I was seen as a drunken sinner who needed redemption. When they accused me of being an alcoholic addicted to drink I laughed at them. Yes, I drank. Everyone in Naval Stores knew I did. I drank more than most but was never drunk or incapable (ignoring that morning after the beach party which they didn't know about). But I had joined them for a weekend knowing there would be no alcohol and I hadn't seen a need to conceal any in my belongings or on my motorbike. An alcoholic couldn't have done that.

As for saving me for Jesus? Thanks, but as a member of the Church of England I felt sufficiently saved already. I confused them by demonstrating a better Bible knowledge than any of them, and this was really shocking, even the minister. They tried hard but I was seen as a plausible agent of the devil, challenging their faith and beliefs. My large typist and the other two typists tried to 'save' me with sex. I and they enjoyed that but changed nothing.

After Saturday lunch time I had had enough. I was being prayed for in a group session almost every hour and frustrating them with my intransigence. I was beginning to worry all of them. Was their faith insufficient? Was my hedonistic attitude more attractive? The young people were beginning to have doubts about their church's attitudes. I went to see the minister privately and told him I thought I was damaging the group's faith more than they were saving me.

Reluctantly he agreed. The three typists kissed and hugged me before I left but it was obvious they were pleased that I was going before I wrecked the whole weekend, if I hadn't done already.

Those three typists still treated me as a friend thereafter but with considerable reserve and possibly even fear. I had withstood the whole group and made them question their own beliefs. Was a smooth-tongued agent of the devil or even the devil himself in disguise? I had even made their minister have doubts. During the rest of my time in Plymouth that church never again invited an outsider to their weekend prayer events nor tried to 'redeem' a sinner.

That wasn't my last contact with that large typist. About a year later I was walking through Plymouth's town centre on my way to Union Street when I saw her being bothered by a couple of drunks. I walked up to her, put my arms around her shoulder and told the drunks to 'Fuck off!'. They went, and I walked her home to her parent's house. She thanked me and kissed me on her doorstep.

+++

After leaving the theatrical lady's bedsit I had moved to a larger one a couple of streets away. Also in that house were two men sharing a flat. They were both Liverpudlians but one supported Liverpool and the other Everton. Their arguments about their football teams could become animated. One night all three of us were in the Barbican area of Plymouth near Sutton Harbour. There had been an Everton/Liverpool match that afternoon which had been vicious and had ended with a goalless draw. The argument became so intense that they ended up punching each other before both fell into the harbour. I had to fish both of them out and take them home to dry out. I dried myself, changed and went back to the Barbican.

I went into a public house I had never visited before. I was surprised that the landlord greeted me by name. He had worked for my father in Victualling Stores in Gibraltar and had retired to take over this pub from his father-in-law. I had drunk several pints of his smooth so-called rough cider before I made a critical mistake. I was hungry and on the bar was a bottle of pickled eggs. I ordered two but they had been in that bottle for years. I had to go outside and be sick. To this day I cannot eat pickled eggs and I tend to avoid cider.

+++

I had been in charge of my stores section for about eighteen months. I had found the work easy because my staff were so experienced and my line supervisors were very competent (even if the second level one was useless in the mornings). I had successfully ended my two years' probation period as a new civil servant. I expected to be moved to a more challenging section with a different range of stores and/or less experienced staff. Another one of the typists, not one of the three who regarded me as an unrepentant sinner, had become my girlfriend. More about her later.

But I made a mistake, one that would affect my career for the next thirty years. The whole UK civil service had decided that they wanted to find out who might be suitable to work with computers. Every person at ANSO level or general equivalent - executive officer - who wasn't close to retirement was required to sit a short examination to establish suitability.

It was made clear that if you failed it would not affect your career. Passing indicated an aptitude, that was all. People could be efficient and effective civil servants even if they didn't pass.

But I was young, still less than 21. To me, if I was going to take an examination, I should try my best. I didn't know that many of my fellow ANSOs, and many throughout the civil service had decided that computers might be a dead end. Anyone assigned to computers might be considered essential in that role and therefore might miss out on promotion prospects. So they would fail - deliberately.

I took the examination. I did my best. The result? I was the highest marked in the whole Ministry of Defence. How much was due to others trying to fail? I don't know. But I was assigned to computers as the system manager for the new computer being installed in Naval Stores, Devonport. Another older ANSO, marked much lower than me, would be the main programmer. My measured aptitude to programming was much more than his, but that was his strongest showing.

Reluctantly I had to leave my section and the twelve people who had helped me and become friends. Instead I would have a staff of twenty-five young ladies, Machine Operators or Machine Assistants, aged between fifteen and twenty-five, all of whom were learning new tasks.

