Standing in my own Shadow

The Autobiography of a Depression

by Barry Daniels
Copyright 2014 by Barry Daniels

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 Standing in My Own Shadow

Prologue:

I never thought that I‟d one day write the story of my life. Though
it‟s been interesting enough to me, I couldn‟t see why anybody else
would ever want to read it. I started out as the dirt poor son of a soldier
in a mining village in Yorkshire at the beginning of the second world
war and ended my working life as a Senior Executive in Canada‟s Civil
Service, and the trip from there to here has had all the twists and turns of
a Harlequin Romance. My kids might be interested in reading it one
day, but why should you?
What makes my story of more general interest is that I carried with
me from my earliest days a mental illness which at its worst is terrifying
and debilitating, and at its best is a dark cloud which spreads its shadow
over every aspect of my life. I have been for most of my life in the grip
of Depression.
From what I‟ve read Depression is, like cancer, difficult to avoid
completely. Millions suffer from it, millions more struggle along from
day to day undiagnosed, untreated and unsuspecting. Then there are
those who stand by our sides, who have to watch loved ones, friends or
family, battle this illness. I think that it has been as hard for my wife to
watch as it has been for me to bear. And how can I explain it to her?
How do you explain to someone what it is like to be trapped inside your
own body, listening to terrible things coming out of your own mouth and
yet unable to intervene?
Perhaps this book can help. It was, in fact, my wife‟s idea. Write the
book, she said, and tell how it felt. Tell it from the first signs to the time
you were diagnosed and started treatment. Trace its development along
with your life story. Explain how it affected your personal life and,
especially important, how you managed to keep it from interfering with
your career -- people will especially want to know that! And it will have
advantages for you, she said, to put this down on (virtual) paper; it will
give you a chance to step back from yourself and look at the illness
objectively.
 She was right. She almost always is. So here it is. Depression from
the inside looking out. The story of my rags to riches career is in here,
too, in parallel, but if you find my life story too boring, skip it or speed
read those parts; I won‟t be offended.
If you‟re looking for a learned dissertation on the subject of mental
illness, don‟t download this book. If you want to know how a serotonin
uptake inhibitor works, there are books which will tell you that, but this
is not one of them.
If you are a fellow sufferer, or a family member, or a close friend of
someone who suffers from depression I have written this book for you as
much as for me. Hopefully it will bring us both to a better understanding
of mental disease in general and Depression in particular.
To fellow depressives let me add this: We suffer from a disease like
any other; it is not of our making; nothing we did, or didn‟t do, brought
this down on us. We have no reason to be ashamed or embarrassed. We
should not allow a bell to be hung around our necks; those days are past.
There is no stigma involved in being mentally ill unless we allow it. We
must not allow it.
May we all find peace of mind.
Barry Daniels
Nova Scotia
August 2014.
 Interlude: An Important Definition:
As I write this we are in the middle of Mental Illness Awareness
month here in Canada, a period devoted to presenting to the public the
facts of life regarding mental diseases. The project hopes to eliminate,
or at least mitigate, the stigma attached to mental illness and to foster
understanding, possibly some measure of sympathy for the devastation
caused by these illnesses on those of us who suffer from them.
Having been big-D Depressive for most of my life these efforts are of
great interest to me. The project includes a TV spot in which an off-
camera voice asks the question: “Where does Depression hurt?” and
gives the whispered reply “Everywhere.” Then “Who does Depression
hurt?” with the answer “Everyone.” I like this ad. It is realistic and true.
It has been shown many times over the last few weeks. So can I now
expect that people I meet casually in my everyday wanderings will have
some new, deeper understanding of the hell to which my illness
periodically subjects me? A little sympathy, perhaps?
Probably not. And one of the reasons for my low expectations, a
very basic reason, lies at the very root of the condition; its name. My
dictionary says:
Depression: (n)
1. A feeling of being extremely unhappy.
(Many children show signs of anxiety and depression after a divorce
in the family.)
2. To suffer from depression.
(She suffered from depression after the death of her husband.)
My Depression is not defined by unhappiness. Well, not only
unhappiness, though this is certainly part of it. I have been sad and I
have been Depressed. There is a world of difference.
Unhappiness is what you get when your pet dies, when you get
passed over for a promotion or your girlfriend goes off with another
man. Realistically I don‟t ever expect to meet a person who has never
suffered sadness and most people, I think, accept that being occasionally
unhappy is a part of living. There are those who believe that sadness is
an important part of life, one which makes us spiritually stronger by
experiencing it.
 Depression, on the other hand, sometimes plunges me into a deep
black pit of pain and despair; or it can drive me into a destructive rage in
which not even my most deeply loved ones are safe. Do you see now
why I expect (and receive) little or no sympathy from those unclear
about the basic difference between Depression and simple unhappiness?
Me: “I‟m Depressed:”
Them: “What the hell have you got to be depressed about? You
have a good job, no money problems, a happy marriage, robust health
and great kids! You‟ve no right to be depressed!”
Me: “No, I mean I am really Depressed.”
Them: “Well for Heaven‟s sake snap out of it.”
I wish the people behind these ads the best of luck. I hope that they
succeed in teaching the difference between depression and Depression. I
hope that in my lifetime I may see the end of the stigma which haunts
those of us who suffer this terrible, destructive mental disorder.
But I‟m not holding my breath.
 Chapter One:
Early Years
1940 – 1953

About the Beginning:

I don‟t think that I was born depressed. I have many clear memories
of my first few years, and, by and large, they were happy times. I‟ve
heard it said that the human brain is not sufficiently developed to record
and store memories before the child is 4 or 5 years old, but that some
people had stories told to them so often as small children that they come
to think the memories of those events are their own. Maybe so, but I
have many clear memories that go back well before the age of 5.
I was born in Rossington, a North England mining village in the
West Riding of the County of Yorkshire in October 1940. Above me, in
the blue autumn skies, a small group of extremely brave young men, not
a lot older than myself, were putting their lives on the line to ensure that
my life could be lived in freedom. I have never forgotten what they did
for me nor the debt which I owe to them.
My first home was a coal miner‟s cottage at the end of a long
terraced row of such cottages on a cobbled street recently equipped with
gas lamps. I shared the house with my mother, my grandmother and a
large shaggy dog called Nell who had belonged to my grandfather.
Granddad Thompson died before I was born, so Gran took over the
house and the dog. When my Dad was called away to war, driving a
lorry for the Royal Engineers, it was a natural thing for my expectant
Mother to move in with Gran.
Infants School (Preschool) was directly across the road from our
house, not even a two minute trip. I‟d been aware of the place for
months, knowing that I was to become a pupil sometime soon, as a
steady procession of relatives had been paraded before me in
preparation for the event, and I was told by all of these that “you‟re
going to just love school.” My main memory of those first schooldays is
the afternoon nap on camp cots, a very civilised custom and one which I
still enjoy.
 One bright sunny morning I was watching the teacher draw chalk
letters on the blackboard. She was demonstrating the l etter K,
explaining that it was like a butterfly landing on a blade of grass, when
my Mum walked into the class. Being able to read simple sentences I
was wondering what the talk of butterflies was all about but the presence
of my Mum pushed such thoughts aside. She talked briefly with the
teacher, who became excited. Still wondering, I took my Mum‟s hand
and we left the school and crossed the road to join the queue waiting for
the Doncaster bus. Thirty minutes later we stood at the exit to Doncaster
station until a smart young soldier carrying a very large duffel bag came
smiling up the staircase and my father entered my life.
About Bullies:
In September 1947 I was given busfare, directions, a kiss from my
Mum and sent off to start Junior School. I met the first of the school‟s
bullies on my second day. As soon as we were dismissed for morning
break there was a rush for the exits as several hundred boys poured out
of the building. About half of these immediately began a football match
which I learned had been going on for several years. No one knew or
cared about the score and the game took up half of the playground.
Boys who were not playing the soccer game were pushing, pulling,
punching or wrestling in pairs or small groups. Not interested in eit her
activity I stuck to the perimeter, minding my own business when for no
reason that I could see I was grabbed, pushed against a brick wall,
punched in the side of my head and thrown to the ground.
To add insult to my injuries, the old crone who taught my first year
class chose that day to do a cleanliness inspection, and called for a show
of hands on entry to the classroom. Mine, of course, were scratched and
dirty, earning me a painful rap on the knuckles with a wooden rod, and I
was sent to the bathroom to clean up.
By the end of my first month, with the help of fellow students, I had
identified all the significant school bullies. I say „significant‟ because
many of the bigger boys would give me a push or a punch as they passed
me in the corridor or on the playground but this was harmless and of
little account. I was small, weak and non-violent, so a natural prey for
the bigger boys. There were other boys in the same circumstance as
myself, and we were drawn to each other by some natural law, but sadly
this did not provide us with any significant protection. The bullies would
stalk us, select one from our group and go about their dirty business .
The rest of us ran away and re-grouped elsewhere. Teachers largely
ignored this activity. They would intervene if a smaller boy was being
seriously beaten by a larger boy but this was rare. If two well matched
boys were involved in a schoolyard scuffle few teachers would bother to
become involved.
The 1947 Education Act, that brilliant and farsighted piece of
legislation which allowed and assisted my education, also freed me from
the worst of the bullies. When I started Grammar School in 1952 I was
delighted to find that the 11-plus exam had filtered out the worst of the
bullies and shunted them off to complete their education elsewhere.
As I grew older and developed my coping skills bullying faded from
an everyday concern to an occasional nuisance; but they were always
there, at the back of my mind, much like the constant toothache which
plagued my early years and cast a dark shadow over what should have
been sun-filled days.
My last meeting with a true bully took place about a month before I
left Doncaster for Leeds University in 1959. I was talking with friends
at our garden gate when a nightmare in a gray overcoat came walking
towards us. At least six feet tall, twice my width at the shoulders, he
outweighed me by a factor of three or more. He stuck his face so close to
mine that I could smell his breath, and proceeded to tell me in gruesome
detail what he would do to me if I ever laid hands on his brother again. I
recognised this „boy‟ as one of the residents of a half way house, a home
for troubled youths, which had been built a hundred yards or so down
the street. I told him I had no idea what he was talking about, nor who
his brother might be, nor when I was supposed to have „laid hands‟ on
him – or on anybody else for that matter. This caused the „boy‟ to do a
fairly good impression of Al Pacino as “Scarface”. The face came close
again and a fist the size of a soccer ball was waved under my nose. This
done, the nightmare wandered off home.
I consoled myself with the fact that my escape plan had worked and I
would be well away from Doncaster and its bullies within the month.
 Today there seems to be a growing tendency to find excuses for
bullies. I have even heard it said that “bullies are the true victims”. That
may have been true to some extent in that place at that time, for many of
them saw their inevitable future as working down a coal mine alongside
their fathers and other male siblings, a dismal outlook to a life which
would probably be bleak, brutish and short. They were often treated
violently by their fathers and other adult males, and saw such treatment
of the weak by the strong as a normal and natural part of life. However,
little sympathy could be found for them amongst their smaller prey in
the 1940s and 50s.
All things considered, bullies had a mixed impact on my young life.
For the negative, they cast a shadow over almost everything I did and
took much of the joy from a childhood which could otherwise have been
happy. For the positive, I made an early vow that as soon as I could I
would get as far away as possible from Doncaster, in the firm belief that
life anywhere else would most certainly be better and could not possibly
be worse. By the time I made that vow I had already realised that the
means of escape would come to me through education.
Postscript: 2014: Bullying then and now:
I thought it might be interesting to do a little research into how things
have changed since my Junior school days. Surely things must be much
more civilised after six decades of progress. Or maybe not. A Google
search for „Bullying in Yorkshire‟ got 752,000 „hits‟. Apart from the
fact that high-tech „social media‟ has been added to the bullies box of
tricks, and that teenage suicides seem to be more prevalent than I recall,
not a lot seems to have changed. From the myriad examples I found on
the Web I‟ve chosen one, because I think this must be my all-time
favourite bully story: It happened in Doncaster earlier this year.
Five-year-old Ethan, was playing in his yard with his two-year-old
brother when a pack of three bullies starting taunting and picking on
him. According to his mom Sharon, who watched it all go down from
inside the house, Ethan tried to ignore them, but one of the boys came
over and pushed him to the ground. That's when his cat finally had
enough. After Ethan got pushed, his mom ran outside, but Smudge the
cat got to the gang before she did. “I saw Smudge fly out from under the
car and jump on the boy's chest,” she told the Daily Mail. “The boy
stumbled backwards, burst into tears and then ran off.”
This could have been me at about the same age. Wish I‟d had an
attack cat.

About Teeth:
My early years were so full of toothache that I thought it was a
normal part of life and my only option was to get used to it. My
generation was raised among food shortages of all kinds. Much of the
food which reached our table came to England by sea convoys, which
often suffered great losses, while home grown fruits and fresh vegetables
were always in short supply.
By 1949 it occurred to the National Government that many, if not
most, British children‟s teeth were in a terrible state. The response was
to assemble small teams of dental surgeons and technicians, pack the
necessary equipment into ex-army trucks and send them off to the
schools. None of this was known to me at the time. I had met dentists
twice in my short life both of these meetings had been in emergency
conditions when my toothache became overpowering.
I was probably nine or ten years old when one morning a white-
coated woman came into the classroom and interrupted the lesson. She
read from a sheet of paper the names of five boys who rose from their
desks and followed her out. Half way through the lesson two boys came
back and the woman in white read out five more names. Mine was the
fifth. I followed her and four other boys into a large room with white
walls. A row of metal chairs sat against one wall, and four of us were
told to sit there and wait.
When my turn came I was taken into the room and told to sit in a
large chair which I recognised from my limited experience as a dentist‟s
chair. An old man came over immediately, pulled open my mouth and
said something to his colleagues. One of the other men came to me with
a hypodermic needle -- also recognised from my past encounters and I
lost it. The dentist pulled out two teeth while the assistant and nurse
tried vainly to hold me still. Eventually they gave up.
 The nurse pulled me from the chair and took me to the door. She
said “Come back here tomorrow morning before school and bring your
Mum. Give her this.” She handed me an envelope and opened the street
door. Not knowing what else to do, I walked home.
Mum opened the letter and said “They want to take some teeth out.
What do they need me for?”
We got there early in the morning and they were ready for me. I was
seated in the chair and a large rubber mask was placed over my mouth
before I had any chance to resist. I dreamed of Mickey Mouse and woke
up confused to find my mouth was bleeding and I was minus four more
teeth. I don‟t think the whole thing had taken five minutes.
I did not see another dentist until I was sixteen. After a detailed
examination of my mouth he told me “We could possibly save two or
three, but you‟d still need plates. Better to take out the lot, I‟d say.”
I came back the following week and they took all of my teeth out. I
must have been a celebrity of sorts because several dental students were
present as observers. There was no pain and little discomfort, and Mum
got us a taxi to get home. I started my year in the sixth form with no
teeth, and a week later showed up with a perfect set and a beautiful
smile. Nobody seemed to notice one way or the other.
I went back to the same dentist to have my wisdom teeth pulled as
soon as they threatened to burst through my gums. Once again the
surgery involved no pain and little discomfort. The dentist gave me a bill
for five pounds and my Gran paid. I have not visited a dentist since –
fifty eight years and counting.

About my Father:
I come from a family of five; my parents, a brother and a sister. My
extended family included my Mum‟s twin brother and family (two
female cousins) and my Mum‟s sister and family (two male cousins).
We were in and out of each other‟s homes constantly and these people
have remained dear to me. All of them have now left Doncaster. My
Mum was at all times loving and supportive and made the sun shine in
my life when outside was cloud from horizon to horizon. My Gran was
cut from similar cloth. My brother and I fought and tussled and argued
with each other but were always united against any common enemy. We
built a love which has deepened over the years. My sister, born ten
years after me, has always remained close.
When my father came home from WW2 he brought me my first
Meccano set and showed me how to connect the parts with tiny nuts and
bolts. We built a truck and a crane. This was a wonderful time for me,
and I thought I had entered into a new chapter of my life; he would
teach me how to defend myself like a soldier; how to catch a ball, swing
a bat. We would go fishing together and have a great time. Perhaps we
would get a dog.
We got a dog, a mid-sized mutt who we called „Laddie‟. None of the
rest happened. For the next thirteen years, until I left home for
university, he rarely encouraged me, commended my efforts or even
spoke kindly to me.
At first I tried to work out how to make him like me, to put right
whatever I had done to turn him so sour, but I eventually gave up. My
Mother could not understand or explain his actions and asking him to
explain himself was a short cut to a loud row. Out of nowhere he would
tell me “You‟ll never make anything of your life; you‟ll never hold
down a job.”
He told me that he knew I was a sex maniac, which was rather weird
since I did not have any sexual experiences until after I‟d left university.
He brushed off my academic achievements as of little use or value. I
was always in the top three or four when exam results came out, and
often the top boy (there were two girls in my class who consistently
outscored me). This made me the top boy in the top form in the top
school in the region, but he would only ask me if I had been chosen for
the first eleven soccer team, or where I‟d finished in the cross country
race.
His job as driver for the „Snow White‟ Bakery ended when the
company filed for bankruptcy, and with it went the house we rented
which had belonged to the bakery. We moved to a council estate and my
father joined friends and relatives as a coal miner at the local Colliery, a
pit which featured prominently in the war with Margaret Thatcher when
unprofitable mines all over England were summarily closed many years
later. If he was at home when I got back from school he would be
sleeping on the sofa, and the family had to tiptoe around the house until
he awoke.
When my GCE results qualified me for the sixth form – generally
seen as preparation for University – Dad opposed it vociferously. He felt
that I had „wasted enough time‟ learning things that would never be of
any use. He realised that I would never be able to do a „real man‟s job‟
but conceded that I might make a passable shop assistant, or perhaps
„something in a bank‟. Not that he thought I would hold any job long. I
probably could not get up early enough to be at work on time and would
soon be sacked. If I didn‟t like it I could just get out and see how long it
would take before I came running home to Mummy.
Fortunately, my Mum and Gran attacked him from both sides and he
eventually agreed that „if he could not see sense, he could just shut his
fool mouth‟. As usual, the ladies carried the day.
A similar situation occurred when I submitted my applications to
several universities, until he realised that I would be leaving home, and
I‟d have my own source of funds.
To give him his due he was never violent to any of us. In later life I
came to realise that my father had kept a roof over our heads and food
on the table and a safe place to stay while I soaked up the education
which was my ticket to a better life. And he did that by working at a job
which he hated, day after day after day. But he was a mean man, with a
nasty temper, and it was not possible for me to do anything to please
him. At the end I still could not understand his dislike for me. Many
years later one of my therapists suggested that he might have been
jealous of the opportunities of which I took full advantage and yet had
never been available to him.
When I left home he borrowed a car from a friend and, with my
Mum in the back seat, drove me to university, dropping me in the
Student Union grounds where dozens of bewildered students were
milling around looking urgently to make new friends. His last words to
me were “You know we won‟t be able to help you with anything. There
won‟t be any money.” I said “I won‟t be asking for anything.” My
Mum was crying as they drove away.
 Looking back I have come to realise that my Father was showing
several symptoms of mental illness. I have no doubt that for most of his
life my father was severely depressed.
 Depression Checklist:
In this section, which will appear at the end of each chapter, I will try
to look back on that period of my life as unemotionally and objectively
as possible, and identify any early signs of mental illness. Here is my
checklist, showing ten warning signs and symptoms of Depression for
which I will be looking. They were taken from various websites devoted
to Depression and other mental illnesses.
Warning sign #1… Feelings of helplessness and hopelessness;
Warning Sign #2… Loss of interest in daily activities;
Warning Sign #3…… Appetite or Weight changes;
Warning Sign #4…… Sleep changes; insomnia; oversleeping;
Warning Sign #5…… Anger or Irritability;
Warning Sign #6…… Loss of energy;
Warning Sign #7…… Self Loathing;
Warning Sign #8…… Reckless Behaviour;
Warning Sign #9…… Concentration problems; trouble focusing;
Warning Sign #10….. Unexplained Aches and Pains;
Chapter One: Depression Checklist: Warning Signs:
#1 Feelings of helplessness and hopelessness; Yes.
#2 Loss of interest in daily activities; No.
#3 Appetite or Weight changes; No.
#4 Sleep changes; insomnia; oversleeping; No.
#5 Anger or Irritability; No.
#6 Loss of energy; No.
#7 Self Loathing; No.
#8 Reckless Behaviour; No.
#9 Concentration problems; trouble focusing; No;
#10 Unexplained Aches and Pains; No.
 Interlude: To Pill or not to Pill
There is a school of thought, probably started by Freud, which holds
that a patient can be talked out of a Depression. Though I don‟t believe
that this is of much use in my case, I don‟t discredit the approach.
There is much concern in Canada and the UK, probably elsewhere,
that doctors prescribe pills far too easily and should spend more time
talking their patients back to health. Possibly so, but if your problem is
caused by a failure of neuro-transmitters in your brain to function as
they should, then trying to talk the little critters into performing better
will not, in my opinion, produce the result you are hoping for.
Here is my rule-of-thumb. Ask yourself the question: Why am I
Depressed? If you are „depressed‟ because you live in a crappy old
world, in a dead end job, with a vile boss, getting deeper into debt with
every passing month, health problems nagging at you and getting older
every day, you are probably not Depressed, merely miserable, and with
good reason. Get a pill from your doctor and you may feel better, but
your world will be the same and being on happy pills is not likely to
improve your relationship with your boss. So much better if you are able
to change your circumstances, find a better job and/or a better boss,
change your lifestyle to one which promotes better health. I suppose
there‟s not a lot you can do about getting older. Perhaps you should find
a talking therapist who might be able to change the way you look at your
life.
But if, like me, you find that life has given you everything you asked
for and so much more, but you are still crying yourself to sleep at night,
then your doctor may have a pill for you.
One way or another, go and talk to your GP and be thoroughly honest
with him – anything else will be simply a stupid waste of two people‟s
time. Ask him about alternative treatments, and listen carefully to what
he says, then make your choice. Good luck.
 Chapter Two
Teens to Early Twenties
1953 -- 1961

About travelling on the thumb:

On Christmas morning 1956 I woke to find a brand new beautiful
electric blue full size Triumph Sports bicycle in the living room. I hope
my parents (and my Gran, who had probably contributed several weeks
worth of her pension towards the bike) enjoyed the giving as much as I
enjoyed receiving, and I was out of the house and a mile along the Great
North Road before I realised that it was raining.
Most weekends I would call on my friend Peter and we would head
out, often at random, and ride until dark. A typical day would see us
covering 60 to 80 miles. We did not ride at the speed of serious cycling
clubs, who often passed us easily, but we would turn down any road
which looked vaguely interesting. We would sometimes take a break at
Lindholme RAF station, where if we were lucky we would see the
Lancaster bombers take off or land; sometimes a Spitfire or Hurricane
would arrive on a visit. At times when Peter had other plans I was happy
to go off on my own, often coming home early in the morning with my
leg muscles on fire and the last dregs of energy used up by pushing my
bike up the path to our back door.
One Saturday morning Peter arrived shortly after breakfast, but as I
went to get my bicycle he said “Leave the bikes. Something different
today.” We walked up to the A1, the Great North Road which since
Roman times had been the backbone of north-south English commerce.
We walked along the shoulder for a few yards and Peter said “Watch
this!” He turned to face oncoming traffic and raised his left arm with the
thumb held up high. I had no idea what he was trying to do. Almost
immediately a small car pulled onto the shoulder and Peter called me to
follow him as he ran to the car. Two minutes later we were riding along
with a complete stranger towards Wakefield, and I was sitting in the
back, stunned. We walked around the town for a few hours and then
thumbed a lift back to Doncaster. That day changed my life in ways I
could not have imagined.
 At the Army Surplus store in Doncaster I bought a steel -framed
backpack, a cheap sleeping bag, a very small tent, an alcohol-burning
stove and an all purpose frying/boiling/cooking pan. I now had the
means of staying overnight, when necessary, with a warm, dry place to
sleep, and the necessary gear to brew up a cup of tea anywhere at any
time. The whole package cost me close to £1, which came from money
I was saving to buy a small motor for a model plane I had built.
Hitch-hiking around England was far more for me than simply a
lesson in Geography. Standing by the side of the road, any road, my
backpack holding all I needed, gave me a feeling of freedom such as I‟d
never known. I was probably closer to contentment than I‟d ever been.
The shadows which I‟d carried at the back of my mind since I was a
small child began to recede. I would sometimes find myself walking
along the side of the road oblivious to the fact that a car had stopped to
pick me up until the driver sounded his horn to wake me from my
reveries.
As I gained experience I became less fussy about where I slept. A
haystack, a barn, a hollow in a hedgerow if the climate allowed; I once
spent a rainy night in a recently vacated chicken coop in a deserted
allotment garden. I especially enjoyed walking the back roads at night
and rarely stuck up my thumb on such occasions. There was a strange
sweet melancholy about these times that I‟d never known before and
would not find again. I found that I could manage very well on little or
no sleep; sometimes as the sun touched the horizon and the dawn chorus
began its serenade to morning, I would find a comfortable spot and doze
for an hour or so. This was possibly the origin of my many years of
insomnia and shallow sleep, but even if I had known that this would
happen I would not have given up my midnight walks. It was rather
ironic that when I finally found a way to step out from my shadows it
would be in the middle of the night.
And then, after two or three all-night walks, one night became very
special.
I don‟t even remember where I was that night, nor where I had come
from. I stopped my lorry-driving friend and climbed down from his cab
at dusk, the red sky at the horizon promising a good day tomorrow. I sat
on the ground at the side of the road, took the spirit stove from my
backpack, poured in a couple of teaspoons of methyl alcohol, lit the tiny
blue flame and made tea. I thought I should start searching for a place to
sleep; since the night promised fair weather, any hollow place under a
hedge would do. But that night, the weather was fair, I wasn‟t tired and
it seemed a perfect opportunity for a midnight walk. I knew that there
was a much lower chance of a ride when thumbing at night, but I didn‟t
care. In fact I didn‟t even want a ride. I wanted to walk through the
night. I re-packed my backpack and set out by the side of the road. I
didn‟t know where I was, nor where the road led; I didn‟t care about
that, either.
I had a small flashlight with which to follow the kerb when the light
failed completely, but the moon was bright, and almost full, so would
probably provide enough light for my purposes; and then I looked at the
sky, and what I saw there staggered me so much that I almost fell down.
I saw the stars.
I‟d never really looked at the stars. If I looked up at the sky at all it
was in daylight, or in a light-polluted city, or under wall-to-wall cloud. I
knew, if I stopped to think about it, that we were on a tiny ball of rock
and water spinning around a no-account little sun situated way out on
the arm of a spiral galaxy so far from the center of the universe that it
could only be measured in light years.
I was miles away from any source of light pollution looking up at a
cloudless sky in the middle of the night. There were millions of stars.
This was no chart from the Physics lab showing the major constell ations.
This sky was full of stars. It was a field of stars, so close to one another
that there seemed to be no space between them. And as I gazed at the
heavens a feeling like nothing I‟d ever experienced came over me, and I
stood there in wonder for a long time.
Looking back on that magical night I think that for a small instant I
was allowed to touch Nirvana, the state of mind sought by spiritual men
of many faiths. For the first time in my life I felt an inner peace, a
contentment, that drained all doubt out of me. I saw that my life was a
spiritual journey on which I had barely started. I was truly a small child,
innocent, curious, unafraid, for I knew that there was a power which
would always be with me to see me onto the right path and guide me
through my journey. I never realised just how sad was the life I had
been living until I was given this brief moment of pure untainted joy.
I came to the top of a hill, and looking down along the road before
me I saw a small town asleep. I had come some distance during my
dream, and stood on the top of a nameless hill, looking down a nameless
road to a nameless town, and I wept for the ecstasy that I‟d briefly felt
and which was now once more beyond my reach.
I took many midnight walks and even tried to find that same hill on
that same road, but without success. On clear, cloudless nights I was
always aware of the stars, and sometimes would lie on my back by the
side of the road, lost in the starlight.
When I qualified for a place at Leeds University in 1959 I packed
away my gear and stored my backpack in the attic. I didn‟t expect to
have much use for it any longer. I was wrong.

About Girls:
Unlike my previous schools Grammar School was co-ed. For the
first time in my life I was surrounded by girls. I loved them; I hated
them; I was terrified of them; I was fascinated by them; I was
tremendously attracted to them; I was totally repulsed by them. But
mostly I did not understand them. To be in close contact with a girl
could cause me to break out in a sweat and have my tongue swell to a
size which made speech impossible.
In my early teens I was unbelievably ignorant of the „facts of life‟. I
knew the very basic „facts‟ of the biological process, but even for those
my source of information was so suspect that it could not be trusted. I
hesitated to ask for clarification and in retrospect I see how that would
have been a complete waste of time since I‟m sure my peers were at
least as ignorant as I. I could not ask a teacher, or any relative, and t he
idea of asking my father for information or advice on anything was
never a realistic possibility.
So I moved through my school years with powerful but ambivalent
feelings towards the girls with whom I shared classes, and the few girls
who expressed any interest in me found their advances ignored, mainly
because I had no idea how to respond to them. In the end this was the
best possible outcome for these girls, as I would have made a pathetic
boyfriend.

About Grammar School:

At fifteen the main focus in my life was school. I remained true to
my vow to spend as little of my life as possible in Doncaster, and still
firmly believed that the way out was by means of education. I took my
schooling for granted, and only realised later how much I owed to the
Education Act of 1947, which had opened the door to Grammar School
and University. So I paid close attention to my teachers even in subjects
such as Latin, History, French and German classes which I felt would
serve me poorly or not at all in finding and keeping a job. (I would later
come to regret that I had not paid more attention to my French lessons).
I found schoolwork easy. My fellow students would arrive at school
early to compare homework notes usually followed by complaints about
how much time it had taken them to solve some maths problem or work
on a translation from German. I would join in these sessions even if I‟d
finished the Maths homework in ten minutes and the German translation
in fifteen. It was very important to me to „fit in‟, to be „accepted‟.
I considered most of my teachers to be world class losers („those who
can, do; those who can‟t, teach‟?) but a major exception to my lack of
respect for them was my Physics teacher, “Deadshot”, so called for his
accuracy with the chalk eraser when aimed at a student who was giving
less than total attention to the blackboard. I loved Physics, most of
which was obvious to me. While Deadshot struggled to instill Newton‟s
Laws of Motion into resistant brains, I though I could have come up
with these laws on my own as a rainy Sunday afternoon diversion.
A strange incident occurred one afternoon in Biology class. We were
studying circulation of the blood in the human body, a subject which I
found interesting, though I still spent more time doodling in my
notebook than looking at the blackboard. The whole thing was, once
again, absurdly simple to understand. The blood gets pumped by the
heart which is, not surprisingly, a pump doing what pumps do, round the
lungs, picks up oxygen. Tubes go here, tubes go there, red and blue
tubes everywhere (I liked the sound of that and wrote it down). A bright
six year old could understand it. Then without any warning my stomach
heaved, and I tasted the school dinner I‟d eaten an hour ago; it tasted no
better the second time around; then again, and the half digested dinner
was in my mouth. I just made it to the corridor and threw up the dinner
then added my breakfast. I felt dizzy and nauseous and staggered out of
the building to sit under a tree at the edge of the soccer field. A young
girl from my class came looking for me as she had seen me leave class
and thought I might need help – which I thought was one of the sweetest
things that had ever happened to me and I fell in love with her on the
spot. Fortunately for her all I said was “thank you, that was very kind,”
and left it there.
I did not understand what had happened to me or why, and in the end
put it down to a particularly nasty school dinner; but it could not be mere
co-incidence that the episode marked the start of a squeamishness which
would haunt me for the best part of the next forty years. I developed a
terror of everything medical, causing me to faint at the mere thought of a
hypodermic needle and turned me into a shivering wreck simply by
having to step into a doctor‟s surgery or a hospital lobby. When a later
biology lesson involved the dissection of a mouse I hid. When the class
cut open sheep‟s eyeballs I simply left school for the day. Apparently
nobody missed me.

About the Sixth Form:

I now studied Physics, Pure Mathematics and Applied Mathematics,
also known as Theoretical Mechanics. All were harder at this level; the
days of simple schoolwork and easy homework were definitely over.
My Pure Maths teacher, who we called Pansy, though I have no idea
whether that was really her name, was another capable teacher. I was
sometimes hard pressed to keep up with her tough schedule but when
exams rolled around the hard work paid off. With her classes plus the
extra tuition she had given my exam results earned me a County
Exhibition Scholarship worth £250 a year. This would pay tuition plus
board and lodging, leaving little for anything else, and I had already
realised that holidays would be used for seasonal jobs to put a few
pounds into my bank account so that I could afford to buy course books
and, much more importantly, stand my rounds in the inevitable student
drinking which I knew was in store. I had also started smoking the
previous year, but cigarettes in 1959 were not a high budget item.
I applied for admission to Universities at Leeds, Sheffield,
Leicester and Manchester and was offered places at the first three. I
chose Leeds for its excellent reputation in Physics, even though it meant
more time spent in the North of England. At Mum‟s urging Dad
borrowed a car from a friend and drove me to Leeds, dropping me at the
student union building. Goodbye, Doncaster. I was gone.

About University:
Standing outside the student union building in September 1959 was a
heady experience; I was excited to be at the start of what I knew would
be a pivotal period in my life. I was one of the first sons of a coal miner
to go to Leeds University, and I knew that my fellow students would be
a different kind of animal from the crowd I was used to.
Inside the Student Union I signed up for membership, got my photo-
ID card and wandered around the stalls which had been set up by various
societies. I joined the Judo Club and the Debating Society, picked up
literature from various others, and made my way out to find a bus which
would take me to my first lodgings – or „digs‟ as they were known to the
students.
I knew that I would be sharing digs with another first year student
who was studying bacteriology. I feared that we would have so little in
common we could not get along, and I knocked at the door with more
than a little trepidation. The landlady took my small suitcase and showed
me to the bedroom which I would be sharing with the bacteriologist,
who was waiting to meet me in the front parlour.
I opened the door and stepped into the parlour. The young man
inside was leaning against the fireplace mantel, puffing on a pipe, which
he took out of his mouth as I came in. “Oh God”, I thought, “He‟s about
to say something witty in Latin or Greek.” He said “How do, Barry. I
don‟t suppose you‟ve had a chance to find the local boozer (pub), have
you?” I said “No, but it can‟t be far. Let‟s go look for it.” And so
started a friendship which would span two continents and five decades.
The first weeks at Leeds were exciting and full. Things I‟d worried
about didn‟t happen, while good things which I‟d not expected happened
almost daily. In particular I‟d been worried that I would have a hard
time making friends and end up a lonely student with nothing in his life
but hard grind. I was prepared for this, but not a bit disappointed when it
didn‟t happen. I think that a good 90% of new students were so eagerly
looking to make new friends that it was impossible not to find them.
At the Physics mixer we were seated according to no known pattern
to be served rubber chicken and cheap wine. I found myself at a six-seat
table with five other young men, four of whom would end up, along with
my bacteriologist roomie, as the best friends I had ever known or would
ever know. They were Bert, Henry, Nipper, or just Nip, and Sam, none
of whom used their real names. I introduced myself as Barry, but when
I confessed that Barry was my name the others refused to acknowledge
it, so I went by the nickname I‟d had all the way from primary school: I
was Daz.
We were firm friends before the dinner was over. We left together
and walked and talked our way over Woodhouse Moor until the early
hours of the following morning, then arranged to meet in the Student
Union the next day. I showed up with my roomie, the bacteriologist,
who was allowed to remain Chris, since we didn‟t already have one.

About Studying vs. Hitch-hiking:

From the start I was disappointed with the quality of instruction at
Leeds; I‟d expected to sit at the feet of great men of science and learn
from minds at the cutting edge of Physics but the professors were an
uninspiring collection, showing little energy or enthusiasm for their
disciplines and I quickly became bored.
At an early morning maths lecture the professor was droning on,
scratching numbers on the blackboard and had not once looked at the
class. Bert suggested that we should all strip naked and shout „Hey,
professor‟ to see if he noticed anything when he turned around, but I had
a better idea. I had a copy of the „Telegraph‟ and I used the middle
pages to make a huge paper airplane which I launched from the back
row. The plane flew perfectly and circled round between the prof‟s head
and the blackboard. He jumped like a scalded kangaroo and turned on
the class shouting “Who is responsible for this childish prank?” I stood
up and told him “Sir, I cannot tell a lie. It was him,” pointing to Bert,
who stood up and pointed at Sam, saying “No, he did it.” Sam jumped
up and started crying. “I always get the blame! It wasn‟t me!” he
sobbed. The prof stamped his feet and stormed out. The other students
were not too happy with us, but we all left together.
At the Union lounge my new friends and I sat around drinking coke
and determined that none of us would be returning to that Maths class,
as we could work much more effectively in private study with the
appropriate books. I didn‟t know it at the time, but it was the beginning
of the end of classroom study for me. I finished my coke and announced:
“I‟m off to London. Who‟s coming with me?”
With no takers, I headed for the Doncaster road, and arrived home at
one p.m. Dad was working the night shift so he was upstairs sleeping.
Mum and I decided he would not enjoy being disturbed and left him to
his slumbers. I picked up my backpack which still contained the gear
from my last excursion, and Mum made me some jam sandwiches. My
wonderful grandmother had been saving up my pocket money (she had
always provided half my weekly stipend out of her pension) and gave
me five half crowns. (A half-crown was worth two shillings and six
pence, about fifty cents in 1959). This was more money than I‟d ever
had in my pocket, and ensured that I would not go hungry on this trip. A
Transport Café, where the lorry drivers ate, would supply a full English
breakfast of sausage, eggs, French fries and baked beans, a thick slice of
toast and butter, with a mug of tea the size of a small bucket -- which
they would often top up free – all for one shilling and sixpence, and a
meal like that would usually see me through the day. I kissed and
hugged my two earth angels and was on the A1 heading south by half
past two.
At about six p.m. my ride dropped me south of Peterborough, about
half way to London. Being late in October the daylight was already
fading fast and a cold wind was coming in from the north-east. I had on
a heavy wool sweater, knitted by my Mum, and a cotton jacket to keep
out the wind, plus a long University scarf to wrap around my neck (and
head if needed). The colourful scarf was also useful to help me persuade
approaching drivers to give me a ride. Despite the threat of bad weather
I‟d already pretty much decided to walk through the night, and being on
the A1 with twenty-four hour traffic, I could always change my mind
and stick up a thumb.
I circled the roundabout (traffic circle) at which I‟d been dropped,
and took the sign reading „A1 London and the South‟. As I put my feet
on the southbound road a great flood of nervous tension which I had not
even known I was carrying, began to ebb away from me. I took a deep
breath of the cold night air, and wondered what on earth I had been so
stressed about. The answer, when it came, stunned me.
I did not love Physics. I didn‟t even like it much. The same for
maths, which was no more than something I needed for my physics
studies. I‟d convinced myself that I had a deep affinity for these subjects
but deep down inside I think I‟d known for a long time that this was not
so. This convenient fiction had eased my passage through grammar
school and played a very important role in my Great Escape plan – I
could not have studied so hard at subjects which I did not enjoy -- but it
was based on a lie. What could I do with a Physics degree? Teach? I
would sooner join my father, dig coal and breed grandchildren for my
Mum to spoil.
I was facing a serious dilemma. What should I do next? With nine
CGEs at O-level and three more at advanced level I was eminently
employable, but how would I go about finding a job? I had no idea
where to start. It would probably be best to quit university before I was
in too deep. I‟d have to give back my grant money, which meant finding
a paying job a.s.a.p. But where could I live? Going back to Doncaster,
living at my Dad‟s house, was unthinkable. I could already hear him
crowing „I told you so.‟ I came to a roundabout and chose the London
exit, noting that I had walked close to twelve miles. My watch said 2
a.m. I didn‟t have an answer to my predicament, nor did I know how to
go about solving it. Perhaps my new friends could help; they were an
exceptionally bright bunch, and I could certainly give it a try. Maybe
the best thing might be to continue as normal for the present, plodding
on towards a degree until I could come to grips with the problem. I had
no scruples about such a course of action and it could be a really good
year: I would be footloose and fancy free, not caring whether I passed
the end of year exams or not; indeed, it would be not, for I had no
intention of continuing the charade for a second year.
I noticed that the wind was now blowing so hard that I had to lean
into it to remain standing; I also noticed that it was raining heavily and I
was soaked to the skin. I considered digging out my poncho, buried
deep in my backpack but decided it was already too late; it was one
thing to be an avid hitch hiker but to go on now would make me a
complete idiot: my excursion had come to an abrupt end. I came to
another roundabout, but ignored it. I crossed the road and stuck up my
thumb to a heavy truck which was grinding up the gears as it left the
roundabout. I stepped into his headlights to make sure that the driver
got a good look at my University scarf. He pulled over as I‟d hoped he
would and I headed back to Leeds.
I jumped down from my ride in Headingly, a Leeds suburb, took a
bus back to my digs to catch up on a little sleep and find some dry
clothes and bumped into an angry landlady on the stairs. She was upset
about cooking my evening meal when at least twice a week I would fail
to show up to eat it. I asked why that was a problem since she still got
paid for cooking the meal even if it went directly into the garbage or to
the dog‟s bowl, thereby demonstrating how ignorant, ill-mannered and
just plain stupid a nineteen year old male can be when he tried really
hard. She said that she was sick of not knowing where I was or when I
might be back, and that her contract with the University implied an in
loco parentis obligation to „keep an eye‟ on me. Since I was determined
to make that impossible she would be obliged if I would start looking for
new accommodation. I asked if it was OK for me to get a couple of
hours sleep first, and she stormed off. This was the second digs I‟d been
kicked out of, and I would shortly be called before the Lodgings Warden
to explain what was going on.
After two hours sleep I headed for the Union Lounge, in which three
tables were now in use for a never-ending bridge tournament. Bert and
Nipper were involved in a game, Sam was reading the local paper and
Henry entered when I did. They had thought I was joking about a trip to
London, and when I explained about hitch hiking they were all anxious
to come with me next time I got a yearning for the open road. I got a
coffee and decided not to bring up my reservations regarding ongoing
studies. Not there, and not then.

About Drinking:
I tasted my first pint of Tetley‟s English Bitter Ale at seventeen. My
friend Peter and I stood outside a Doncaster pub for ten minutes
gathering our nerve for the incursion since the legal drinking age was 18
and we were both a year short. We needn‟t have worried. The innkeeper
welcomed us to the bar with a big smile and a cheerful “What‟ll it be,
lads?” We took our pints to a booth and raised our glasses to „the first,
but not the last‟. It was awful. It tasted so bad that I considered the
possibility that the landlord was playing a joke on us, though I
shuddered to think what he might have used to top up our tankards.
Peter took a big drink, licked his lips and grinned. “Good stuff!” he
said, and took another great gulp. “Damn right!” I replied and followed
suit wondering whether Peter was also lying. We didn‟t stay for a
second pint. I did not acquire a taste for beer until the late sixties, ten
years later, but that was after I had downed many more pints.
Drinking played a huge role in University life, and was only limited
by our dismal financial status. All of us were children of the working
class, and, knowing how tight were our parent‟s budgets none of us were
willing to ask them for money, so a night‟s drinking was usually limited
to three or four rounds, often less.
Some people become violent when drunk, others become friendly
and soporific. I became moody and befuddled. A couple of pints of
beer would usually help my insomnia, even though traditional wisdom
suggested the opposite, but the sleep was never restful. My dreams were
often frightening, and the feeling could sometimes follow me into my
waking day. With or without alcohol sleep was seldom restful. Getting
up in the morning was becoming increasingly difficult and I‟d often stay
in bed until eleven o‟clock or even noon. My friends attended lectures
and brought me notes. Sam did a good job of imitating my voice in
those lectures which still held a roll call, believing as we all did that poor
attendance could cause our grants to be cancelled.
With my friends I was taciturn and distant.
Bert was the first to confront me. After a night out – usually at a
pub, but sometimes a movie or even a University Hop – we would
wander across Woodhouse Moor to a coffee bar called The Piazza,
where we would nurse a frothy coffee or two and solve all of the
philosophical problems of 1959 Britain. Bert stopped me on the moor,
and told the others we‟d catch up later. He didn‟t even need to ask the
question. I blurted out the whole thing. He listened carefully, then said:
“I think we‟re all feeling a bit like that, Daz. We‟re not ready to throw
in the towel yet maybe, but we‟re starting to think that three years is a
lot to devote to a qualification that won‟t make a smidgeon of difference
to whatever we end up doing for a living. I doubt that any of us plan on
teaching, and I don‟t think we want to do research into a bigger and
better bomb either. Truth is, I have no idea what I want to be when I
grow up.
“But why sweat it, Daz? What you‟ve decided to do is absolutely the
best thing. Enjoy your year. Goof off. Hitch-hike to the Orkney Islands.
Write shitty letters to the Editor of the London Times. Get thrown out of
the Debating Society for obscene language. Do things that you‟ll never
have a chance to do if you don‟t do them now. I have a sneaking feeling
that when we all see what fun you‟re having we‟ll more often that not
come with you.”
If we weren‟t all terrified of being taken for homosexuals I would
have hugged him.
Next day we met up as usual and I announced that we were going out
for a Chinese meal and then for a drink or two at the Union Pub, and it
was all on me. I‟d been to the university library and sold back the books
I‟d recently bought there. The librarian agreed that they didn‟t look any
worse for wear than when I‟d bought them and gave me back £10 of the
₤12 I‟d paid.
At Christmas break Bert and I found work as Porters at Leeds Central
Railway Station, helping with the mountains of mail which arrived each
day. We worked the night shift, often with extra hours added to the
normal eight. The work was not demanding, mostly consisting of off-
loading sacks from an incoming train, sorting destinations and loading
sacks onto the outgoing train. The full-time porters passed most of the
hard physical work to the temps and showed up on the platforms only
when the London express trains came in loaded with returning
businessmen, many of whom had passed their time on the journey at the
train‟s bar. These men gave very generous tips for the simple act of
carrying their small baggage to the taxi ranks; folding money was often
involved, but the temps always found themselves diverted to „urgent‟
work elsewhere in the station. We didn‟t really mind; the work was easy
and the pay was good.
One night a crate of single-malt whiskey arrived on a train from
Scotland, and was accidentally dropped on the platform. The young
porters were so clumsy that the crate was accidentally dropped four
times at which point the sound of breaking glass was heard. Fortunately
there were six porters close by who by a stroke of luck all happened to
be carrying their coffee mugs, so by the time the whiskey started to drip
out through the crate, none was wasted.
Back at Leeds after the Christmas break we managed to find an
address which could take us all, located not inappropriately in Nursery
Mount. Also in the Nursery Mount digs was a young man named Wally,
who I took to be a student from some other discipline. I was surprised to
learn that Wally was a council employee and the local grave digger. I
thought it was a pity he had not been able to take advantage of the
Education Act, for there was no doubt about his intelligence. (Wally
later became a successful businessman).
At the end of the first year we assembled for exams. Bert, who had
missed almost as many classes as I, shook hands and we marched boldly
into the exam room. We had considered skipping the exam and hitching
over the Pennines to Liverpool but we had heard that skipping an exam,
like skipping too many classes, could result in our having to repay our
grants, while simply failing an exam had few repercussions. Once in the
exam room we were not allowed to leave for twenty minutes so I turned
the paper and, just to pass the time, read the questions. There were eight
questions, and we were asked to choose any five. I read the questions in
disbelief. I looked over at Bert, who was grinning like a Cheshire cat; I
could answer the questions – at least six of them. Bless you Deadshot, I
thought. You had so thoroughly prepared me for my A-level exams that
you‟d got me to first year university level, and apparently Bert‟s version
of „Deadshot‟ had done the same for him.
Bert and I passed with second honours. Sam, Nipper and Henry also
made it through.