A Machine Operator was paid more than a Clerical Officer; a Machine Assistant more than a Clerical Assistant. What decided whether a person was one or the other was the speed and accuracy of data entry. A Machine Operator was consistently 30% faster than a Machine Assistant. Every three months all would take a speed and accuracy test. Any Machine Operator who failed would have to take another test in a month's time. A second failure might mean demotion. In my time no Machine Operator came anywhere close to failing. Any Machine Assistant who passed at the Machine Operator's speed was promoted.

Initially my staff were about half Machine Operators and half Machine Assistants. With some small variations that was consistent as women left to have families and new recruits replaced them.

I and the other ANSO, the designated programmer, were sent to IBM, St John's Wood, in London for six weeks to learn how to use the new and very expensive equipment that could be unreliable. I scored much better on programming than he did but I couldn't do everything. Over the next six months until he became skilled, I often had to help him to write programs. He had a machine operator as an assistant. Alice- not her real name - sat directly opposite me and was often a distraction. She had prominent breasts and wore low cut dresses. Whenever I looked up from my work I would have a pair of very attractive tits in view a few feet away. Alice knew she was teasing me.

But IBM couldn't teach me how to manage twenty-five young ladies. They had PMS, boyfriend trouble, fiancé trouble, pregnancy scares, pregnancy, morning sickness and frequent engagement parties or marriages.

In retrospect those young ladies were very good to me. Although I was younger than many of them, or the same age, they treated me with consideration and respect, and yes, even love. The group of them tried to sort out problems among themselves and only came to me when they couldn't. They worked hard for me and would make the extra effort if asked nicely. They were a strain, so much of one that at age 21 I had a sprinkling of grey hairs on the sides of my head, but overall they behaved reasonably. If only the machinery had been so reliable. It wasn't. An IBM engineer was on call but he was based in London. He couldn't be there for half a day at best so often I had to tinker with the machinery myself. We were processing so much that we couldn't afford to lose half a day.

The first Christmas was a real ordeal for me. My programmer colleague was on leave with his family and the computer unit's Christmas Party was scheduled for 2 o'clock on the afternoon of the last working day. I had twenty-five (or twenty-six if I counted my colleague's buxom assistant) attractive young ladies in a dockyard with many thousand men. Any men attending had to be pre-approved and have unmistakeable invitations. The invitations were easy. They were named by edge-printing on a punched card. No one else in the dockyard could reproduce them and no one anywhere in Plymouth.

I would have to stand at the door throughout the party to make sure there were no gate crashers.

I had ordered that the computer and all electrical equipment should be switched off at 12 noon. Any guest, or drunken young lady, could cause serious damage if the equipment was operational.

They had prepared the food, including sandwiches for my lunch. At a quarter past twelve they rushed off to the ladies toilets to change into their party clothes and then all left for a pre-party drinks session in a nearby pub where they would meet their fiancés and boyfriends and bring them back for two o'clock.

I was left alone, guarding a room full of very expensive equipment and eating the very good sandwiches in solitary state.

At a quarter to two the heavens opened into a torrential downpour that kept falling. By two o'clock all the women were back with their boyfriends but all looked like entries for a wet T-shirt contest. All of them stripped off their outer clothes - dresses, blouses and skirts and hung them up to dry near the radiators in the computer room. Now there were 26 young ladies in bras, panties and a few wearing very short slips. The boyfriends and fiancés were delighted. I was worried. Anyone passing by could see them and I might have difficulty keeping intruders away. I expressed that concern. Alice laughed at me. She shut and locked the door before pressing her well-filled revealing damp bra against me.

I was in real trouble. Alice was the only woman there who didn't have me as a manager. None of the others would go very far, perhaps kiss me on the cheek, but even if drunk they knew their manager was out of bounds. I wasn't Alice's manager and she knew it, the minx. She was wrapped around me. She teased me for about twenty seconds before going to assault her boyfriend. But Alice, like all the other women, liked me. They might tease me but they would never go too far.

In retrospect, but not clear to me at the time, all the women treated me with restraint, consideration and even love. Fifty plus years on I love them for the way they behaved. They could have made my life a misery. Instead it was a delight to work with so many women who would help me whenever they could. It was the machinery that was my biggest headache.

+++

It's time to introduce my girlfriend. She was a typist in the same typing pool next door to my original office but unlike the three church-going typists, she liked a drink and didn't see anything wrong with having a boyfriend who drank, particularly one like me who apparently never got drunk.

I'll call her Janice, not her name. Her father had died young, by a sudden heart attack at his office when his wife was four months pregnant with their second daughter, Anna, again not her real name. When Janice and I met at a retirement event, Anna was in trouble. She was much younger than Janice and the two of them worked at a stables on the edge of Dartmoor, as did other youngsters. Anna was pregnant but she was only twelve years old. She didn't know which of several stable boys might be the father because she had made love with all of them and they were only fourteen years old.