About Year 2 at Leeds:

During summer break I sold ice cream from a horse and cart. I
worried that I would not be able to control the horse but this was never a
problem; the horse was in control at all times. At one point he started up
and, taking no notice of my efforts with the reins, stopped at the end of a
cul-de-sac. While I was wondering what to do about it school bells rang
in the distance and about a hundred young children came pouring out of
an alley into the street. I sold all my stock in less than ten minutes.
Before breaking for the summer Wally and I had agreed to meet up
towards the end of the break and do some serious hitch-hiking around
Europe. He rode down to Doncaster on his scooter and we packed our
rucksacks for the trip and headed off down the A1 aiming for any port
which could put us on a boat for France. My backpack weighed close to
45 pounds and Wally‟s almost sixty. By the time we returned from our
trip those backpacks felt as light as feathers.
In September I came back to Leeds with money in my pocket from
summer employment and a taste for rum-and-cokes. I hitched to the city
and took a bus to the Union, where Bert and Henry were in the lounge
and a crowd of eager first year students milled around excitedly outside.
Sam and Nipper arrived within the hour. When Chris failed to arrive by
four p.m. we called the Registrar‟s office and learned that he‟d dropped
out. He had simply been overawed by University and had enough; he
was a year younger than the rest of us and we felt that he‟d probably
been advanced through school too fast. He showed up a week l ater on a
beaten-up old motorbike and told us he was working as a bus conductor
back home in Glossop. Since he had lots of free time and I had no
intention of going to more than an occasional class, we still saw quite a
lot of each other and often hitch hiked together to random destinations.

About Other Interests: While we still had a few pounds in our

pockets from summer jobs we each put £5 into a kitty and bought a 1941
Austin Big 7 from a wreckers yard. While the motor ran well, the car
lacked most of the features which would soon come to be known as
essentials – electric starter, seat belts, windscreen washer, heater,
etcetera. Nevertheless, we loved the car and travelled miles in it. I took
my turn driving, but sitting in the back satisfied my need to be in
motion, and I felt very much at ease there.
Later in the year Bert and I decided to get a flat (apartment) together.
We informed our landlady that we would be leaving, she advised the
University, and in no time at all the Lodgings Warden wanted to see us.
By then I had been in seven „digs‟, which I think set some sort of record.
The warden, a very pleasant young lady, told us that she would need to
see a letter from each of our parents giving permission for us to take a
flat. I told her that if I could borrow a pen and paper I‟d be pleased to
write such a letter for her; she smiled sweetly and told me that without
such a genuine letter grant money would not be diverted to pay our rent
and we assured her that genuine letters would be forthcoming. Bert‟s
friend Gerry moved in with us, while Sam, Henry and Nipper were
frequent guests.
A Strange Incident took place late in the evening of December 30
1960, the day before new year‟s eve. Bert had gone home for the family
celebrations, but Gerry was in the flat and Sam was there with a girl he
had picked up at a recent University dance. Sam went to the Student
Union‟s Saturday Night Hops to find his dates and he worked on the
theory that he would approach only the plain girls in the belief that
they‟d be „so grateful they‟d do anything‟. His new girlfriend was not
excessively plain, but still appeared ready to „do anything‟, and with
admirable frequency. They disappeared into Bert‟s unoccupied bedroom
– again – and Gerry and I were laughing, when I suddenly felt very cold
and started to shake. I lay on the living room sofa and tried to control
my tremors, but had no success. Quite worried, Gerry went into his
bedroom and came back with a blanket which he draped over me. Even
Sam stopped whatever he had been doing and came to see if he could
help.
Eventually the shaking stopped and I warmed up a little, then fell
asleep for a while. When I awoke it was full dark, though I didn‟t know
the exact time. Gerry asked if I was alright, and I said I was OK, but I
had to get out of the house. He asked me why, but I had to tell him that I
had no idea, I just had to go. I grabbed my overcoat and headed out
without knowing where I was going, and somehow ended up at the bus
station. The station was deserted, the clock at the entrance showing
three a.m. I looked at the timetable and saw that the first bus was due in
at six, three hours away. I wrapped myself in my overcoat and lay down
on a bench in one of the covered shelters.
I dozed fitfully and was awake when the first bus arrived. From the
sign on the front I saw that the bus was going to York, which was as
good a destination as any, but at that moment I heard the door to the
station café open for business. I checked the time table and saw that the
first bus to Doncaster was due to arrive at eight, so I nursed a cup of tea
and ate a stale sandwich and waited for the bus to arrive.
At five past ten a.m. I walked into my parent‟s house and said
“Happy New Year”. My Mum and Gran were delighted to see me, and
to my amazement even my dad seemed happy about it. In the evening
we all gathered at my Aunt‟s house to toast the new year, and I caught
up with the news from my cousins.
On New Year‟s day, 1961, I ‟d recovered from whatever had
troubled me and Mum asked how long I could stay. I had not told her
that I had virtually finished with University, and left her believing that I
was still immersed in studies. I said I could stay a week and that seemed
to please everyone, including my Dad. Later my Mum told me that Dad
was basking in reflected glory at the pit as the story went round that his
oldest son was a student at Leeds University; even the pit under-manager
had come down to the locker room to congratulate Dad and shake his
hand. Amongst his peers at the colliery it was still beyond belief that
one of their children could make it to university, and he was finally
forced to accept that my academic accomplishment was worth
something.
Back at Leeds and with time on my hands it was no surprise that I
should start looking for other mental stimulation. I‟d read some of
Freud‟s works and became interested in the study of psychology, which
led me to Hans Eysenck‟s „Sense and Nonsense in Psychology‟, a
chapter of which in turn led to an interest in Hypnosis.
A book on the subject provided all I needed, including the „patter‟
with notes on when to slow down, when to lower the voice, when to
whisper and how to finish up the „spiel‟. I couldn‟t wait to try it out, and
the results were staggering. I never lacked for subjects, and found very
few who I could not hypnotise. I experimented at large with post
hypnotic suggestion.
-- I had Henry seeing cats where there were no cats; one of them
jumped onto his lap.
-- On another occasion I told Henry that when he awoke he would
not be able to rest until he opened and closed an umbrella, then we hid
all the umbrellas. I thought Henry would knock down the walls in his
search for an umbrella, and in the end we let him find one. He opened it,
closed it, and sat down with a sigh. I asked him why he needed to do
this, and he said that as the weather forecast was for rain he needed to be
sure that a working brolly was within reach, an interesting demonstration
of how the mind demands a logical explanation even when there isn‟t
one, and will go to great lengths to justify irrational behaviour. (Many
years later I would have good reason to remember that experiment).
-- Hours after being given a post-hypnotic suggestion, I gave Bert a
signal – three coughs – which caused him to scratch his forearm.
Unfortunately I hadn‟t told him to stop, and he scratched until he was
bleeding. Until I had re-hypnotised him and removed the suggestion I
had to be very careful to cough any number of times except three.
-- in another demonstration of reckless endangerment I forgot to
mention to Bert that he would return completely to normal on emerging
from the trance, and I must have overdone the „drifting into darkness‟
theme in the induction patter. Bert awoke blind, and in a panic.
Working hard to control my own panic I was eventually able to re-
hypnotise him and correct my error.
Other students at Leeds heard about my experiments and came to
learn (I lent them the book). Most of these were young men hoping to
use the technique to get girls into bed, but from what I had read nobody
could be hypnotised to do anything against their waking code of morals.
I never found out if any of the would-be seducers had any success.
One young man came to meet me to discuss his own work with
hypnosis, as he had been practicing it for over a year. He spoke
enthusiastically about the results he had obtained in hypnotic regression,
taking his subjects back to previous lives. I read about Bridey Murphy,
a case of past-life regression which had even been made into a movie,
and several other intriguing stories of past life recollection, but never
had the nerve to try this for myself.
In my last attempt at hypnosis I was challenged at a stag party to
hypnotise the host. The other attendees, all of them very drunk at this
stage of the party, cheered me on. I dimmed the lights and went into the
spiel, listening for the regular breathing which would tell me that I was
on track. I counted backwards from ten, and switched on the lights. The
host grinned at me and said „see? Told you!‟. Every other guest at the
party was deep into the trance, and when I awakened them they were all
stone cold sober.
My interest in hypnosis lead to a fascination with metaphysics, which
included ESP and occult practices, plus some areas of witchcraft and
pagan religions. I think I was probably the hardest working student in
my group for a while. I have two books which I bought that year, „The
Astral Body‟ and „The Mental Body‟ by Lt. Colonel Arthur E. Powell,
published in 1910. The price is marked inside the flyleaf. It speaks
highly of my interest that I paid ten shillings for each book, a small
fortune to a young student at that time.
At the end of the year we marched once more into the exam room.
This time it might as well have been in Greek. I spent the requisite time
and left. I waited to see whether Bert would have any chance this year,
but he was close behind me. Henry, Sam and Nipper came out together
a minute later.
 Our Physics Tutor was very upset when he called us in together. He
offered us a switch to Engineering if we wished, and promised to see to
the continuity of our grants. I seriously considered this for a while, but
then told him „no, thanks‟. I shook his hand, and left. I told him I was
off to join the Royal Air Force.
Chapter Two: Depression Checklist: Warning Signs:
#1 Feelings of helplessness and hopelessness; No.
#2 Loss of interest in daily activities; Yes.
#3 Appetite or Weight changes; No.
#4 Sleep changes; insomnia; oversleeping; Yes.
#5 Anger or Irritability; Some, but minor.
#6 Loss of energy; No.
#7 Self Loathing; No.
#8 Reckless Behaviour; Yes.
#9 Concentration problems; trouble focusing; No;
#10 Unexplained Aches and Pains; No.
 Chapter Three:
Early to Middle Twenties
1961 -- 1965

Even before our exams Bert and I had taken a bus to Tetley‟s
massive brewery on the outskirts of Leeds to ask about summer jobs.
We were sent to meet the cellar foreman, who asked us each to lift a
small keg weighing about 50 pounds, which we both did easily. H e told
us to report for work the following week for a period of trial and
instruction. For the week we would be paid £5, and if we passed we
would be asked to join the union as temporary members, after which we
would be paid a cellarman‟s wage minus dues, taxes and sundry other
stoppages.
When we arrived for work we were each fitted with wooden clogs
which gave the best grip on concrete floors which were often flooded
with beer. We were each given a „crutch‟, a four foot length of broom
handle with a small crosspiece fixed to the end, which was the tool of
choice for rolling heavy barrels from point A to point B. We passed the
probation week easily, met with Alf from the Union and signed the
forms, and by the next week we were shepherding 54 gallon Hogsheads,
weighing close to 600 pounds, through crowded cellars as though born
to it.
These jobs ended in September, and by that time I had a little more
than £60 in my pocket, and it was time to start looking for permanent
employment. When I pondered the alternatives, and taking into account
my Dad‟s newfound laid back attitude, I went home.

About living at home:

I was not happy to be back in Doncaster, but the joy in my Mum‟s
eyes made things easier. My Gran was smiling and crying at the same
time. I told my Mum that I was only home to serve as a base while I
looked for a job, and that I would pay for my keep at £3 10 shillings a
week, which is what my landladies at Leeds had been getting. I half
expected my Mum to refuse money, and was ready to insist, but she said
fine, and we shook hands on the deal.
 My Dad seemed curious more than anything, and when I told him
bluntly that I‟d dropped out he just seemed a bit upset, probably
wondering how to tell his mates at the pit. When I told him that I was
paying my keep and, it would only be until my commission came
through from the RAF, he nodded and actually smiled at me. A son
going off to be an officer in the Royal Air Force probably brought more
kudos than an undergrad student ever could.

About the Royal Air Force:

In 1961 few people had telephones in their homes and the concept of
the mobile phone had not even occurred to writers of the most far out
science fiction. On Monday morning I hiked the mile and a half to the
nearest phone box, a pile of pennies in my pocket, and asked the
operator to connect me to the RAF. She asked me which branch and I
told her I wanted to join up. There was a short pause and a few clicks
and a voice said “Recruiting.”
I was told to show up at the nearest recruiting office, which was in
Sheffield, with my GCE certificates in my pocket and something to
prove I was at Leeds for two years. There was another pause and the
voice asked whether I could be there tomorrow afternoon and I said that
I could.
I was interviewed by a junior officer who looked not much older than
myself and told to report the following Monday morning to the Biggin
Hill airfield, just outside London. Biggin Hill was a very famous field,
having covered itself in glory during the days when The Few had
defended England at a terrible cost. I just hoped that somebody asked
my dad where his son was this week.
I spent three enjoyable days at Biggin Hill, being put through some
of the most convoluted tests ever used to torture RAF candidates. We
were sent out onto the field in groups of six. When my turn came to be
the group leader I was faced with two wooden frames about the size of
soccer goalposts set into the ground about eight feet apart. I was given
two eight foot planks, a large coil of rope and two empty 50 gallon metal
drums. The drums were said to contain sensitive scientific instruments,
the gap between the goal posts was a bottomless chasm, and my job was
to get the drums and all team members safely across the chasm and then
retrieve the boards and the rope.
Half an hour later one of my team had made it across the chasm with
one drum, and one of my team was still hanging on the rope at the mid
point of the gap. I no longer cared since I was one of the four corpses at
the bottom of the chasm. Some of the tests were even more vindictive.
At the bar that evening, after we had all been resurrected, the barman
told me that he‟d never known anybody get more than one person across
the chasm, and it was quite rare for either of the oil drums to survive.
The fate of the candidates or the metal drums was irrelevant, he told me.
The test was to see if I could take charge and show initiative. Whether I,
the other players or the „instruments‟ lived to tell the tale was of lesser
importance.
After three days we were put onto a bus and driven to the RAF
medical centre, near London, for a full physical. The barman told me
that nobody ever fails the physical; if you‟re breathing when you walk
in, you‟re in. He was wrong.
The tests were painless and I managed to conceal my fear of white
coated medical technicians. My ears were so exceptionally good that
they called a specialist in to find out how I was cheating; I wasn‟t. The
final test was an eye exam. The technician took my glasses and said
“Wow, these are thick lenses. You know that you can‟t be considered
for aircrew?” I nodded. “Good, then. In that case, all you need to do is
read the top two lines of the chart without your glasses,” he said.
I couldn‟t. The technician even quietly offered to turn away while I
had a quick close up peek at the card, but I thought it might be a trick to
test my integrity and I wouldn‟t do it. An officer was called to ask for
permission to ignore the rule book since I‟d apparently passed all the
other tests – including the bottomless chasm -- with flying colours. The
officer was as skinny as a broom handle and just as rigid. Rules are
there to be obeyed, he said, and seemed annoyed at the technician for
disturbing him with such a silly enquiry.
The official rejection arrived in the post the following week. I think
my Dad was just itching to start up again with his „you‟ll never get a
job‟ rant. I walked over to my aunt Nellie‟s house for tea and a chat,
and my uncle was just home from work. “You should drop in at the
labour exchange” he told me. “They have all kinds of jobs, not just
garbage men and navvies, you know.” I didn‟t know. I went down the
next morning.
 About Looking For Work:
At the labour exchange I spoke to a nice young woman who was
impressed by my qualifications. “With two years University you really
need the Professional Register, they‟re the ones who have the kind of
jobs you‟re looking for.” “Sounds good to me,” I told her. “Just point
the way.” “It‟s in Sheffield,” she said.
By the end of the week I had shown my credentials and was signed
on to the Professional register. Every Monday a typewritten letter would
drop through the mailbox giving me details of the newly listed jobs they
thought appropriate to my qualifications. Several vacancies were for
„Trainees‟, particularly „Management Trainees‟ in various industries.
These really interested me but the money was pathetic. One was in
Doncaster, and I called in to chat with the HR folk. The company made
ice cream, popsicles and other frozen goods which they sold wholesale
to various companies, including the ice cream company I‟d worked for,
who resold to the public under their own names. The HR man walked
with me through the factory. “This is not for you,” he said to me. “You
can do much, much better.”
By November it was beginning to look like he was wrong. I‟d had
two interviews with the Government‟s Department of Scientific and
Industrial Research, but both were lab jobs, and in the words of one
interviewer “We‟re really looking for young lads just out of school with
a couple of science O-levels. You‟re a bit overqualified for these jobs.”
Everybody was telling me that I was over qualified and that I could do
better. I semi-seriously considered going back to the brewery where the
beer was free and I could pile on some muscle. There was little left of
my £60, and I certainly wasn‟t squandering money.
I was becoming very depressed, and if I‟d known the difference
between „depressed‟, „clinically depressed‟, „bipolar‟ and „manic
depressive‟ I wouldn‟t have cared.
And then at the eleventh hour a letter dropped through the mailbox
with a job that looked like the answer to my prayers; except that it was
based in Doncaster.
 About British Ropes:
British Ropes was advertising a position in their Physical Test Labs
for the Head of the “Inquest Section”, which was responsible for the
examination of wire ropes which had failed in service, often at great cost
and sometimes loss of life. Knowledge of wire rope manufacture an
asset but not essential. The ideal candidate will have A-levels in science
and mathematics. Some University will be an asset but not essential. It
was me. I had all the required qualifications and some „assets‟. I could
not let it pass. I trudged up to the phone box and made an appointment
for an interview. All I could think of on the way home was “It‟s in
Doncaster; It‟s in bloody Doncaster.”
I started work the following week. My pay was £7 a week, and half
went straight to my Mum. My first pay packet arrived just in time, as
the last of my savings had gone the previous week. Even if this is the
job of my dreams, I promised myself, I will not give up searching; but it
was beginning to look as though some cruel fate was playing an evil
joke on me. I was back in bloody Doncaster.
The job sounded much better than it was; true, I was responsible for
„inquests‟ on broken ropes, but they just didn‟t break that often. I was
told tales about the elevator rope that killed a dozen people in South
America: The rope broke because although it was the correct rope for
the job, the elevator required four of them, not just one. The crane rope
that broke and dropped its load through the bottom of the ship, which
sank: wire ropes come from the factory coated with a heavy grease.
This must be inspected and repaired every 6 months. This rope was six
years old and had never been inspected or re-greased; it was more rust
than steel. There were more stories, lots more, but no broken ropes
arrived for an „inquest‟.
I resolved to pass the time by learning how to operate every piece of
equipment in the shop. Three months later I could do that, plus I could
look at the broken end of any piece of wire under a microscope and tell
you exactly how and why it had broken. Still no broken ropes arrived.
Doncaster wasn‟t all bad. I had my first sexual relationship in 1962,
and four months later I had my second. From these I learned four
important things:
 1). Sex is the best and most important thing in the world when you
are young. If you are not having sex you are just passing time until you
are having sex again.
2). Women (most women) are the greatest of all God‟s creations and
men (all men) should go down on their knees every day to thank him for
this incredible gift.
3) Women (some women) are not content to lie down, close their
eyes and think of England. Women (some women) actually enjoy sex.
Women (some women) actually enjoy sex very much.
4) I still didn‟t understand women.
My Gran stayed with her offspring in turns, and was living with my
aunt in the summer of ‟62 when she became mentally unstable. Gran
held conversations with the TV news announcer and made preparations
for a picnic when he came to collect her in his new car. She thought I
was her dead husband and berated me for losing my new pipe. She
whispered that my uncle had rigged up a system of ropes and pulleys to
drag her upstairs at night because she climbed the stairs too slowly to
suit him. My aunt got very upset at Gran‟s antics and screamed at her
constantly, calling her a „stupid old woman‟. My brother, wise beyond
his years, said my aunt was acting out of fear that she would follow Gran
into madness when her time came -- a prediction that unfortunately
turned out to be accurate. He and I played along with Gran‟s fantasies
and told her we would sneak in that night and destroy my uncle‟s
fiendish machine.
Gran slipped away quietly one night in early autumn. I hope that her
husband had found his lost pipe before Gran met up with him.
At the beginning of December 1962 I was called to the Director‟s
office. I‟d had little to do with the Big Boss in the time I‟d been at B.R.,
in fact I‟d only seen him once and at a distance. I‟d thought we were
going to talk about a Christmas Bonus and a raise in salary but instead of
a bonus he gave me the sack. I think he was wondering why BR needed
an Inquest Section which never did any inquests, and I admit the thought
had occurred to me too, but that didn‟t make it better. I was upset and
angry, but a small part of me was pleased. It was a pro d by fate, telling
me that I wasn‟t working hard enough on my lifelong vow to leave the
barbaric north of England in search of civility and opportunity.
At home I moped about, lethargic, not motivated to do anything.
Perhaps my Dad was right and I could never hold a job. In mid
December I told my parents that I had quit the job at British Ropes, and
that I was leaving in the new year for London.
My father had reverted to his old self in recent months, probably
dating back to my rejection letter from the Air Force, and would make
very hurtful and insulting comments for no apparent reason. He asked
me what kind of a man still lived with his Mum and Dad at the age of 21
and didn‟t have a job, and could I please give him some idea of when I
might finally learn to stand on my own feet. I pointed out that I was
paying my way and if he wanted me out I could easily find digs for what
I was paying my Mum. He asked if I thought he‟d miss my pathetic
little contribution to the family funds and my Mum exploded. “Where
do you think those Sunday roasts come from?” she asked him. “You‟ll
miss your big Sunday dinners because they end when our Barry goes.
And we‟ve got money in our Holiday jar for the first time since I can
remember, and I don‟t owe the grocery man anything because of the
money your son brings me. Sometimes I wonder where our Barry gets
his brains, because it‟s certainly not from you!” I thought it would be a
good idea for me to get out of there as soon as possible.

About The Fishburn Printing Ink Company:

Once again fate stepped in at the 11th hour, or to be accurate, the
16th of December. A company which made Printer‟s Ink was looking
for technicians for its Watford Lab. They were looking for science A-
levels, preferably some University, not necessarily a degree. Knowledge
of printers or their inks was not needed but the successful candidate was
to be enrolled in Watford Technical College‟s Printing Technology
course leading to a City and Guilds diploma in Printing Science. I
looked up Watford on the map and found it was north of London on the
Bakerloo line.
 I was far too dispirited to be cheered by this, but had to admit that the
job sounded good. The salary on starting was £750 per year, more than
twice what I had been making at British Ropes.
I remembered that Nipper was working in London, and I wrote to his
parents home in Devon for his address. In England at that time a letter
was often delivered the same day it was sent. I wrote to Nip and told
him about the job I was considering and asked if we could meet up if I
were to get the job. Nipper wrote back the next day to say that he was
living in Harrow, fifteen minutes from Watford on the Bakerloo tube.
Though he went to work in the opposite direction, Harrow would be an
ideal location for me to find lodgings, or, if I fancied it, we could get
together and look for a two bedroom flat. I wrote him that I would love
to share a flat, so start looking. That only left the formality of getting
the job.
I called the number and made an appointment for an interview,
rented a car and took off for the south. I got a warm welcome from the
company‟s Chief Chemist who showed me into his spacious and
comfortable office. I looked around and thought “one day, Barry, one
day.” The interview was short and straight to the point. He said “I see
you didn‟t complete your Chemistry Degree .” I thought „He thinks I
studied Chemistry at Leeds.‟ I‟d never studied chemistry at any level but
it was true that I didn‟t complete a chemistry degree at Leeds so I just
said “That‟s correct.” “Well,” he said “No matter. Your qualifications
are very good; your maths skills can be put to good use here. Would you
like to see the labs?” The labs were like any labs, full of technicians
wearing lab coats which had once been white but were now covered in
every possible colour. I saw that their hands were likewise coloured and
so were some of the faces. He asked “How do you find the smell? It
gets to some people.” It was a strong smell, full of aromatic solvents and
other things which I couldn‟t identify. I replied truthfully that I found the
smell very pleasant. “Well, Barry” he said “The job is yours if you want
it. HR will send you a letter next week.”
I was offered the job at £750 and asked to start a.s.a.p. I wrote back
to say I‟d like to spend Christmas with my family and start early in the
new year. They said OK. Welcome to the Fishburn Printing Ink
Company. And Goodbye to Doncaster – again. Let‟s hope this time I
can make it stick.

About Life in London:

Fishburns had much to recommend it: Someone in Personnel must
have noticed that University dropouts have the smarts of degree holders,
know almost as much and can be had for less money. They don‟t act
like Divas or expect to start at Executive levels. As a result the labs
were full of dropouts from several English universities, including one
young man who had the distinction of having dropped out of Cambridge.
My job was in Quality Control. The Techs were a happy, lively
bunch who joked, laughed and sang their way through their days, with
Management‟s full approval so long as the calibre of the work did not
suffer. It did not. Behind the bluster and practical jokes none of us
would allow any aspect of our work to suffer. Most of the techs had
worked elsewhere before coming to Fishburns. We knew what we had,
and appreciated it.
Nipper and I had discovered that two bedroom flats were outside our
price range, but found a large room which included two beds, a small
kitchen (never used for anything other than tea and toast) and even a
dining table. There was a gas fire which ate shilling coins and provided
just enough heat on a cold winter day to keep us both warm if we hung
over the top of it. I bought a used guitar at a nearby pawnshop, and we
were all set and settled.
Bert visited and told us he was a Management Trainee with a big
department store chain. Their head office was in Manchester, and Bert
figured that if he kept his nose clean, learned the business and got six or
seven promotions he would reach the executive level with a big corner
office on the top floor with a view of the company heliport on the roof. I
thought that those seven promotions might be an obstacle and said so;
most people were lucky to get one or two throughout their working life.
Bert said not if he married the CEO‟s daughter, but I‟d seen Bert with
his fiancée and knew he was just kidding.
I found out quite early that Fishburns was a thriving enterprise and
there was usually work to be had on Saturdays (at double time) and often
on Sundays (at triple time). Working a full Saturday and a half day
Sunday effectively doubled my wages and I soon had money in the bank
and a fat wallet for evenings in the local pub. At weekends Nip and I
would often rent a little Austin Mini, and take off to some place or other,
sometimes taking roads at random to see where they led. We motored up
to Doncaster where I delighted my Mum and confabulated my Dad by
telling him that I expected to break the ₤1,000 a year barrier this year,
quite possibly by several hundred pounds.
When I had proved my worth in QC I was moved to the Colour
Matching section, to which printers would send details of their needs,
usually an artist‟s mock-up or colour swatch, and we would find the
exact match of pigments to produce the ink. The matcher was also
responsible for formulation of the ink, taking into account the type of
paper, the type of press and all the other factors which could influence
the way the job would turn out. I was set to work under an experienced
mentor, who was unfailingly helpful and unfailingly kind. His name
was Stephen.
When I went before the Chief Chemist for my annual review he said
he was very pleased with my progress, and awarded me a ₤17 a year
raise.

About The Flat:

Shortly after Nipper and I moved in together he got a call from a
friend who lived nearby in a three bedroom flat, the second and third
levels of a three story house. Four young men lived there, but one had
just received a promotion which involved moving away so there was a
vacancy which was offered to Nipper. When he explained our situation
he was told “We could probably squeeze in one more, and it would help
with the rent. Let‟s have a look at your room-mate and see if we could
all get along.”
Nip‟s friend, who went by the name Em, was a lovely young man,
naturally friendly and with a great sense of humour; very easy to get
along with. When Nip and I went to see the flat Em and his friends had
prepared a full roast dinner for us, complete with Yorkshire pudding. I
told them “Let‟s clear this up at the start; I can boil an egg and put
butter on toast but I can‟t compete with this haute cuisine; it‟s as good as
what comes out of my Mum‟s kitchen even if I wouldn‟t say it in her
hearing.” “Glad to hear it!” Em said “Because it‟s usuall y takeout fish
and chips.” Nipper and I gave notice the next morning and moved in the
end of the week.
My Doncaster romance was under a strain. Even though she was
making preparations to move to London I think we both knew it was on
the rocks. She was a beautiful, good hearted young woman but I could
not provide the high-flying lifestyle she needed, and I doubted that I
would ever be able to do so. I scouted apartments in south London for
her and the girlfriend who was moving with her. I found a nice flat with
views of a park in the area she wanted and put down the £5 security
deposit thinking it might be my farewell gift to her – which turned out to
be true.
I asked the boys if any of their girlfriends had a lovely blonde buddy
who was unattached and looking for love, but it turned out that none of
them had girlfriends. That was easily fixed. “We have to go where the
girls are,” I told them. “Where are the girls?” After some discussion
we decided that the Young Liberal Association might be a good pl ace to
start. Young Labour girls dressed in leather and fancied bikers while the
Young Conservative girls would never look twice at a young man who
owned anything less than a late model Jaguar. I asked directions to the
nearest phone box and was pleased to learn that the apartment had a
phone, and that it came with a directory! Once we found the phone
(behind the sofa) and the directory (under the sofa) I rang the Young
Libs‟ number and spoke with a nice sounding young woman. I told her
we were five university grads sharing a flat in Harrow and we were just
starting to take an interest in politics and were eager to learn something
about the Liberal Party. The lady was as good to look at as she was to
listen to when she arrived the next evening with an equally good looking
friend. We were invited to a party next Friday and a tennis get together
at the local park on Saturday. I locked horns with a Young Liberal chap
who thought we were just there after their girls until I assured him that
nothing could be further from the truth; however, five girlfriends, three
engagements and two marriages followed from that phone call. „R‟, the
eldest of the five of us met a girl at the tennis tourney, proposed the
following weekend, married the next month and put a deposit on a house
before the year was out; so we were back to four.

About Moving On:

By the middle of 1964 I was an accomplished colour matcher,
formulator and quality control technician. I was also working morning
and evening shifts occasionally during which I was the sole technician
and the gatekeeper to prevent problematic inks leaving the factory. This
was a great show of confidence in me by the company, and I was very
pleased. It also meant more money. With shift work pay plus several
weekends I made enough to buy a small car – a BMW Isetta, a three
wheeler „bubble car‟ with room for two, powered by a legendary BMW
motorcycle engine. To my amazement, girls loved my little car and it
got me more dates than my friend Tony got with his Austin Healy Sprite
sports car.
Fishburns was good to me and treated me fairly, but I could not see a
future there. The lab employed about thirty technicians, many as well
qualified as myself, and most of them senior to me. My prospects for
promotion were therefore small to none. There was one lab chief, who
was not much older than I, and two section heads who looked to be
settled in their current jobs for life. A rumour went around the lab that
FPI intended to open a sub-plant somewhere near Liverpool, but the
rumour also said that the manager would be our Cambridge drop out, a
man of uncertain abilities, it was said, but with impeccable connections.
(In the event the job went to Stephen, a wise and popular choice.)
Anyway, I would not have moved back north for any amount of
money. I found Londoners to be, for the most part, considerate and
polite. Drivers on a major road would even stop to let me in from a side
road sometimes, with a nice little wave and a smile. Civilised. Very
civilised.

Sideline: Confirmation:
On a trip back to Doncaster a parked car was blocking a parking
space I wanted to use. I honked my horn and the driver moved on for
me. I waved my thanks to the man and, being in a hurry, started to run to
the store where my Mum was waiting, but the man apparently felt that
the wave was not good enough recognition for his noble act and started
shouting obscenities at me. I walked back to him, smiling. He squared
his shoulders and clenched his fists, ready to fight over this! I extended
my hand and said to him: “Thank you, sir. Thank you so much. You‟ll
never know how much your gesture means to me. I‟m absolutely certain
now that I‟m making the right move. Thanks again.” Thoroughly
confused he took my hand and shook it while I continued to express my
thanks. As I trotted off I heard him say to the woman he was with: “E‟s
not right in t‟head, that one.”
My mentor, Stephen, introduced me to the Daily Telegraph cryptic
crossword, which became a habit for the next half century. I took to
buying the paper at the Harrow station and working on it while on the
train to Watford. At work the Techs would compare notes and trade
clues, and if the crossword was not completed by quitting time I would
take the paper home. One evening after I‟d finished the puzzle I browsed
the paper and found the „situations vacant‟ section. From that time on I
would read the „sits vac‟ section even before turning to the crossword
page. Within the first week I found a posting for a lab tech in a paint
manufacturer‟s works in New Zealand. I wrote an application, heard
nothing for weeks and then a brief letter saying that the post had been
filled.
A week later a post appeared for an Ink Technician in New York at
an incredible starting salary of $12,000 a year – about four times what I
was making at FPI even with all my extras. I replied to the ad and was
later interviewed by a London Head-Hunter recruiting on behalf of his
client -- which turned out to be one of Fishburn‟s competitors. The Head
Hunter seemed enthusiastic at the interview, but nothing came of it, and
I heard later that the New York CEO had written to the Fishburn CEO to
say we won‟t steal your Techs if you promise not to go after ours. I was
pissed off, but not downhearted. Fishburns was losing its Technical staff
at a rate of three or four a year, and I was determined to be one of them.
 About Emigration:
In 1965 the British Brain Drain was in full swing. One of my
colleagues took off for Australia on a £10 assisted passage, having been
assured by the people at Australia House that he would have no
difficulty in finding a job. His wife would follow when he was
established. Another colleague left for the USA.
I‟d looked at employment possibilities with other Ink companies and
even gone to a couple of interviews, but if I was seeking a substantial
increase in pay or better opportunity for advancement I decided that I‟d
better look offshore. Remembering the $12,000 starting salary for Ink
Techs in New York, I decided to go to the U.S.A. To celebrate my
decision I traded in my little bubble car and put £50 down on a 1961
Ford Anglia 105E.

Sideline: Going Anywhere Getting Nowhere:

Between leaving university and arriving in London I‟d had little
opportunity for hitch hiking or midnight walks. I slept poorly and woke
often, but the possibility of getting up and hitting the open road was just
not there any longer. I knew that my whole standard of living depended
on holding my job at Fishburns and I dared not put that in jeopardy. If I
lost my job I would be convinced that my father had been right. I‟d
rented a garage close to the flat and I thought that rather than go back to
Doncaster under those circumstances I would drive into my garage,
close the door, open all the car windows and turn on the engine. My
wanderlust was therefore held under very tight control.
Once I got my Anglia the desire to be out on the road came roaring
back. Some times it was enough just to sit in the car inside my garage
but at other times I would be overcome by the urge to go somewhere,
anywhere. I would head off towards the city and might find myself at
Piccadilly Circus or Marble Arch at two a.m. When I started to feel
better I would drive home and go to bed dressed so that I could get up
when my alarm buzzed and be at work on time. I was aware that by
going to work after only two or three hours sleep my mental sharpness
was likely to be impaired, and I would be specially attentive on such
days and double check everything I did. Nobody seemed to care if I
came to work untidy and unshaven occasionally. I spoke to Stephen of
my midnight wanderings and said that I was surprised nobody had ever
noticed. He told me they‟d noticed that I seemed to be the worse for
wear some mornings and my friends covered for me on such occasions.
Apparently my double checking had not been as thorough as I‟d thought.
He said the most popular theory was that I was a secret binge drinker,
and/or that I‟d been up to some mischief in the Soho red light district.
Whatever it was, he said, they‟d considered it none of their business. I
told him that I‟d be proud and pleased to return the favour for any of the
techs, and he said: “We know. That‟s why we do it for you.”

About Nipper’s Fiancée:

After we had found our girlfriends we had little to do with the Young
Liberals. Nipper‟s girlfriend, Em‟s and mine were, not surprisingly,
already friends so group dates were not unknown. My romance fizzled
after a few months, and the girl shortly started university, reading
History at, by odd coincidence, Leeds. By this ti me Nip and his girl,
Helen, had become engaged.
With my „new‟ Anglia I made regular trips north to see my Mum,
and Helen asked me one day if I would give her a ride to Doncaster and
drop her at the station so she could get a train to Leeds and spend some
time with my ex. I told her that I wouldn‟t dream of dropping her at the
station when Leeds was only 30 miles away, so on a beautiful sunny
Friday afternoon we set off for the north.
There was no motorway route from London to Doncaster at that time
and the A1 road meandered through several towns and hence several
traffic jams. The trip from London was not insubstantial, and though
only 156 miles the journey could take four hours or more -- one historic
drive from Doncaster to London had taken me 13 hours. Therefore it
was common practice to take a break half way, find a nice country pub
and stop for a pint and a snack. Helen and I took our drinks outside and
sat by the river watching the ducks and their offspring pass in formation.
Then Helen dropped a bombshell on me. She said that she was going to
break up with Nipper. Apparently this had been coming for quite a
while and would have happened months ago except that she knew he
would take it very hard and wanted to avoid this if there were any way to
do so. She‟d arranged this little trip because as Nip‟s best friend she
wanted my help in making the break as painless as possible for everyone
involved. She was very teary and came to me for a hug.
Helen was a good looking 18 year old girl; she had a stunning figure,
was vibrant, full of energy and fun to be with. It shames me to say that
my first thought was „she will soon be available‟. I couldn‟t offer much
in the way of advice except that she should not keep him hanging on.
Nip was a sensitive soul and must be aware that something was wrong,
so perhaps it wouldn‟t come as a complete surprise. To cut a long story
short, Helen and I became an „item‟ and married in the fall of 1965.
Chapter Three: Depression Checklist: Warning Signs:
#1 Feelings of helplessness and hopelessness; No.
#2 Loss of interest in daily activities; No.
#3 Appetite or Weight changes; No.
#4 Sleep changes; insomnia; oversleeping; Yes.
#5 Anger or Irritability; Some, but minor.
#6 Loss of energy; No.
#7 Self Loathing; No.
#8 Reckless Behaviour; Some, relatively minor.
#9 Concentration problems; trouble focusing; Unknown;
#10 Unexplained Aches and Pains; No.
 Interlude: The Head-hunter:
I came up from the tube only two streets away from the address in
the Daily Telegraph and my watch read 9:45, with 15 minutes until my
interview. I felt that being early could be regarded in the same light as
being late so I walked slowly around the block twice and rang the bell at
exactly 10:00 o‟clock. A smartly dressed middle aged lady opened the
door and invited me in. “I‟m here about the ink technician job in New
York,” I told her. “The one advertised in yesterday‟s „Telegraph‟.” “Of
course,” she said. “If you‟d like to take a seat, Mr. Jackman will be with
you shortly”. Ten minutes later Mr. Jackman came into the office,
looked at me and left. I bit down on my tongue and did a few deep
breathing exercises to calm down. Since the RAF Assessment I was
always on guard. If they were testing my ability to stay cool, I would
not disappoint them. After another ten minutes Jackman came back and
beckoned me to follow him. He led me to a small bare white-walled
room with a tiny table and a wooden chair; there were some papers and a
pencil on the table. He indicated for me to sit down. “Standard Tests,”
he said. “Twenty minutes.” He left.
I took off my watch and set it in front of me so that I could keep one
eye on the time. This was not at all what I had expected; I was back in
school, wondering if I‟d revised enough, wondering what the questions
would be. Only one way to find out. I turned over the paper.
The questions on the paper were what I would call „brain teasers‟; I
wondered why the New York Ink Company wanted to know if I could
do brain teasers. I reminded myself that the Ink Company was offering
$12,000 a year starting salary. I would show them that I could do brain
teasers with the best of them.
What is the next number In this series: 1,2,4,7 ? Easy, skip 1, then
2, then 3, then 4. Answer 11.
What letter comes next: M,T,W,T? Trick question, these are days of
the week. Answer F.
Which is odd man out? 4, 8, 12, 13. Easy 13 is prime.
I filled in the numbers until my pencil was worn down, then used the
pen I had brought with me. In a lot of cases, especially those with multi-
choice answer boxes, I went by intuition and checked the answer I felt
was right. It would be stupid to get hung up on one question when I
could be answering a dozen in the same amount of time. If my intuition
misled me I still had a one in four chance of being right. I checked the
clock, lots of time. I finished the last page with a few minutes left so I
went looking for Jackman. I found him with the lady I had met at the
door. He raised his eyebrows at me. “Are you giving up?” he asked me.
“No, I‟ve finished them,” I said. He gave me a funny look. “Are you
joking? Nobody finishes them!” “Well I did!” Jackman took the papers
and scurried away. I looked around and found a chair. I tried to chat
with the nice lady but she wouldn‟t talk. Ten minutes later Jackman
came back, but it was a different Jackman.
“Please come this way, Mr. Daniels,” he said, smiling. “So sorry to
keep you waiting. Emma, find Mr. Daniels a coffee, will you?” “Tea
would be nice,” I said.
His office was twice the size of Fishburn‟s Chief Chemist, and full of
leather. I sank so far down into the chair that I worried I would not be
able to climb out.
“Your IQ is off the chart,” he said, looking as if this were something
special. “But I suppose you know that,” I smiled and nodded, trying to
recall what the I and Q stood for. “The chart goes up to 135,” he said.
“It goes higher but it‟s no longer accurate; there is a different set of
questions for the higher levels, but we‟ve never needed them until now.”
I recalled from my psychology readings at Leeds that IQ was some
sort of a ratio. The ratio of „mental age‟ to „physical age‟ sounded right,
which meant that if my IQ was 135, my physical age was 24, then my
mental age must be 32. I didn‟t think that was in any way special, or
why it was worth the bother of measuring. I knew several people in
their thirties and some of them were barely above the „developmentally
challenged‟ category. Still, if he was happy about it then so was I.
“The Ink Technician job pays $12,000 to start, is that right?” I said,
wanting to get some focus to our interview. “My dear Mr. Daniels,” he
looked straight at me, “That job is not for you. You‟re worth far more
than that,” „Oh, ho‟ I thought, „been here before.‟
I left with the assurance that he would talk to his New York client
and get back to me with a range of options for employment. I would
have a choice of jobs? Worth far more than $12,000 per annum? I was
still grinning when I got on the Tube back to Harrow. I f elt like I was
Alice, just back from Wonderland.
I never heard from Jackman again.
A week later I was working on the QC bench when a man I‟d seen
around but did not know came into the lab. He had a word with one of
my colleagues, who pointed at me. The man came over, and beckoned
for me to follow him into the factory and in a quiet area by the loading
dock he introduced himself. “I‟m Trevor,” he said. “I work in the office;
I send and receive Faxes for the brass. This came in yesterday.” He
handed me a paper. It was a FAX message from the company I‟d applied
to in New York addressed to Fishburn‟s CEO. Paraphrasing the content,
it said “One of your lab technicians, Mr. Barry Daniels, has applied for a
position with our company. Our man in London speaks very highly of
Daniels and suggests we make him a generous offer. We are tempted to
do so, but you will then need a replacement and will probably raid us, or
our UK affiliate. Let‟s stop this before it starts. We won‟t poach your
techs if you don‟t poach ours.” There was no signature.
“I could get fired for showing you this,” Trevor said. “Please don‟t
do anything to give me away,” “I‟m not going to do anything,” I told
him. “Don‟t worry. I owe you.”
I went to the Harrow Public Library and found out what IQ was all
about. It wasn‟t about being 32. It meant I was very smart, smarter than
most people. No big deal, I‟d always known that.
 Chapter Four:
Mid Twenties to Early Thirties
1965 - 1970

About Emigration:
I‟d discussed my intention to emigrate with Helen before we married,
thinking that she might not be happy with me if I tried to take her away
from friends and family, but it turned out that she was as enthusiastic
about it as I was.
We liked the idea of the USA, and thought we could get used to their
affluent lifestyle without any trouble. After that came Australia and
New Zealand, in either order. We gave some thought to the £10 assisted
travel program being offered by Australia. A friend had taken that route
a year or so ago, but I recalled him mentioning that the package came
with several caveats, including a pledge to remain in Oz for some time
even if we hated it. A colleague at work suggested to me that I should
check with the U.S. Embassy whether I would be eligible for their draft;
instead of a plush apartment overlooking Central Park I could find
myself fighting Viet Cong and mosquitoes the size of small birds in
some dense Vietnamese jungle. We took this very seriously, though I
doubted that the US Defense Department would be any keener to take
me on than the RAF had been.
One spring evening in 1966 I came home to find Helen in a bouncy
mood and before I was even into the apartment she pushed a copy of the
Telegraph into my hand; it was folded neatly and there was a big circle
around the ad which had sparked her mood. The Canadian Government
Printing Bureau, sometimes referred to as the Queen‟s Printer for
Canada, had built a new lab in their Ottawa premises and were looking
to hire three technicians to work in it. Starting salary $5,885; close to
£2,000.
When I‟d decided to emigrate I‟d never considered Canada. I knew
very little about it. I knew that Diefenbaker was President, it snows all
year round, most people speak French and the Royal Canadian Mounted
Police always get their man. Four „facts‟, three of which were wrong,
and I wasn‟t 100% sure about the Mounties. But this job brought Canada
well into the frame.
Interviews were being held at a downtown London hotel. Please
contact Mr. Zed at the given telephone number. Zed answered on the
second ring. He told me he had heard a rumour that a U.K. University
had introduced a degree course in Printing Science, and did I know
anything about it? I said I was fairly certain I would have heard of it if
there was one, perhaps he was thinking of the City and Guilds Diploma
in Print Science offered by Watford Technical college. He asked if I
was familiar with the course, and I said “Yes, I‟m on it. I sit my finals
later this year.” He asked about my GCE qualifications and sounded
impressed. He was staying at his sister‟s home in High Wycombe, and
asked whether I‟d mind driving there for the interview. He asked if
there was a Mrs. Daniels and I said yes, she‟s a computer programmer.
He said I sounded very promising, and he‟d like to meet us both, if Mrs.
Daniels had no objection. We settled on a time and he gave me the
address. I hung up the phone. Helen and I bounced home together.

About the Interview:

Zed gave me his card which told me that he was the Director of
Research and Industrial Engineering at the Government Printing Bureau
in Canada, which sounded very impressive. He opened with the familiar
comment that I was overqualified for a lab technician position. I laughed
at that and explained why. He said that it wasn‟t meant as a negative
comment and that if I brought more to the job than it required, that
would be the Bureau‟s gain, so being overqualified was a positive thing
in this case. I thought that was a very good way of putting it and said
how pleased I was to hear it.
Zed struck me as an easy going man, always with a slight smile on
his lips, and I relaxed a little. He said to me “OK, here you are; here I
am; go ahead and convince me to hire you.” I‟d spent hours preparing
my spiel, so I took a deep breath and hoped I could remember it all:
“I‟m sure you‟ve heard the old saying that ink is 5% of the cost of a
job but causes 95% of the trouble in the pressroom. Let‟s imagine that
there has been an ink problem in your pressroom; unfortunately, for
most printers this is not a difficult thing to imagine. Ink problems can
have many causes, but 90% of them fall into four categories: flow, tack,
drying and grind. There are tests for all of these, and if the ink goes
wrong on the press I‟d bet good money that some technician has missed
one or more of the tests or at least not done them correctly. Sloppy work.
But that won‟t happen at the Printing Bureau because I will catch
anything the manufacturer‟s techs may have missed well before their ink
reaches the pressroom. I‟ll have a sample of that ink – every ink -- taken
to the lab as soon as it arrives at the plant and all tests will be completed
within the hour. I don‟t miss tests. I don‟t do sloppy work. Anything
wrong with the ink will show up long before it gets to the pressroom. If
it can be fixed, I‟ll fix it, otherwise it‟s off back to the maker. Obviously
you‟d have a better idea of your annual losses than I, but if it‟s typical of
big print shops over here you‟re losing $50,000 a year or more due to
bad ink. Think of me as an investment of $5,885 to save perhaps ten
times that figure.”
There was more. I‟d timed my presentation at twenty two minutes.
When I finished Zed looked thoughtful. “What are your chances in
the City and Guilds exam?” he asked. “About 90% I‟d say. It depends a
lot on the practical exam. My Prof says it will probably be a colour
match this year, and that‟s what I do for a living.
“Are you familiar with the Addressograph machine?” he asked me.
I had no idea what an Addressograph machine was, but judging from
its name I thought it must have something to do with printing addresses.
A little desk top thing like I‟d seen the secretaries at FPI using. It
seemed a strange thing to ask about, but guessing that it used ink I
decided to wing it.
“I‟ve made ink for the Addressograph,” I told him. “So I know the
basics but I don‟t claim to be able to operate one. Do you use an
Addressograph?”
“Yes, we have over three hundred of them.”
I nodded but daren‟t venture anything more. Three hundred of
anything meant that it was important to the Bureau. I made a silent
prayer that the subject was done and we would move on. There was a
pause of about ten seconds which seemed like ten minutes.
 “I hadn‟t thought of hiring an ink specialist,” he said. “You say the
UK‟s leading printers are doing that?” “Yes. Otherwise if an ink
misbehaves on press it can take hours to get a technician out from your
supplier. By then the job is probably ruined, the customer is unhappy
and you‟re out big money.”
Again the silence stretched, but I knew that the ball was in his court.
I had given my best shot. Now all I could do was wait.
“Well, Barry,” he said at last, “I asked you to convince me, and you
have. The Printing Bureau needs an ink specialist, and I believe you‟re
the man for the job.”
I sat stunned. The best I had expected was: “Thanks for coming,
we‟ll get back to you in a couple of weeks.” Had I just been offered the
job? It certainly seemed that way. (I would find out later that this was
typical of Zed; once he had the facts he would make a decision where
others would prevaricate for weeks.)
I must have been grinning from ear to ear. Zed grinned back.
“There‟s paperwork to be done before you get official confirmation. In
Canada only the Public Service Commission can hire and fire Civil
Servants. Just leave it with me; I promise to push it through a.s.a.p.
You should get the official offer in two to three weeks.” We chatted for
a while and he told me a little about life in Canada. “I‟m sure you‟ve
researched it thoroughly,” he said to me. “Moving to a new country is
never something to take lightly.” I smiled and nodded, and made myself
a promise to hit the library a.s.a.p.
Then began the longest wait of my life.

About the Longest Wait of my Life:

At work I walked on eggshells. I was bursting with the news and I
thought I should at least tell my closest friends, people I‟d worked with
shoulder to shoulder on the QC bench for almost four years, but even
with the best intentions they would still have the story all around the
plant in half an hour. I was like the cartoon man with an angel on one
shoulder and a little devil on the other, whispering contrary advice into
each ear.
“Tell them all and watch them turn green.”
 “But what if it falls through like the New York job; you‟d look silly.”
“It‟s not like that. Show them the salary range.”
“Don‟t tempt fate. Show a little patience.”
In the end I kept my mouth shut. Two weeks passed, three, four, still
no job offer. In June a letter arrived from Zed. He had got back home
and immediately fallen ill with the flu, a particularly nasty case, which
had put him on his back for two weeks. As soon as he was on his feet
he‟d found that the paperwork for my job offer was sitting in a clerk‟s
in-tray and got it moving again. He was assured that an offer would be
on the way within the week. It arrived the following Monday. In a
formal letter from the Public Service Commission I was offered the job
of materials control technician at the Government Printing Bureau in
Hull, Quebec, classified as Technician Level 3, with a starting salary of
$5,885, (about £2,000 ) rising in three annual increments to $6,750.
Please reply as soon as possible, it asked, and give an estimated date at
which you will be taking up the position.
Where the Hell was Hull? We got hold of a map of Ottawa and
found that the city was divided into two parts separated by the Ottawa
river. The northern part was called „Hull‟, so I didn‟t think that changed
the situation at all.
I wrote back accepting the job and advising that I would check into
travel schedules and arrange shipping of our possessions at which point
I‟d be better able to give an accurate estimate of arrival times. Just to
make sure there was no misunderstanding I added that I was thrilled to
bits to be coming to Canada and would certainly not let any grass grow
under my feet in getting there.
The following morning I gave a letter of resignation and the
obligatory one month‟s notice to the boss. I included a paragraph of
how much I‟d enjoyed working at FPI and how I appreciated the great
working atmosphere in the place – no sense burning any bridges. By
four p.m. I think everybody in the building had seen my PSC letter with
details of the job in Canada. The head of the research lab was said to
have exclaimed „Bloody hell, twenty five years into the job here and I
don‟t make £2,000 a year.‟
 The next day a FAX arrived from Canada accepting my terms and
apologising that they‟d mistakenly given me the wrong salary data. The
correct starting salary was not $5,885; they‟d given me last year‟s
figures. The 1966 salary range started at $6,013. I forgave them. Well,
anybody could have made that mistake.

About Getting Ready to Go:

We had to go to our doctor for a smallpox shot. The disease had
been eradicated in Canada and I certainly didn‟t want to be the man who
brought it back. I told the doctor I usually passed out when I got
needled and he said no problem, because this was not a needle only a
scratch. He gave me a scratch, which I barely felt, and I passed out cold
and collapsed on the floor. He brought me round and showed me out of
the back door so that I didn‟t have to go through the waiting room and
scare half of his patients. I sat on the wall behind the surgery until
Helen found me there.
We went to Canada House where we were given a medical exam
which included an eye test but with glasses; I was 20:20. I was sent to a
room where an elderly man at a counter asked questions and awarded
points for the answers. Further down the counter a man was screaming
that he had a right to go to Canada with his eight kids because he was a
citizen of the Commonwealth; two security men arrived and escorted the
family out. “I guess he didn‟t have the points,” said my man by way of
explanation for the commotion. ” “How many do I have?” I asked.
“Not enough. What is your line of work?” “Lab Technician.” “Will
you be looking for work as a Lab Technician in Canada?” “No.” This
wasn‟t the reply he‟d expected, and he looked up from his papers. “No?
Why not?” “I already have a job,” I said, and passed the FAX to him.
“Has this offer been confirmed by the Public Service Commission?” I
passed over the documents. He studied them briefly then crumpled the
scorecard which had me less than half way to a pass mark, and said “The
job alone gives you enough points.” He took a card from a drawer in his
desk, wrote on it, signed it and whacked it with a large rubber date
stamp. “Hang on to this,” he said. “You‟ll need it when you get to
Canada. Congratulations, sir.”
 A letter arrived one morning from Watford Technical college; the
results of my City and Guilds exam, I presumed. The practical exam
had been a colour match, so I was pretty sure of what I‟d find. I opened
the letter and my eye jumped to the only word that counted. The word
was not „pass‟. I refused to accept this; if I‟d been staying in the UK I
would have appealed the decision. I would demand that whoever had
failed my colour match be tested for colour blindness. Instead I closed
the letter and wrote on the front. „No longer at this address. Gone to
Canada,‟ and stuck it in the big red mailbox at the end of the street.
We gave away most of our books and records and the odd little
pieces of furniture we‟d accumulated in the short time we‟d been
married. I was pleased that my father in law wanted my hardcover set of
Churchill‟s memoirs. He was a really nice chap and I felt a bit sad that I
was taking his little girl to the other end of the earth. I‟d become very
fond of my mother in law too, but she didn‟t fancy any of my books or
records. Everything we had left went into five cabin trunks, which were
loaded the next day onto a truck which would take them to the ship. The
trucker said to me: “Getting out, huh? Can‟t say I blame you.”
After thinking about it a bit we‟d decided to take the sea route rather
than fly. It turned the move into a sort of holiday for us, and cost a bit
less than the air fare. I went to the travel agents in Watford High Street
and they advised the “Alexander Pushkin”, a new Russian ship. There
was a rumour of a pending shipping strike so the Pushkin, which would
be exempt from strike action was filling up fast. Two tickets cost £100,
and I only had £50, so I ran down St. Albans Road to my bank and told
the teller I had to see the manager urgently. I begged and I pleaded, I
offered my car as security, I told him I had £50 coming in unused
vacation pay, but all to no avail. The bank had a strict policy of not
lending money to a young person who was about to hop on a ship and
take off to the new world never to be seen again.
In the end my father in law lent me the fifty, and I paid him back the
following week when I sold the Anglia.
In late August Helen‟s parents drove us to Tilbury docks and we
walked up the gangplank to board the MS Alexander Pushkin and start
our new life in the new world.
 Sideline: The Pursuit of Happiness:
As I write this it brings back memories of those events, close to half
a century ago. It brings back also a shadow of my emotions at that time.
I think that I was happy. This may seem like a strange thing to say, but I
have always had trouble with the concept of „happiness‟. I do not
believe that up until my fiftieth year I had been happy more than a small
handful of times and never for more than a couple of days at a time. The
best I could manage was „content‟. Even during my epiphany under the
star filled skies of southern England, I felt a sublime contentment, not
happiness; bliss, perhaps, but not happiness. It was not until 1991 when I
was diagnosed as Clinically Depressed and started on Nortriptiline, that I
came to know true happiness with my loving wife Marion and family.
Yet I believe that in the summer of 1966 I was happy for a while.
During that same period I was busier than I‟d ever been. As soon as
the job offer had been confirmed Helen and I found that there were not
enough hours in the day to do all of the things that needed to be done.
Problems popped up at work when a clerk in the pay office made an
error with my vacation pay and claimed that I owed a refund. We‟d
made modifications to the gas fire in our apartment and the landlord was
not happy about it. A problem which I can laugh about in hindsight was
that Nipper and the lads in my old flat found out that their phone was
still listed in my name – I‟d forgotten to transfer it to Em – so they made
calls to random countries and had a lot of fun talking to Chinese people,
amongst others, for long periods of time even though neither party spoke
the other‟s language. They ran up a monstrously high bill in the name of
„getting even‟ with me for stealing Nip‟s fiancée, but I didn‟t hold it
against them.
On other occasions since that time I have found my Depression eased
by being busy. Since I was pretty much always busy at work this may
go some way to explaining why my mental illness did not significantly
interfere with my career advancement.
 About Going to Canada:
The „Pushkin‟ was a beautiful ship, brand new and sparkling clean,
and the well regimented crew kept it that way. It had three bars, a large
formal dining room, several snack bars and cafés, a small cinema and a
shopping arcade. Helen bought a set of nesting Russian dolls, each of
which could be split open to reveal a smaller doll inside. I bought myself
a 35mm Russian camera for £10 when the man in the next cabin told me
that it sold for over £100 in London; I put in a 36 exposure Kodak colour
film and took my first colour shots. The manual was in Russian but
when I stopped a crewman to help translate he told me „no talk on job‟,
which I guessed his boss had taught him to say, as they didn‟t like to
have the crew diverted from their tasks. Very few of them spoke any
English. I figured out how to take basic snaps, and thought that would
have to do.
Helen was badly seasick before we were even out of the Thames
estuary. After two days of this we called for the ships doctor, who
produced a pill and gave it to Helen. He said “one”. Helen asked “One
a day?” and the doctor replied “No. One.” After the pill she felt much
better but drowsy, and preferred to stay in the cabin, especially when we
were in mid Atlantic and the weather turned rough. I went down for
breakfast every morning and noticed that most tables had at least one
empty chair. After my table had finished their breakfasts I took what
fruit was left back to Helen. Several other people, male and female,
were doing the same thing for cabin-bound friends or family.
I‟d taken other sea trips and knew that however rough the water got I
would not be bothered by it. When Helen was dozing, or resting easily
with a book, I would find a chair at the prow of the Pushkin and sit there
enjoying the up and down motion of the boat. For a good deal of that
time I sat there worrying and playing the „what if‟ game. What if Zed
had seen through my interview. I‟d found out that the Addressograph
was a small printing press; well, maybe not so small, about the size of a
refrigerator. A big refrigerator. And they had three hundred of them!
The Printing Bureau must be massive. I hadn‟t really lied about knowing
them but I had dissembled quite a bit. Then what if they checked with
Watford Tech and found I‟d failed my City and Guilds exam? Would I
be sacked before I‟d even started? Would we have to pay our own way
home? Could I get my old job back? I was glad I‟d said nice things in
my resignation letter. What if I had to speak French? I could manage
“Comment ça va?” and “Bonjour,” but not a lot more. Would they laugh
at my accent? (They laughed so hard they almost fell over, but they
were good sports about it.)
One morning when the ship was about half way across the Atlantic a
piece of paper was pushed under our cabin door to say a lifeboat drill
would be held sometime that day. When we heard the siren we were to
grab our life jackets and follow the signs to the deck. Before we had
time to think about it the sirens blasted through the ship and we joined
the shuffling masses to line up on deck. The woman in charge of our
party was my idea of a perfect Russian shot-putter for the Olympic
Games; the Royal Marines would be proud to have her as a Sergeant
Major. She pushed and pulled at our life jackets to make sure we didn‟t
have them back to front, and when she was sure we were all OK she
stood in front of us and said. “Good, good, everybody good. Big waste
of time, fall in ocean in September, dead in forty five seconds. Go back
to cabin now.”
We docked in Quebec City on Monday, the fourth of September,
1966. Labour Day. We were invited to tour the city and told that a line
of taxis was waiting on shore to give conducted tours, but if we wanted
to go ashore we would have to be „landed‟. Once officially welcomed
into Canada we would become „Landed Immigrants‟, having almost all
the rights and privileges of Canadian Citizens. Helen was anxious for
dry land, and wanted to see North America‟s oldest city, so we went off
to be „landed‟ by the Immigration people. A very large man looked at
my documentation, particularly the card which I‟d been told I‟d need in
Canada. He gave me a big smile and said “So you‟ll be joining us in the
Public Service, will you? Well, welcome to Canada young man.” He
wrote on his ledger, next to my name „Queen‟s Printer‟. I said, “I‟m not
the Queen‟s Printer.” He winked and said “Maybe one day?” We
walked down the gangplank and stepped onto Canadian soil as landed
immigrants.
 About coming to Ottawa:
We docked again in Montreal, and went up on deck to see a display
of out-of-this-world architecture. This was Expo ‟67 in its planning
stages; Habitat, a modern concept for modular apartment living was on
our left, and Fuller‟s Geodesic Dome could be seen in the distance.
Other buildings dotted the landscape. The fair was built on an artificial
island in the Saint Lawrence river, and the monster earth-moving
equipment which had created the island was still in evidence.
Since we were now landed immigrants we passed quickly through
the formalities and found the station, where we caught the train to
Ottawa. We looked repeatedly for our cabin trunks, but were told that
they had been checked through to Ottawa and would show up in the
baggage room at the train station. They didn‟t.
There was no sign of our cabin trunks in Ottawa, and we were told
by a sympathetic station employee that he would personally keep an eye
out for them; five large cabin trunks could not all have gone missing.
The situation was complicated by the fact that we had no address or
phone number where we could be contacted. We left it that we would
contact the station daily and as soon as the trunks arrived they would
deliver them to us at whatever address we gave them at that time.
From a phone booth at the station I called the Immigration
Department and told them of our situation. I asked them to advise us on
a good hotel, not the most expensive nor the least, which we could use
as a base while we looked for an apartment. I heard discussion in the
background and the voice came back and said the „Alexandra‟ on Bank
street. We took a cab from the station to the city and for the first time it
hit me that we were not in England any more. We drove along the
Queensway, the city‟s main artery, where huge cars cruised along an
ultra modern six lane highway. Intersections were enormous stone
sculptures with roads above and below and massive ramps connecting
them. In the distance we saw the skyscrapers I‟d been waiting for, tall
apartment blocks and office buildings, with the sun glinting from their
huge glass faces. Turning onto Bank street we saw people sitting out on
their verandas enjoying the cool of the early evening after a hot
September day.
 We checked into the Alexandra and the moment I walked into our
room I was doubled over in a sharp stomach pain which blotted out
everything for a few seconds. Helen went down to the desk and asked
them to call a doctor, who arrived after only ten minutes. He poked my
stomach and I threw up everything I‟d eaten in the last two days. “Well
it‟s not appendicitis,” he said. He diagnosed a stomach flu and said from
my condition I was probably well on the mend, but would feel rough for
a few more days. Helen paid him $10 and he left. A maid came and
changed the bedding.
On the television a man in an odd uniform was fighting with a giant
lizard which walked upright and was as tall as the man. It was part of a
new science fiction series called „Star Trek‟. I thought it would be good
to see some decent Sci-Fi on T.V.
Welcome to the new world.
The next day we sought out the Immigration Department and went in
for some advice. The woman at the desk was unsure where to send us,
but a passing young man said “Come with me, we‟ll sort you out.” We
went with him to a busy office, but when our helper called out that he‟d
found two innocents just off the boat and in need of a good Samaritan or
two we were suddenly surrounded by new friends, asking about the
voyage and why we decided on Canada. When they found out that I was
about to start a job with the Civil Service our new friends turned into
family. Helen mentioned that our baggage had not shown up and until it
did we had only what we were wearing. Within seconds one of the men
was on the phone to Ottawa Station. He came back looking glum. “They
say the only luggage that‟s come in over the last few days is for a Mr.
Alexander Pushkin.” When we explained about the ship and everybody
stopped laughing the conversation turned to our need for an apartment.
A map appeared with routes marked from the Printing Bureau, in Hull,
and there was a discussion about rush hour times and a comparison of
various routes, ending in a recommendation for a place off the Merivale
road. We were quoted a very good monthly rent and told that if our new
landlord tried to charge more to get right back to them.
Before we left there was some instruction on how to use the busses,
and we were even given half a dozen tickets. We left after a round of
back slapping and hand shaking and promises to stay in touch. We
caught a bus outside the building and went off in search of our new
address.
I thought that Ottawa was probably as far from Doncaster as I needed
to go.

Sideline: About Love at First Sense:

The sightseeing trip at Quebec City didn‟t do it, for some reason.
Neither did the switch from ship to train at Montreal. I took my first
step on Canadian soil when I walked out of the station in Ottawa looking
for a taxi. Something happened on that first step, the first sight, the first
breath; I fell in love with Canada and it has only deepened over the
decades. I often say that if I were to be taken up in an airplane,
blindfolded, ears plugged, all of my senses nullified, I could still tell
whether I was in England or in Canada the moment I stepped off the
plane.
There are, of course, major differences between the two countries.
There is above all the incredible size of my country. England could be
dropped into any of the great lakes without causing much of a rise in the
water level. The houses are larger here and built mostly of wood. The
cars even now tend to be bigger, but in 1966 were possibly twice the size
of English vehicles; the first car I bought came with a six litre engine as
standard; larger motors were available if I‟d wanted one.
It isn‟t even the people, although the people of Canada are everything
I hoped for in my childhood. In the Province where I now live nobody
need ever be lonely. In Halifax, the capital city, sit on a bench in a
public park and take out a map and within five minutes half a dozen
people will have stopped to ask whether they can be of any help.
I‟m closing in on my fiftieth year as a citizen of Canada and in that
half century nobody has ever challenged me to a fight just for the fun of
it, or because they felt that I hadn‟t said thank you with enough sincerity.
It is all of these things and none on them; It‟s about the atmosphere;
not the air, nothing that applies to the five senses, it‟s a feeling,
something detected only by the „sixth sense‟.
 A woman I once worked with criticised my use of the term „women‟s
intuition‟. “It‟s no more women‟s than men‟s,” she told me, “But men
are taught from the cradle to ignore it. Open up to your intuition and
you may amaze yourself.” For me, the primary difference between
England and Canada can only be discerned by intuition.
I am still depressive; I still need my daily medication and I always
will; but I am comfortable here; I belong.

About the Government Printing Bureau:

We were well pleased with our apartment which came „semi
furnished‟ with the necessities. The landlord asked $50 more in monthly
rent than we had been quoted, but a phone call to our new friends at the
Immigration Department put the price back down. Our friends had also
called the station and had them deliver our trunks to the new apartment
so that they were there when we arrived. When we first met the landlord
and asked him if there was any chance of getting a phone installed in our
place he laughed and said every apartment in Ottawa had a phone. He
called Bell Canada, who came the following day to connect our phone
and give us our first Canadian phone number.
On the following Monday morning I caught a bus to the city and
asked the driver (who was also the conductor) how to get to the Printing
Bureau in Hull. He told me that Hull had it‟s own bus service, and I
must first go to „Les Terraces de la Chaudiere‟ and get a Hull bus there.
To get to Les Terraces I had to change, so the driver gave me a transfer.
This meant I needed three busses to get to work, and I thought I‟d have
to get up at six a.m. to get to work by 8. I was not sleeping well and
getting up early was very difficult for me.
I found my way to Les Terraces, and landed in a very busy area.
Those inhabitants of Hull who worked in Ottawa were following my
route in reverse. My map suggested that the Bureau was less than a mile
away, and I didn‟t want to get into a tricky exchange with my schoolboy
French, so I decided to walk. Half an hour later I got my first view of
the Canadian Government Printing Bureau‟s principal residence. It was
a huge grey building, shaped like a brick, and it was surrounded by a
paved parking lot which was full at this time of the morning. More than
anything it resembled a huge prison, lacking only electrified wire and
guard towers. The main entrance was by way of a pair of huge glass
doors in the centre of the brick and once inside I found myself in a huge
atrium which could have provided parking for a dozen double decker
busses. Two uniformed guards sat behind an impressive desk, over
which a black on white sign said: „Visitors Report Here‟.
The guards decided I‟d probably need Personnel, but rather than send
me into the depths of the building without a map the guard dialed a
number on his phone and said something in flawless French. He told me
“If you‟d take a seat over by the staircase a girl from Personnel will be
down to get you in a minute.” Impressed, I asked “Is everybody here
bilingual?” He replied “No sir, only the French Canadians.”
A young woman came down and introduced herself, and I followed
her back via corridor and elevator and another corridor and a short
staircase, across a busy office to her small cubicle. She asked if my trip
had been pleasant and if I was finding my way around. I gave her my
new address and phone number and she looked up from her papers.
“I‟m sure you will do very well here, Mr. Daniels, your qualifications
are most impressive.” She made a phone call and said to me “Mr. Zed
is not in the office today, but someone from R&IE will be down for you
shortly.” Five minutes later I said hello to Terry.
Helen had not been idle during this time. As soon as our phone was
connected she had started to call computer companies as well as large
organisations which she felt were ripe for the introduction of computer
systems. In no time at all she had been invited to several interviews and
by the end of the month was offered and accepted a programming
position at close to $8,000 per year. We had come to Canada to seek our
fortune and we had already found it. We were rich.

About the Laboratory:

Terry knew everything about the Bureau and everybody who worked
within it, their job title, their pay grade, where to find them. He took me
to an office complex which was like every other government office I‟d
seen to date and introduced me to the other members of R&IE.
 “I‟d like to see the lab,” I said to Terry. “Can you tell me how to find
it?” “I‟ll show you,” he said. I followed him out of the office around a
corner to a bank of elevators. On one side was an opening with a sign
reading „men‟. We went in to the room and made use of the urinals, and
I said “The lab, now?” “Sorry to disappoint you,” Terry said, “But
you‟re standing in it.”
The lab was behind schedule just about as far as it was possible to be
behind schedule. Terry told me that he was the liaison between the
Bureau and the Public Works people who would build the lab, and that
now I was here he‟d appreciate it if he and I could form a team, and go
the next day to get things moving along. I said I‟d be delighted with this
arrangement. He found me a desk in a corner of the office and a chair to
go with it, and one of the secretaries gave me a bag of office accessories
– pens, pencils, erasers, staples and a stapler – all the standard goodies
of a civil service job.
Zed dropped by late that afternoon just to welcome me to the fold
and ask if I was settling in. I didn‟t mention how disappointed I was to
find that the lab was still a pissoir. Zed suggested that I spend some
time making a list of supplies and equipment that the lab would need and
then work with the purchasing staff to have it all bought and stored
ready for the lab when it opened. I thought that was an excellent idea
and promised to get on it. Zed left but then stuck his head around the
corner and said “Get half a dozen of those lab chairs with wheels, and
we can have races up and down the corridor .” I asked Terry if he
thought Zed was serious but he said “Who ever knows with him? Get
the chairs anyway.”
When the Public Works crew arrived to start building the lab I
watched in amazement. Five minutes work with a wrench and a wall
came down. Five minutes later the wall appeared elsewhere. Electrical
wires were put in place as was copper piping for the Bunsen burners. In
less than a week the men‟s room had gone and a lab had been born.
An important characteristic of printing ink is the viscosity – the way
the ink flows. Some inks are as thick as putty, others as fluid as water. I
had a choice of two instruments which measured viscosity; one cost
$200 but was notoriously imprecise and one which gave accurate,
repeatable results but cost $6,000. I had an idea for that, and went with
the cheaper instrument.
In less than a month two other technicians had been recruited, one of
them a paper expert who had promised to do for paper what I had
promised for ink. A lab Chief, John, arrived from Scotland and moved
into his office. We were operational.

Missing in Action:
One winter morning after a heavy snowstorm Zed failed to arrive at
work. This was not a cause for panic, as Zed pretty much came and
went as he pleased. In mid morning his secretary took a call from him to
say that the roads in his area were still blocked and rather that wait for
the snow plough he was coming in on his snowmobile. The following
morning when Zed had still failed to make an appearance the RCMP
were called in.
We never saw Zed again. He had vanished in a flurry of controversy
and rumour. He had chosen to live in a small community some distance
from the city, and stories started to circulate that the mothers of small
children had run him out of town when he had become more than just
friendly with their offspring. It was not clear whether the offspring were
male or female.
Personally I chose to remember Zed as I‟d first met him; affable,
always with a smile, and the man who had given me my big break.

About Public Relations:

By fate or good fortune the staff of the lab was a perfect balance.
The new Chief, John, was wise enough not to involve himself in the ink
side of the lab activities, nor in the paper testing under our new paper
specialist. But John was spectacular at the thing the lab needed most:
Public Relations. He would ask me in the mornings how things were
going on my side, and I might tell him, for example, that an ink had been
received which was coarse ground, a milling error, and had been
returned for re-milling. He asked what would have happened had the
problem not been discovered and I told him that it could have scoured
the litho plate clean after only a few hundred sheets, and perhaps
damaged the rubber litho blankets or even the stainless steel rollers.
John had introduced a system of „pink slips‟ to record the details of
defective supplies, and produced one for my faulty ink which claimed
that, undiscovered, it could have destroyed a press, harmed the operato r
and quite possibly started a fire. He then made sure that everybody up to
and including the Queen‟s Printer got a copy, and within a few months
people were saying “Zed was right after all; we do need a lab.” I hoped
that Zed, wherever he might be, got a whiff of his post-employment
fame.
I worked with pressroom staff and a young man from our financial
group to come up with a realistic figure for losses due to defective ink
through the previous year. We arrived at a figure of $85,000, which I
thought was about average for a printer of this size. Now I had to ensure
that losses for the following fiscal year were a lot less than that.
In the later 1960s the Federal Government was in favour of spending
to create jobs, and before we‟d been in operation for six months we were
asked whether we could usefully employ an assistant each. The trouble
with this was that we were classified at the Technician 3 level, which
was used to recruit technical staff directly from High school. There was
no level 1 or 2. We therefore ended up with three assistants who were
classified at the same level as we were. To get around this we were all
re-cast as Technologists, and new job descriptions were prepared. At the
same time I was made Head of the Ink Section, and to celebrate my
promotion (?) I had business cards printed. It would take two years for
my position to be reclassified and it turned out to belong to the
Procurement Category because I was involved with the purchasing
function. It came out at the PG02 level, which paid $11,000 a year. I,
however, was still a Tech 3, and to fix this situation I had to apply for
my own job. Luckily for me I won it. Even more luckily, the
appointment was retroactive to the time we‟d recruited our assistants,
and I got a back-dated pay cheque for $3,000.
I thought that being a Civil Servant had distinct advantages.
The figure for spoilage due to defective ink for Fiscal Year 66-7 was
zero.
 Sideline: About Mental Deterioration:
By the time my 30th birthday arrived I had to admit to myself that
something was badly wrong with the way I felt about my life. I was not
yet ready to say „wrong with my head‟ because that would have been
admitting to mental illness. I did not see life as others did. There were
things wrong with me, though I still considered them as separate
disorders. I would later come to see these conditions as satellites orbiting
the huge central black hole of Depression, but not yet. I still suffered
from insomnia. In 1967 we bought a new Chevrolet Chevelle, a
beautiful, powerful car which I thoroughly enjoyed driving. In 1968 to
1969 my urge to be somewhere other than where I was had returned, and
when I could not sleep I would be away by 2 a.m. driving through the
Gatineau hills. Back in bed by six I‟d grab an hour‟s sleep before setting
off to work. I suffered from hypochondria. I also periodically suffered
from haemorrhoids, one of the consequences of my sedentary job, but
my raging hypochondria immediately attributed my symptoms to bowel
cancer. My fear of all things medical had deepened considerably, and
the possibility of visiting a doctor about my condition was zero. I
suffered from a constant paranoid fear of physical attack, a fear totally
unfounded in a law abiding city like Ottawa, and a condition surely
grown out of my early need to avoid bullies.
I developed a dreadful temper. When activated my temper gave me a
greater physical strength than usual, in which I was capable of actions
normally beyond my capability. I knocked holes in plaster walls with
my elbows, knees or feet. I picked up a heavy clothes dryer and threw it
across the basement. Coming up from the basement in a temper I threw
open the basement door and carried it into the kitchen, torn from its
hinges. I attacked a set of shelves with a woodsman‟s axe, reducing
them to kindling.
I knew at some level that this could not go on, and that I must seek
help. I realised that an accident or illness could put me into a hospital
for treatment, which would be a living nightmare for me. I resolved to
seek help for my irrational fear of medical procedures. But not yet.
 I did not suffer from low self esteem, which therapists of a later age
would name as the cause of Depression. I had all the self esteem any
man could possibly need, and I did not believe that I was depressed.
Chapter Four: Depression Checklist: Warning Signs:
#1 Feelings of helplessness and hopelessness; No.
#2 Loss of interest in daily activities; No.
#3 Appetite or Weight changes; No.
#4 Sleep changes; insomnia; oversleeping; early waking; Yes.
#5 Anger or Irritability; Yes.
#6 Loss of energy; No.
#7 Self Loathing; No.
#8 Reckless Behaviour; Yes.
#9 Concentration problems; trouble focusing; Yes.
#10 Unexplained Aches and Pains; No.
 Interlude: They got out of bed:
I am Depressive. I find it hard to get out of bed in the morning. This
is not the „Damn-the-alarm-clock-it-can‟t-be-six-o‟clock-already‟ which
most people feel, at least occasionally. This is an „I-couldn‟t-get-out-of-
bed-even-if-the-house-was-on-fire-and-the-bedsheets-had-just-started-
smouldering.‟ I was often late for school and I have been more often
late for work than on time. My Father told me that I‟d never hold down a
job because I‟d be fired for lateness after the first month – and he came
closer to the truth than I like to think about.
Perhaps you are depressive, too, and have trouble getting out of bed
to get your day started. But before you and I get too maudlin about the
„poor us‟ thing I‟d like you to look over a list of names I found on the
Internet. There are many such lists, but I think this Wikipedia list is the
most complete. I‟m sure you‟ll recognise quite a few of them. They
were all Depressive, too, like us, but they managed to drag themselves
out of bed; and thank God they did. The world would be a much sadder
and less interesting place if they‟d said “I‟m depressive, and nobody
expects me to be able to achieve anything, so I think I‟ll just stay in
bed.”
(Thanks to Wikipedia for this list; for more info on this – or on just
about anything – go to http://www.wikipedia.org )
List of people with major depressive disorder
• John Adams, 2nd President of the United States
• Caroline Aherne, British comedienne]
• Alan Alda, American actor and author
• Buzz Aldrin, American astronaut,
• Woody Allen, American film director and comedian
• Hans Christian Andersen, Danish writer
• Hideaki Anno, Japanese animator and film director
• Malcolm Arnold, British composer
• Isaac Asimov, American author and professor
• Julian Assange, Australian publisher and editor (WikiLeaks)
• Alec Baldwin, American actor
• Charles Baudelaire, French poet
• Amanda Beard, American Olympic Gold Medalist
• Ingmar Bergman, Swedish film director
• Halle Berry, American actress.
• William Blake, British poet and painter
• David Bohm, British quantum physicist
• Kjell Magne Bondevik, former Prime Minister of Norway
• Jon Bon Jovi, American rock singer and songwriter
• Lorraine Bracco, American actress
• Art Buchwald, humorist
• Barbara Bush First Lady of the United States 1989–93
• Truman Capote, American writer
• Drew Carey, American comedian and actor
• Jim Carrey, Canadian actor and comedian
• Mary Chapin Carpenter, American singer-songwriter
• Johnny Carson, American television presenter.
• Helena Bonham Carter, British actress
• Dick Cavett, American talk show host
• Raymond Chandler, writer of detective fiction
• Ray Charles, African-American singer
• Agatha Christie, English crime writer
• Winston Churchill, former British Prime Minister
• Eric Clapton, singer
• Leonard Cohen, Canadian singer-songwriter
• Stan Collymore, British footballer
• Joseph Conrad, Polish writer
• Calvin Coolidge, 30th President of the United States.
• Sheryl Crow, American singer-songwriter
• Roméo Dallaire, Canadian general, senator and humanitarian
• Rodney Dangerfield, American comedian and actor
• Charles Darwin, British
• Edgar Degas, French painter
• Ellen DeGeneres, American comedian and talk show host
• John Denver, American musician
• Johnny Depp, American Actor
• Diana, Princess of Wales
• Charles Dickens, British writer
• Emily Dickinson, American poet
• Kirsten Dunst, American-German actress
• Bob Dylan, American singer-songwriter, poet and artist
• Blake Edwards American film director and producer
• Eminem, American rapper
• William Faulkner, American author
• Harrison Ford, American actor
• Michel Foucault, French philosopher
• Peter Gabriel, British singer and band member of Genesis
• Paul Gauguin, French painter
• Paul Getty, British philanthropist
• Joseph Gordon-Levitt, American actor
• Francisco de Goya, Spanish painter
• Graham Greene, British writer
• Tony Hancock, English actor and comedian
• Elizabeth Hartman, American actress
• Anne Hathaway, American actress
• Ernest Hemingway, American writer
• Audrey Hepburn, Belgian-British actress
• Sir Anthony Hopkins, British actor
• Frankie Howard OBE, British comedian
• Sir Julian Huxley, British biologist, author and administrator
• Janet Jackson, American singer
• Henry James, British writer
• William James, American philosopher and
• Billy Joel, American musician
• Samuel Johnson, British biographer, essayist and poet
• Daniel Johnston, American musician
• Angelina Jolie, American actress
• Franz Kafka, Czech writer
• John Keats, British poet
• Stephen King, American author
• Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, German painter
• Alan Ladd, American actor
• John Lennon, MBE, British singer-songwriter
• David Letterman, American comedian and TV presenter
• Abraham Lincoln, American lawyer and politician,
• Heather Locklear, American actress
• Courtney Love, American singer and actress
• Gustav Mahler, Austrian composer
• Henri Matisse, French painter
• Guy de Maupassant, French writer
• Herman Melville, American writer
• Michelangelo, Italian painter and sculptor
• Spike Milligan, Irish comedian and writer
• Kylie Minogue, Australian singer
• Marilyn Monroe, American actress and sex symbol
• Alanis Morissette, Canadian musician and songwriter
• Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, Austrian composer
• Isaac Newton, British Scientist
• Friedrich Nietzsche, German philosopher
• Eugene O'Neill, American playwright
• Robert Oppenheimer, American physicist
• Marie Osmond, American musician
• Gwyneth Paltrow, American actress
• Dolly Parton, American country singer and actress
• Brad Pitt, American actor
• Sylvia Plath, American writer
• Edgar Allan Poe, American poet and writer
• Jackson Pollock, American painter
• Charley Pride, American country music singer
• Sergei Rachmaninoff, Russian composer and pianist
• Charlotte Rampling, English actress
• Anne Rice, American writer
• Rainer Maria Rilke, Austrian poet
• John D. Rockefeller, American industrialist
• J. K. Rowling, British writer
• Winona Ryder, American actress
• J. D. Salinger, American author
• Robert Schumann, German composer
• Brooke Shields, American actress
• Britney Spears, American pop singer
• Rick Springfield, American singer-songwriter
• Bruce Springsteen, American singer-songwriter
• Rod Steiger, American actor
• Amy Tan, American writer
• Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky, Russian composer
• Emma Thompson, British actress and screenwriter
• Uma Thurman, American actress
• Leo Tolstoy, Russian writer
• Mark Twain, American writer
• Mike Tyson, African-American boxer
• Vincent van Gogh – Dutch artist
• Kurt Vonnegut – American author
• Mike Wallace, American journalist
• Evelyn Waugh, British novelist and journalist
• Walt Whitman, American poet
• Oscar Wilde, British-Irish playwright, poet, lecturer,
• Robin Williams, American comedian and actor
• Tennessee Williams, American playwright
• Oprah Winfrey, American talk show host
• Reese Witherspoon, American actress and producer
• Virginia Woolf, British novelist
• Boris Yeltsin, first President of Russia
 Chapter Five:
Thirty to Forty
1970 -- 1980

About 15 minutes of Fame:

By 1969 my assistant was fully capable of performing all of the QC
tests on incoming inks and we‟d found that a short morning briefing was
all we needed. This left me with time on my hands, which I didn‟t like,
and I began to look around for useful work. I asked Terry what
„Research‟ was going on in Research and Industrial Engineering, and he
told me that there was no research, but Zed had liked the sound of it and
thought it added a little class to the group. I decided to make the „R‟
more meaningful.
When I‟d chosen a $200 viscometer for the lab rather than a $6,000
instrument I was following a hunch that the accuracy of measurement
using the cheaper version could be greatly improved by changing the
way it was used. It was an idea that had occurred to me while using one
at Fishburns but I had never had a chance to study it in any detail. Now
I had time and resources.
This type of viscometer – called a „falling rod‟ viscometer -- gives a
series of numbers which are plotted on a graph. The technician then
draws a straight line through the points and the slope of that line gives
the viscosity of the ink. The trouble is that the points are never in a
straight line and where the tech draws his line is more guesswork than
science. I recalled from advanced maths lessons that there was a method
of replacing the graph with a numerical calculation which would be
much more accurate and much faster. I programmed the equation into
the lab‟s new Olivetti computer and had it calculate the viscosity for a
wide range of values, which produced a set of tables, which made the
calculation even faster and easier. I worked on this through the winter of
1969-70, and by early spring I had what I‟d been looking for and the
proof that it worked.
Ian suggested that I publish, so I sent a proposal to the Technical
Association for the Graphic Arts, a very well respected US organisation
dedicated to the advancement of graphic arts science and technology. I
said that my method allowed a $200 instrument to produce results as
accurate and repeatable as those from a more expensive viscometer, a
claim eagerly backed by the makers of the lower priced equipment.
TAGA wrote to say they liked the proposal and would be pleased to see
my paper.
I presented the paper at the group‟s 1970 convention, attended by
graphic arts specialists from all over the world. It was very well
received; the sample tables we had brought with us were snapped up
within ten minutes and we returned to Ottawa with requests for many
more.
I started to look around for my next project and found it under my
nose. At the next year‟s symposium I presented a paper on how a simple,
low cost ink testing program had cut the cost of CGPB‟s ink related
press problems from $85,000 in fiscal year 66/67 to zero for the next
three years. Cost conscious printers – which means all printers – just
lapped it up.
This work brought the Bureau good publicity and international
recognition. Our lab chief made sure that everybody at the Bureau
learned what was going on in their own house.

About Moving Up:

In 1971 we put a deposit on a semi-detached house in a new
development about 15 kilometres west of Ottawa called Westcliffe. In
one of my classic „wish I‟d never said that‟ quotes I told Helen “these
house prices are artificially inflated; I‟m not paying $21,000 for a house,
we should wait until the prices drop.”
Helen was always busy, and our marriage was showing signs of
strain. She would sometimes come home, throw papers all over the
living room floor and bury herself in work for the rest of the evening.
She was still making more money than I, and we were living the affluent
lifestyle which we‟d left England to find, but it was not nearly as
satisfying as I‟d thought it would be. She was snappy and bad tempered
much of the time and nothing I could do seemed to make a difference. I
thought she was probably working too hard, but in hindsight I think it
was much more than that.
 About Managing Equipment:
When I joined the Bureau in 1966 I rapidly became aware that most
of their equipment was outdated and obsolete. It was hard to miss. A
Printer from the 19th century would have felt at home in most parts of
the Bureau and would have recognised the equipment there. A large
area was given over to hot metal casting, using linotype and monotype
equipment which would have been more appropriately placed in a
museum.
One morning in spring of 1974 I was just back from coffee break and
I was using the urinal in the men‟s room when Henry came over to use
the adjacent unit. Henry was a very high ranking member of CGPB
management, reporting only to the Queen‟s Printer. He was ex-military
and had a commanding presence. He said “I‟ve just received permission
to create a position of Equipment Manager for the Printing Bureau.” I
said “That‟s good. I know you‟re facing a major headache with all the
new gear coming onto the market.” He said “Yes. It will be in the
Organisation and Methods group, level OM4. That would be a double
promotion for you. A big jump in salary.” I said “For me? Why me?”
He said “Because you‟re my new Equipment Manager.” “I‟m very
flattered, Henry,” I told him, “but I‟m happy where I am, and I‟m not
that keen to take on a project that‟s a shortcut to insanity.” He said
“Think about it Barry. Take as long as you like, and get back to me
tomorrow morning.”
I took until lunch time. I went to Henry‟s office immediately after
lunch. I said “I‟ll do it.” He said “Of course you will”.

About using my Head:

Before I could do anything I had to sit and plan how I was going to
approach this. Jackman, the London Head-hunter, had told me that my
IQ was up there at genius level somewhere, so where was it now that I
needed it? I couldn‟t even see the whole problem, it was like looking at
a star-filled sky, just too enormous to contemplate. I had to look at it in
smaller chunks. The obvious way was to follow the stages in the
printing process, so I started with composition.
 I decided that I‟d waste no time on the Bureau‟s composition gear.
The current equipment, largely hot metal casting devices, was way
beyond any possible upgrading and I consigned it to the scrap heap.
Crown Assets Disposal might be able to sell it, possibly to some third
world country, but I would suggest they go directly to landfill, or
possibly melt down the lot and recycle what could be recycled.
These machines produced „beds‟ of cast metal type for printing by
Letterpress, another outdated process, which could join the hot metal
gear for recycling or scrap. In the new order everything would go to the
Lithography presses.
I paused for a moment to consider the fact that I had just radically
affected the future of close to a hundred trades people, men and women
who had undergone years of training to qualify for their positions. Some
were middle aged or older and could have great difficulty adapting to the
new high-tech equipment which I expected to bring in.
I realised that the key to obtaining new equipment was to specify not
what we wanted to buy but what we wanted to do. We didn‟t need to
send out tenders for a particular make or model, we needed proposals for
a system that could handle our specific typesetting needs. By analogy
you could go to a bicycle shop and say I want a bike with two wheels, a
racing saddle, six gears, two pedals, a bell on the handlebars and it must
come in blue. On the other hand you could say I want a machine that is
strong enough to carry me, very comfortable to ride, light enough for me
to lift and not too hard to pedal up steep hills, then see what the shop has
to offer. You might be in for a big surprise; you may not even come out
with a bicycle. When we did this for typesetting systems our „statement
of needs‟ included retraining for our existing staff. We were pleasantly
surprised when nearly all of our typesetters applied for the re-training
program, and most of them eventually said that the new gear made their
jobs easier.
The final item I needed to address was the thorny matter of high-
speed electrostatic printing machines versus the traditional small
addressograph printing presses. This was by far the most difficult and
delicate question of all, and printers large and small all over the world
were scratching their heads over the issue. The Xerox 9500 was a
photocopier in name only; it had the speed to compete with our small
presses yet it could be operated by a bindery worker with a minimum of
training. The problem here was that a trained press operator (and Union
member) made between two and three times the wage of a bindery
worker – mostly unskilled or semi-skilled and almost exclusively
female. I left it to our Human Resources people and the Lithographer‟s
International Union to work on a solution to that one, and they solved it
by creating a new category with a pay scale high enough that bindery
employees would consider it a promotion.
I cracked the question of equipment selection by calculation of
crossover points.
Getting a printing press ready to print is called, not unreasonably, a
„make-ready‟. This includes making a plate, fixing it to the press,
getting ink and „water‟ balanced – the „water‟ is really a chemical
solution used in lithography -- and running off a few sheets until the
image is clear and crisp. There is actually much more to it, with
overhead, utility costs, etcetera but let‟s not over -complicate the issue.
Let‟s say that a full makeready costs $400. Now imagine that you have
a document that you want to copy, so you take it to your printer. If he
has no other equipment but his litho press your cost will involve the
make-ready plus a penny or two for the sheet of paper. Say about
$400.02, a little steep for a single copy, which is why the printer keeps a
small photocopier in his front office. He feeds your document into the
copier and your copy drops into a tray. Cost 25cents per copy. Five
copies? $1.25. All copies cost 25 cents, which is what limited the use
of the 9500 for longer run printing.
But let‟s say you‟re running for public office and you want to flood
the town with your „vote for me‟ posters. You want 20,000 copies. This
is where the printing press comes in. You have to pay the make-ready
cost, of course, but after that your running cost is dirt cheap, say 2 cents
a copy. Total cost $400 + 20,000 x 0.02, or $800 total. If you had all
week and money to burn you could run them all off on the photocopier
for a total cost of $5,000.
 The point at which the press becomes cheaper than the copier is
called the crossover point. It is different for every combination of
machines.
At that time Hewlett Packard had just introduced a powerful hand-
held programmable computer. I keyed in full details of operational costs
for all CGPB equipment. I updated the program weekly with paper
costs, labour costs – any changeable data, and I could then tell you in a
few seconds which process was most economical for any given job. The
rest was easy, if a bit tedious. With the help of a bright young summer
student I examined the workload of every plant in the Bureau, and from
that we calculated the best mix of equipment to produce this work most
economically.
An unexpected outcome of my calculations was that the small
Addressograph presses remained the mainstay of the on-site plants. The
presses were adaptable and versatile, and still represented the best buy
for a good range of our customers‟ print needs.
Done and sorted, and in the hands of the procurement people to put
the contracts in place. They didn‟t need me for that so I took some time
off, the only leave I‟d taken in over a year. I was very tired and slept a
lot.
Back at work Henry asked what I wanted to do next as I had left new
equipment selection in good shape for the next few years and more
importantly left them the methodology to use if the situation arose again.
For the present, to be blunt about it, they no longer needed me. He said
that if I fancied the job I could take over as the Chief of Industrial
Engineering. It didn‟t take much thought.
I‟d hardly had time to get my feet settled under my new desk before
Henry had my job reclassified to OM level 5 and promoted me into it.
The General certainly knew how to reward his foot soldiers.
Nine years after the interview in High Wycombe in which I‟d
convinced Zed to hire me as an overqualified lab technician, I was
sitting in Zed‟s old office and doing his old job.
 About being an Industrial Engineer:
Without the „R‟ in R&IE Industrial Engineering did not present much
of a challenge. There was a Time and Methods Group which went
around with tape measures and stop watches finding ways to do various
jobs more efficiently and a Records Clerk who went around the plant
with a stop watch making sure that the workforce managed to meet the
standards set by the first group. With all the new equipment now
arriving, all of which would need operating standards, my Time and
Methods people had years of work ahead of them. The people in these
jobs had been in them for years and intended to stay in them for more
years. They were competent plodders and good people, and I more or
less let them get on with it.
As John Wayne always said just before the arrows started flying,
things were just too damn quiet. I began to think that there could be a
hidden agenda here. Maybe it didn‟t matter if everybody had fallen into
the bottomless chasm. Perhaps it was OK that I had turned valuable
scientific equipment into worthless electrical junk. Perhaps someone was
watching me carefully just to see how well I handled people. After all,
my total experience of managing people came down to one assistant
technician who pretty much managed himself. If Henry wanted to find
out how well I could manage people, he had that right. In fact I was
quite interested in finding that out myself. But that left the bigger
question: What was it that he had in mind for me?
I thought about taking some management training, and even called
the HR people to talk about it but in the end I thought I could wing it.
The way to treat people at work, I thought, must be much the same as
the way to treat people away from work. Be open, honest, friendly and
kind. Especially kind. Have a sense of humour and let it show. Add in
„make sure you let them know who is the Boss‟ and it sounded more like
the way to train a dog, but I thought a light touch in that direction might
be a good idea.
In the event my philosophy seemed to work well. I ran a happy
office, sort of a Fishburns‟ lab but not so rowdy, and we all got along
very well. Give and take. Late for work? Never mind; put in a little
overtime when it‟s convenient. Need the afternoon off? Of course you
can. You‟re a big boy, balance your own books. On the rare occasions
when I had to discipline one of my people I tried to play down the „big
stick‟ and use “I know that you want to do your job well, so let‟s think
about what you did and see if you could have done it some other way,
some better way.” I knew that it was working when I overheard one of
my staff saying “Even when Mr. Daniels gives you a roasting you still
come out feeling good!”
It must have persuaded the „watcher‟ that I could manage people,
because in the spring of 1978 I found out what Henry had in mind for
me.
Sideline: Mental Illness:
During my time as Equipment Manager I was working harder than at
any time in my life. I was actually using, for the very first time,
advanced level physics and maths. I had calculations and probability
flowcharts running around in my head day and night. Several issues
became clear to me at midnight on a dark stretch of parkway through the
Gatineau hills, north of the city; some others while driving past
Parliament Hill at 3 a.m. People often had to ask me if I had been
listening, and then had to repeat what they‟d said. Getting up in the
morning was next to impossible, and I was always late for work.
(Shades of my father‟s warning came to mind). Henry held early
morning meetings of his top level staff and invited me to these so that I
could brief his people on what I was up to in my cluttered office – but I
was never early enough to attend them. In the end he said to me “I
suppose that since you‟re the only one who has any idea of what you‟re
doing I‟ll have to put up with your tardiness.”
Unfortunately this put to rest the theory that being busy tended to
suppress my mental problems. Busier was not necessarily better.
I was at a point where I was ready to admit to being mentally ill.
Almost ready. I knew that there was something wrong in my head. I
would sometimes sit watching TV in the evening and feel that I was
dreaming. My thinking was becoming fuzzy and my ability to focus was
waning – the very last thing I needed. I would go from event to event
without anything in between, the way time passes in a dream or in a
movie. I would be eating supper then I was getting into bed but recalled
nothing in between. I put it all down to stress but when it carried over
into my new low-stress IE job I thought I should talk it over with a
doctor, perhaps get myself some sleeping pills, or some valium to calm
myself down. The thought of a trip to a doctor terrified me and I put off
going for several months, but eventually I made it. On the point of
bolting from the waiting room I was called in to the office.
The doctor gave me my first anti depressant; Anafranil. He told me
that if I persevered for five or six weeks I should begin to see a
substantial change in my attitude to life. I persevered for three weeks,
then, unhappy with the side effects (or because I still couldn‟t accept that
I was mentally ill) I flushed the rest of the medication down the toilet.
One of the side effects of this episode was that I realised I had to do
something about my irrational and now extreme fear of doctors and
medical procedures. I had mentioned this to my doctor and he had given
me the name of a therapist who could possibly help me with the issue. I
resolved to call and make an appointment, as soon as I could find the
time.
About the Career Assignment Program:
In 1945, at the end of the second world war Canada found itself with
a large number of soldiers looking to reintegrate into peacetime society.
Many were senior officers, and under existing legislation they were
entitled to jobs at a similar rank in the Civil Service – an Army Colonel,
for example, would qualify for position at the Branch Director level,
with an EX classification; A Major would be considered for a Division
Chief post, a Captain for Head of Section. This program went by the
unofficial title of the „Khaki Parachute‟. By the 1970s many of these
men would be at or close to retirement age. In order to have managers
ready to fill the upcoming vacancies Treasury Board together with the
Public Service Commission, intro duced the Career Assignment Program
(CAP) in the 1960s. CAP selected bright young men and women for a
three year training program designed to equip them for eventual
placement in Executive grade positions. A new intake of candidates
took place two or three times per year for a total of sixty program places.
In 1978 I was nominated to the CAP program 78/2 (bilingual) by Henry
and the Queen‟s Printer.
 About CAP 78/2:
Déjà vu, Biggin Hill, 1978 edition. Assessment was by way of a
residential role-play exercise over three days. I arrived at the Centre in
my brand new Ford Thunderbird, a mid-life present from myself. I
followed the arrows from the parking lot to a large classroom where I
took a desk and waited for the arrival of the other candidates. Only half
of us would make it onto the program. Thirty minutes later I left the
room as „Simon‟, a newly appointed director of a fictitious agency. Over
the next three days I had meetings with my Division Chiefs, with
Financial staff, with a local TV reporter looking for a juicy scandal, and
with a disgruntled secretary claiming sexual harassment. All of these
roles were played by local actors. I was asked to draw up a budget and
half an hour later I was told to make a 20% cut, I was called to an urgent
meeting with my Director General and on the way I was told to go to the
classroom immediately for tests. (I ignored the latter and met with my
„DG‟.) All these activities were observed by a number of top level
executives (real life EX03 and EX04) who took copious notes. At the
end of three days I was no longer sure who I was or where I should go
next.
A week later I reported for feedback. I was told that the observers
had major reservations over my high level of aggressiveness, but that I
had been accepted for a place on the next CAP residential program.
Aggressiveness? Me? Never. Must be the Northern Barbarian accent.
The three month residential program was almost a total waste of
time; I could have accomplished as much by taking appropriate literature
to a quiet place for a week and a half. Other students took the course as
something that had to be done to make it to the executive level, but not
something of any practical value. There was much drinking and much
drunkenness at the heavily subsidised bar.
For me the only thing of true and lasting value in the CAP program
came from Gerry, a fellow student and RCMP officer who had missed
the first day of the course to run the Ottawa marathon. I told Gerry that
I‟d always wanted to be a runner, but wasn‟t cut out for it. He sent me
to get my running shoes and took me on a five kilometre jog. I had been
doing almost everything wrong. Gerry taught me how to set my pace,
control my breathing, adjust for uphill and downhill stretches, all I
needed to know. By the end of the course I could run 10k in comfort
and longer distances if given a chance to prepare. After CAP ended I
would run 5 km each day and longer runs at weekends. From that time
onwards I have rarely gone a week without two or three good runs and
still try to get in a 5 km jog three times a week.
When I returned to work I met at once with Henry to ask about the
Assignment phase of CAP, but he told me that I was not going to
continue with the program. His friend and comrade at arms, who had
joined the Civil Service with Henry, was taking an early retirement for
family reasons, and I was going to replace him as the Director of the On-
site Plants Branch. This was an EX01 position and included a seat on
the board of directors of the Government Printing Bureau, Chaired by
the Director General and Queen‟s Printer. I had to try hard not to laugh
because, pleased as I was with the appointment, the thought which came
first to mind was „the three hundred Addressograph machines; they‟re
all mine!‟.
Chapter Five: Depression Checklist: Warning Signs:
#1 Feelings of helplessness and hopelessness; No.
#2 Loss of interest in daily activities; No.
#3 Appetite or Weight changes; No.
#4 Sleep changes; insomnia; oversleeping; Yes.
#5 Anger or Irritability; Some, but minor.
#6 Loss of energy; No.
#7 Self Loathing; No.
#8 Reckless Behaviour; Some, relatively minor.
#9 Concentration problems; trouble focusing; Unknown;
#10 Unexplained Aches and Pains; No.
 Chapter Six:
Forty to Fifty:
1980 – 1990:

About the Trappings of Rank:

In 1980 I sent my Mum and Dad plane tickets and invited them to
visit. Once they‟d had a chance to get over their jet lag I bundled them
into my T-bird and drove them across town to tour my empire. I drove
through the parking lot and pulled up by the freight entrance. The guard
at a high window recognised my Bird and pressed a button to open the
huge door so that I could drive through to my private parking space in
the basement.
As though we‟d rehearsed it everybody we passed said “Good
Morning Sir,” or “Good morning, Mr. Daniels.” The guards did
everything except salute; I think everybody in the building knew that the
Boss was out to impress his Mum and Dad and they all did their bit to
help. In my spacious office I got them settled and my secretary brought
tea for three. My Dad asked “Do all these people work for you?” I told
him “Just under a thousand people work for me, but only half of them
work here in Ottawa.”
Later I took them to tour two of my bigger plants, at Statistics
Canada (45 employees) and Agriculture Canada (38 employees). Then
we went for a late lunch at a penthouse restaurant looking down on the
city. My Mum was quite tired after that so we drove home along the
magnificent Ottawa River Parkway. I could see that she was pleased.
My brother told me later that as soon as they got back home to
Doncaster my Dad was almost knocking on strangers‟ doors to tell them
about his son‟s incredible success in Canada. Closing in on my 40th
birthday, I‟d finally done something which met with his approval.

About the Black Spot:

When I‟d arrived at CGPB in 1966 I‟d been asked to complete a
security questionnaire. On the covering memo was a handwritten note
saying “Explain why you arrived in Canada on a Russian ship.” I
completed the survey and sent it back with a handwritten reply: “After
due deliberation I thought it was probably too far to swim.” This
resulted in a visit from the Security Chief and after I‟d explained that
other vessels were held up indefinitely by a labour dispute, we became
friends.
Following my appointment as Director, OPB, he paid me a visit and
gave me a white plastic square, about three inches each side. In the
middle of the square was a solid black circle about two and a half inches
in diameter. I asked him what I was expected to do with it. He told me:
“It‟s your universal parking permit. Put it on the dashboard where it‟s
clearly visible through the windscreen. Park anywhere you want, you‟ll
never get a ticket.” I told him I had no idea such t hings were available.
He said: “They‟re not. We occasionally make one in our engineering
shop. We‟ve been driving cops and meter maids nuts for years with
these things. As far as they know you could be Ottawa‟s answer to the
„Godfather‟ or visiting royalty but none of them have ever had the guts
to give it a ticket. We get enquiries now and again, and we say we‟ve no
idea what these things really are, but we‟ve heard that they‟re only given
to the Prime Minister‟s current mistresses.” I used the black spot for
several years and never got a ticket on it.
I got a kick out of thinking that if Zed were still working at R&IE he
would now be working for me. I hoped that he was somehow still aware
of what was happening in his old stomping ground, and that he was
pleased with my progress.

About my Domestic Situation:

By 1979 there was little left of my marriage. Helen was constantly
angry about something, but I never truly knew what it was. Her
screaming fits were legendary; people told me that she could be heard
streets away. She screamed at me, at our two boys or at nothing at all.
She often spent nights away from home and gave no explanation on her
return. Looking back I know that my Depression by this time was
debilitating and destructive and I must have been dreadfully difficult to
live with. Since neither Helen nor I understood what was happening, my
behaviour must often have seemed surly and childish.
 I had been unfaithful on several occasions with several different
women, and by 1979 the marriage was beyond repair.
When the split came, despite having been expecting it for some time,
I was devastated. I was like the cancer patient who is told that a limb
must be removed; even realising that the surgery is needed if he is to
survive, even knowing that the limb is of no further use, there is still
nothing good about losing an arm or a leg. But I had no doubts that the
greater part of my pain was due to my deteriorating mental condition.
In chapter three I told of how my romantic encounters had taught me
four important facts about women. My affairs of the seventies taught me
one more: Women (some women) make the very best best friends.
During this period of my life I turned increasingly to Marion.
I‟d met Marion within a few weeks of moving to Westcliffe. She
was the membership secretary of the local tennis club, which Helen and
I joined soon after moving in. Marion became our baby sitter and my
doubles tennis partner, and I was attracted to her from the first meeting.
Her lovely trim figure and long dark hair blew me away, and when she
looked into my eyes I was fifteen years old again, tongue tied and shell
shocked. But this was the seventies; casual sexual encounters were
commonplace and other men in the tennis club assumed that I was only
interested in such a relationship. They told me that Marion was the „Ice
Queen‟ of the club and not interested in such things (meaning that they
had tried and failed) but I liked and respected her too much to risk our
friendship by making some foolish juvenile move in that direction.
When I was so badly shaken by Helen‟s departure there were times
when I dropped into a deep dark hole of despair, and had to get out of
the office. Then as now, when under stress my illness caused me to act
like a spoiled eight year old child, needing comfort and protection, or
possibly a short, sharp slap. At such times I would call Marion and she
would always come to find me. We would walk together along the
banks of the Ottawa river and I would begin to feel better. Simply bei ng
in her presence calmed me. It still does.

How could I not fall in love with her?

 About seeking Help:
There was no longer any denying, even to myself, that I was mentally
ill and that I needed treatment, but before I could bring myself to seek it
there was the matter of my paralysing fear of all things medical. I had
the phone number of the therapist who had been recommended by my
GP, and I called for an appointment.
My first meeting with Dr. S was very pleasant, totally calm and non-
threatening. He asked me a lot of questions, many of which seemed to
me to be quite irrelevant, and then told me that there was no doubt that I
was clinically depressive, quite seriously so, and had been for a long
time. He told me that the „cure‟ would not come easily and might take
years of therapy; unfortunately he could not take on a long term project
due to current commitments. I said that I wasn‟t looking for treatment at
this time and explained about my fear of medical processes. He asked
another series of questions and said that given the limited amount of
time he could give me he would not be able to dig deep enough to find
the cause of my phobia; but it was possible that I could be successfully
desensitised, which should work well enough for my purposes, and we
started the process the following week.
At my first session Dr. S took a hypodermic needle from his desk
drawer and placed it on the desk where I could not fail to notice it. He
told me to ignore it, and we spoke of other things. He asked a lot of
questions about my father and told me that my relationship with him was
probably a factor in my own mental problems. At the end of the session
he asked me to pick up the needle and place it back in the drawer.
Trying hard to look cool I picked it up and dropped it into the drawer.
John Wayne on the outside, Woody Allen on the inside.
Six weeks later, at the end of our session, he filled the hypodermic
and gave me a vitamin shot. I almost skipped on the way back to my
office. I was ready to move on to the next step. And so I did; twelve
years later.

About the departure of Henry:

In 1979 I was „borrowed‟ by the Provincial Government of British
Columbia to draw up a plan for modernisation of the equipment and
processes at the B.C. Provincial Queen‟s Printer in Victoria. I arrived to
find that the situation in BC was almost identical to that which I‟d found
at the CGPB, which made my job very easy. Back in Ottawa to write
my report Henry took me aside and said that if anyone should ask me
about the possibility of hiring someone to manage their modernisation
program, for example someone who had recently done the same thing on
a Federal level, he would be happy to fly out and talk to them about it.
By coincidence, the position of BC Provincial Queen‟s Printer was
vacant at that time. I got the drift.
I completed my report and flew to BC to present it to a panel of
departmental ministers. After everybody had left except the panel‟s
chairman, who was my contact point for the project, I suggested that a
quick and easy way to solve the problem of implementing the changes
might be to talk to Henry. After all he had recently finished doing
exactly the same thing for the CGPB. I said I had the impression that
Henry was looking for a new challenge and might be persuaded to take
on the project for them. It couldn‟t hurt to give him a call, I said, and in
my view there wasn‟t a better qualified individual anywhere in the
world.
Henry departed for BC a few weeks later, and I considered the debt I
owed him paid, at least in part.

About the return of the Bully:

The employees of the Government Printing Bureau were over 90%
French, while Management was over 90% English. This imbalance was
already a sore point with many of the tradesmen when I arrived in „66,
and by 1980 it had become a very hot political issue. The Director of the
Main Plant and the Plant Engineer were Francophones, but this was not
enough for our political masters. With the imminent departure of Henry
it was made very clear that his successor must be a French Language
speaker from the Province of Quebec. A person who‟s mother tongue
was English was not acceptable, however fluently he spoke French.
A suitable candidate, Monsieur Jacques, was found and hired. His
first act was to recruit two „assistants‟, one blonde and one brunette,
promote them up a level or two and set them up with offices close to his
own. The young women were then sent through the building carrying
orders and bringing back information. They were the subject of gossip,
offensive comments and smutty jokes on their travels within CGPB, but
must have felt that the bargain they had struck was worthwhile, for they
stayed in their jobs.
For a few weeks he left me alone. Since I had taken the job as
director my branch had improved efficiency and morale, and my annual
performance reviews had been outstanding; nevertheless, Jacques issued
orders for “improvements” which were totally unnecessary along with
the instruction that they were to be implemented at once. The next day
one of the assistants came to my office for news of my progress in
implementing Jacques‟ orders and when I ignored her, messages came
back with the comment that „insubordination will not be tolerated.‟
The early morning meetings which Henry had used to brief his
directors were continued, but were held even earlier. They were held
totally in French, which was spoken so fast and filled with so many
slang terms that I was unable to follow. When I asserted my right to
speak in the official language of my choice I was effectively left out of
the discussions, but still required to attend.
Jacques was overheard telling a visitor that his management style
was „management by fear‟.
With hindsight, I don‟t fully understand why I allowed myself to be
bullied by this man. In my experience it was rare indeed to find a bully
who would stand and fight in the face of retaliation by his prey. It would
have been an easy matter to file a harassment grievance against Jacques
and I would have received support from everyone involved with the
possible exception of Jacques‟ two „assistants‟. But still I did nothing.
In 1982 at a discrete and clandestine meeting I was invited to join a
„Jacques must go‟ cartel of senior officers who were about to co-sign a
letter to the ADM (Assistant Deputy Minister) the Department‟s second
highest ranking officer. We decided that we should first meet with the
Queen‟s Printer, a very fine gentleman and Jacques‟ boss. I was the
unanimous choice to present our case.
However, one of the conspirators came to me before the meeting and
backed out, and I had doubts about the backbones of the rest. I met with
the QP as planned, but instead of presenting the view of the group I
requested a transfer from the Bureau. The QP said he‟d expected that
after four years in the job I‟d be ready for a change, a new challenge,
and that with my record of outstanding performance reviews I should be
able to choose any vacant EX01 level position in the department. I
thanked him and told him in all truth that it had been a pleasure and
privilege to serve under him.
My experience with bullies had taught me nothing; I did the same
thing I‟d always done: I ran away.
The concept of an executive cadre within the Federal Government
was based on mobility. Any EX01 could be posted into any EX01 level
vacancy with a minimum of paperwork or delay. There were vacancies
at my level but before choosing one I asked to be „parked‟ for a while.
This gave me an office, a phone, access to the information I needed to
choose my next job, and whatever time I needed – within reason – to
make my choice. I moved out of the Bureau the following week and
took a small office in the HR area.
I did not stay in touch with events at the Bureau after I left. When I
bumped into a colleague from CGPB and traded news I heard that
morale was very bad there. Then, suddenly and unexpectedly, I heard
that Jacques had left. Nobody seemed to know where he‟d gone or why.
His assistants had been transferred back to their old positions at their old
levels. That was the last I ever heard of him.

About Marion and my New Family:

In November 1979 Marion moved in with me. She brought her two
children, a son aged 7 and a daughter, 9. Helen had not wanted custody
of our boys, so the family also included my two sons, aged 9 and 11.
The children all knew each other; Marion had been their baby sitter
since they were very small, and it was not unusual on Saturdays for me
to round up all the kids, load them into my T-bird and treat them to
burgers, fries and ice cream at the local MacDonalds. The boys all loved
these treats and cajoled me into taking the turns fast enough to make the
tires scream.
 In 1982 Marion and I were married at a small ceremony in Ottawa
City Hall attended by several close friends and our daughter. Our sons
had made it clear that they preferred school to ceremony. We all went to
our favourite restaurant, where a special meal had been prepared for us.
The next day we threw a big party for our friends and neighbours to
spread the news that we were now official.
In 1985 we moved into a five bedroom, three bathroom split level
ranch house on a large lot in Kanata, a western suburb of Ottawa.

About Program Evaluation:

I didn‟t stay parked for very long. One morning I was sitting with my
feet on the desk, reading a dog-eared paperback when an old friend
stopped by. I‟d worked with Dave at the CGPB a few years back. He
had left to set up a new branch, Program Evaluation. He asked whether
I knew anything about it, and when I said „no‟ he told me the basics. An
Evaluation was very similar to an Audit, but while an audit asked the
question „Are you following the rules?‟ an evaluation asked „Are you
doing what you were set up to do, and are you doing it effectively and
efficiently?‟
He said “I hear you have a habit of sticking your head into hornet‟s
nests; I have a huge one, if you‟re interested.” “Well I‟m not going to
get a better offer than that today,” I said, closing my book.
I was given a smallish office on the 15th floor with a view of the
Parliament buildings across the river, quite possibly one of the best
views in Ottawa. Dave‟s branch had two evaluation units, and I headed
one of them. He had been running the branch for nearly three years, and
had yet to produce a report from either unit.
Before I‟d even found the coffee machine Dave came to see me
about the „hornet‟s nest‟ evaluation which was a long way behind
schedule and for political reasons had suddenly become urgent. He said
that instead of handing the study over to my team, which would have
been normal practice, he and I would do this study. The subject of the
evaluation was the Supply Centre, a vast warehouse which bought,
stored and distributed office supplies to Departments and Agencies
across the National Capital Region. Similar warehouses supplied other
cities, but Dave and I decided that a detailed study of the Ottawa area
would serve to represent the whole. I never found out why the study had
suddenly jumped to the front burner, but I heard hints that there had
been pressure on our Minister from commercial sources, who claimed
that they could provide a better service. The policy of the department
had always been to provide an internal service only when there was no
suitable commercial source of supply.
After thinking about the best way this study could be done fast I
borrowed Dave‟s secretary and his admin officer and sent them both on
a „virtual‟ shopping trip. They had three imaginary shopping baskets:
one for normal office supplies – scotch tape, pens and pencils, etc. A
second basket was for larger, more expensive supplies which might be
needed once per year, say, or even less often; a slide projector, a wall
clock, this type of thing. The third basket was to contain supplies needed
to set up a new office; desks, chairs, etcetera. They were to fill all of the
baskets at the Supply Center and then at two local commercial suppliers
of the same goods. Scrupulous records of all virtual spending were kept,
along with details such as estimated delivery time (for items which could
not be taken with the buyer), number of out-of-stock and back ordered
items, the availability of alternatives if the requested item was not
available, any difficulties encountered in using the facility, etcetera.
When all the data was in I had a very thick file.
We took the finished work to our Director General, Gordon, who
refused to believe my conclusions until we produced the charts and the
supporting data. Gordon knew the DG of the Supply Centre well and he
knew what this report could do to him. Gordon said to Dave, “There
will be blood on the floor if you present this. Who in your shop is going
to do it?” “Barry will do it” Dave said.
I presented my report at the next meeting of the Deputy Minister‟s
Committee. I put up my first chart showing a list of the data we had
sought and why we wanted it. I gave a quick overview of how we did
what we did, and then hit the costs. A box of staples cost 55cents at the
supply center while the identical box from the same maker sold for 40
cents and 45 cents at two local stores. Pencils, one dozen, H.B., 30 cents
from Supply centre, 25 cents at both shops for the identical pack. Photos
of the two items were pasted on to my charts.
I flipped the charts to show the section on large item purchases.
“When it came to the bigger items, desks for example, it was hard to
find the same makes and models, but we did find desks of near identical
size, shape, construction and quality, 29% cheaper when bought from
private sector suppliers. The report contains photos for comparison.
The bottom line?” I flipped the chart to the last page, which showed
how much more it would cost an average customer to shop at the Supply
Centre, or conversely, how much money could be saved by ignoring it.
The DM looked ready to kill someone, but fortunately it wasn‟t me.
He stared daggers at the DG Supply, who looked ready to kill someone
and it was me. The DM said “How come this chap (he had no idea who
I was) has to come here and tell me this? Don‟t your people go out now
and then to make sure your prices stay competitive!” He directed his
dagger-eyes at me. “Do you have any idea what the department would
look like if this report hits the press?” I didn‟t answer; he didn‟t expect
me to. “Who do you report to?” he asked me. “DG, Evaluation and
Audit” I told him, indicating Gordon, who was on the committee.
“We‟ll discuss this!” the DM told Gordon. “Young man,” he said – he
still had no idea who I was -- “No copy of this report nor any word of
the contents must go beyond this room. Leave your notes and charts
here when you go.” In other words, bugger off. I buggered off.
Gordon caught up with me at the elevator. “Sorry,” I said “But we
knew there would be bloodshed.” “Sorry?” Gordon asked. “Well I‟m
not. I‟ve been waiting for something like this out of Dave‟s shop for
three years. They‟re going to sit up and pay attention to the Program
Evaluation Branch next time you knock on someone‟s door.” He gave
me a sly, evil looking grin and trotted back into the meeting.
Between 1983 and 1988 Program Evaluation suffered through a
number of drastic changes. By 1988 it was part of the Policy and
Evaluation branch and I was the Director of the branch -- and its sole
employee. I had no staff, not even a secretary. I had a budget of $3
million and I was expected to hire consultants as required to perform the
studies, which at least gave me lots of free lunches as a guest of local
consultants who were after a chunk of my $3 million. My job was 99%
paperwork and 100% boring. I spent my time devising schedules and
budgets for projects which I knew would never happen.

About Mentoring:
My boss at that time decided that Evaluation Officer positions would
make fine training opportunities for up and coming young women. It
would give them good exposure to all areas of the department and the
chance to demonstrate their abilities and strut their stuff to the top ranks
of departmental management – not to mention a chance to face down the
Deputy Minister and his top level committee once in a while. From that
time on I had several brilliant young women assigned to my tender care,
and was expected to teach them what they needed to know in order to
shine. And they shone, every one of them.

About The Veneer:

In 1985 I submitted a short story to the Toronto Star‟s annual contest,
and it placed in the top 50, which resulted in publication and a $50
cheque. In 1986 I hit the top 50 again. In ‟87 my story „with Friends
like these‟ competed against 5,400 entries from every province, every
state in the US and most countries. The Star editor told me that several
well known writers had submitted stories, some in their own names and
others using a nom-de-plume. The reason for such a huge response was
that the first prize for the contest was a state-of-the-art Olivetti computer
system complete with printer and document feeder as well as the latest
word processing software, a package with a retail value of over $9,300
which was probably #1 on any writer‟s Christmas wish list. My entry
won first prize and I had another fifteen minutes of fame, including my
picture in glorious colour on the front page of the Toronto Star.
In 1988 the government announced the formation of a Task Force to
examine the status of women employed in the Canadian Civil Service
and to identify any obstacles to the advancement of women, with
recommendations for removal of whatever obstacles were unearthed.
The Task Force needed a Director of Research. The original plan was to
hire a woman; I heard that a professor from a noted university had been
the front runner, but then someone had suggested that there was a man in
the Department of Supply and Services who had a reputation for hard
hitting social research, and who had recently proved himself to be a
world class writer. The Secretary of the Treasury Board called the
Minister of Supply, and the deed was done.
Later, when the work was over, I took the show on the road to tell
what we had learned. The most common first question was “Why did
they not find a woman to be Director of Research?” After hearing this
once too often I took to replying “They didn‟t specify male or female,
they simply asked for the best.”
The actual work was very straightforward and little different from a
regular program evaluation. We identified the questions to which we
needed answers, the data we needed in order to address these questions,
then how to go about obtaining this data. We planned a questionnaire
survey, but this has the serious limitation that most people who respond
to such surveys do so because they have an axe to grind, and many who
do respond will hide their true feelings if they suspect that responses
may be traced back to them. In the end we settled for a number of
studies, in which the findings from one could be used to balance the
shortcomings of another. Being a social research program a lot of the
feedback we obtained was anecdotal.
I spread my million dollar research budget around, often to
consultants I had dealt with before and trusted to do a good job. While
they were off data gathering I settled down to do what I did best – play
with the numbers. What was the proportion of men to women in the
Civil Service? Where were these women? Were earnings comparable to
men with similar responsibilities? When the data started to come in it
painted a dismal picture. The Government had claimed for years that
this particular issue had long since been settled, and that women now
represented half of all government employees. This was so, but what it
did not say was that the women were largely confined to two categories,
essentially secretaries and clerks and even in these areas women were
concentrated on the bottom levels of the category while men dominated
at the top.
 The Head of the Task Force used this fact to derive the title for the
final report “Beneath the Veneer”, reflecting the fact the equality of
opportunity in the civil service was only a thin veneer, beneath which
women were compressed to the lowest levels and pay grades, and only
rare women managed to break through the „glass ceiling‟ which limited
their career progression. The report was well received and all
department heads pledged to implement the recommendations and
balance the books. Twenty five years later, to my knowledge, no follow
up study has ever been carried out.
Chapter Six: Depression Checklist: Warning Signs:
#1 Feelings of helplessness and hopelessness; No.
#2 Loss of interest in daily activities; No.
#3 Appetite or Weight changes; No.
#4 Sleep changes; insomnia; oversleeping; Yes.
#5 Anger or Irritability; Yes.
#6 Loss of energy; No.
#7 Self Loathing; No.
#8 Reckless Behaviour; Driving fast and angry.
#9 Concentration problems; trouble focusing; No.
#10 Unexplained Aches and Pains; No.
 Chapter Seven:
Fifty to Fifty five:
1990 – 1995:

About Magic and a Miracle:

Going into my fifty-first year I was seriously mentally ill and I knew
it. Winston Churchill called his Depression the „Black Dog‟ and when
he suffered from an attack he said that the Black Dog had him in its
teeth. I always found his metaphor very appropriate. In my 51st year
my Dog frequently had me in its teeth and shook me until my eyes
threatened to pop, but even in between the dog‟s attacks I was not
„normal‟. I have said that when I was depressed I reverted to the
behaviour of a spoiled eight year old child but now the child was often
in control and I was a captive inside listening to things he said, watching
the things he did, totally unable to control events until the child and I
switched back positions.
I treated my wife and daughter very badly. Local jewellery and
florist shops recognised me when I was forced to apologise yet again for
some childish outburst. For some reason I was never the same way with
the boys; perhaps I felt safer with the two people I loved most because I
knew they would still have to love me even after another outburst. But
thankfully Marion had taken enough. She went to our GP and told him
what was happening and how things had gone from bad to worse and
were still on the way down. “Bring him in,” said the doctor. “How the
devil can I bring him in if he doesn‟t want to come?” Marion asked him.
“He‟s five feet ten, one eighty pounds, he punches holes in walls and
tears doors off hinges when he‟s annoyed, and he‟s always annoyed.…
and he‟s absolutely terrified of doctors.”
Marion had no need of force. She told me what I knew deep down;
that things could not go on as they were. “I want my Barry back,” she
told me.
Several years back Doctor S had desensitised my fear of needles, and
perhaps this small advantage allowed me to visit our GP. Marion came
with me and held my hand. In less than five minutes the Doctor knew
that my problems were beyond his skill to solve, and referred me to a
psychiatrist working at a nearby Hospital.
By the grace of God and some unknown mechanism I had always
been able to keep my Depression under control at work, but that grace
had now expired. I was ill mannered and aggressive with people I met,
and friends went out of their way to avoid me. I was now between jobs,
having finished my two years with the Task Force, filed my report,
written part of the final document and closed my office at the Treasury
Board, but I hadn‟t yet received my next assignment. My superiors were
all delighted with my Task Force‟s research program and once again I
had an „outstanding‟ performance appraisal on file so I had a lot of
latitude regarding when (or even whether) I turned up for work. The
timing for me to finally address my mental illness could not have been
better.
I met with the Psychiatrist, a young man with a no-nonsense attitude.
He asked me questions for half an hour, including several which made
no sense to me; some related to my social activities; how did I like
parties? Was I comfortable in crowds? Did I enjoy loud music? Did I
ever drink too much? Did I ever drive too fast for road conditions, or
after having drunk too much?
Eventually he gave me his diagnosis. He said that he had never met
an individual as seriously disturbed as I was who could still hold down a
job and raise a family – a diagnosis I was to hear more than once. He
suggested it might be the best thing if I were to check in to hospital for a
few days to allow a detailed examination and to try some medications in
a controlled environment. I rejected this out of hand. He asked if I had
any problems accepting the need for medication and I said not at all. He
gave me a trial prescription for an anti-depressant and told me to take
one pill on the first night, two on the second and three per day thereafter,
then come back to see him in two weeks, earlier if there were adverse
reactions to the medication.
The anti-depressant was a little yellow and white capsule called
Aventyl; generic name, Nortriptiline. I collected the medication on the
way home.
 Marion and I got home shortly after noon. I was feeling very low,
with little hope that the pills would work. I had been told that if I
persevered I could expect some symptom relief in four to five weeks –
bringing back memories of Anafranil, which had ended up in the toilet.
I sat down in my Lazyboy recliner, tilted the chair back and took my
first Nortriptiline. And then a miracle happened.
I have read that the sense of smell doesn‟t work through the normal
brain channels but connects directly to the stem, the animal brain, which
is how a strange smell can transport a person directly to a far distant
memory. There is a particular kitchen smell which takes me back to
school, lined up ready to enter the cafeteria for dinner. The little capsule
worked like that: I was suddenly on an obscure back road, on top of a
hill in the early hours of the morning, gazing up at a night sky
overflowing with stars and my spirit was touching paradise. I sat there,
star struck, for about five seconds, and then I fell asleep.
This was not „sleep‟ as I knew it, a brief period of unconsciousness
with or without disturbing dreams. This sleep was deep, and soft, and
welcoming. I drifted in a velvet darkness where there was no fear, no
sadness, and then, finally, nothing at all.
I slept for four hours and when I woke the sun was shining in our
home and it had banished the shadows which I‟d carried within me all of
my life. For all that time I had accepted that life had little to offer, little
to strive for, the only reward an occasional period of satisfactio n and
contentment, filled with people who would stab me in the back if I failed
to be vigilant at all times. But I was totally wrong. It was all in the way
I had been looking at things. Life was full of joy if I could only see it,
full of people who loved me, friends I could trust. And I was the most
fortunate of men, for I had everything any man could ask for. Health,
family, money, position, love. Especially love.
Marion curled up with me in my huge chair and she knew at once
what had happened. She said “Welcome back,” and I cried and I cried
and I cried and I just couldn‟t stop.
Despite having snoozed away the afternoon, I fell asleep as soon as
my head touched the pillow that night and woke eight hours later feeling
so good that I couldn‟t find a way to describe it. Gone was my lifelong
insomnia, all of my sleeping problems. Gone were my late night travels.
Gone was lying in bed hour after hour staring at a night-black ceiling.
But that was not all.
There was no longer a need to see Dr. S for therapy to cure my fear
of medical procedures, I no longer had a fear of medical procedures.
And just in time. I‟d recently developed some urinary problems which
required invasive hospital diagnostic tests to find out what was wrong.
No problem, no worries. I also needed a six month series of weekly
blood tests, but my problem had nothing to do with the needles; I had to
abstain from Cabernet Sauvignon for the duration. All alcohol, actually,
but it was the Cabernet that hurt.
Gone was my hypochondria. A headache was no longer a tumour on
the brain, it was only a headache. A bellyache was not stomach cancer,
only indigestion.
I was no longer squeamish. The condition had switched off as fast as
it had long ago switched on in my biology class. Graphicall y illustrated
medical programs became some of my favourite TV entertainment.
All of my „orbital‟ problems had spun away into space when the
black hole of my Depression was cured by a single pill.
Well, not quite. I could not be sure that my problems had been cured
for all time, but I had been blind for a long time and now my eyes were
opened. Nothing could spoil my joy on that day.
Over the next few months I decided to stop telling this story in the
face of universal disbelief. Nobody seemed able to accept it except my
wife and daughter who had watched it happen. Friends would say „just
so long as you‟re feeling better‟ but their eyes said „pull the other leg‟.
Doctors smiled and told me that the drug just simply can‟t work that
way. They said that it could not have been a biochemical effect and was
probably more a psychosomatic thing. It happened because I very much
wanted it to happen. Of course I wanted it to happen. I had wanted it to
happen with Anafranil but it didn‟t, not even after three weeks.
My bottom line was that I didn‟t care how it worked. The only fact
that mattered was that it had. I don‟t claim that it will work for anyone
else, nor do I suggest that anyone should even try this -- or any drug --
without proper medical supervision. I don‟t care what the makers used
to produce the pill; witchcraft or voodoo magic, holy water or pixie dust,
it doesn‟t matter to me just so long as they keep on making them.

Meanwhile, back at the Office:

There was a problem with going back to work; I no longer wanted
to. I saw all my previous work as a game, no more meaningful than a
round of monopoly or a rubber of bridge. Oh, I‟d played the game, gone
round the board, bought a hotel on Broad Street and collected lots of
money, but that is all it had been, a game.
At 38 I‟d been the youngest man ever to reach the executive level in
the department; one of only two in the Government who had reached
that grade before turning forty. Now at fifty I was long overdue for
promotion; when two Program Evaluation branches had been rolled into
one, I‟d taken on the jobs of two EX02 level Directors and successfully
run the branch as an EX01. Colleagues said I should have demanded a
promotion and even my boss had agreed. There were only three more
steps left on the ladder and I was almost guaranteed the next one. With
fifteen years until retirement age I was an odds on favourite to reach the
top, but now what I wanted most was a undemanding little sinecure
where I could drift through the next few years and take early retirement
at the first possible opportunity.
I went to talk to Jane, the Director General of Human Resources
and an old friend. I hoped she would not ask what I was looking for, as I
would have to lie and talk about a „new challenge‟ and a chance to
„influence events‟, and „make a difference‟. Jane was a smart woman
and likely to see straight through me, but I didn‟t see how she could
avoid asking that question. Yet she didn‟t ask it. She asked me “How
would you like to come and work with me in HR for a while?”
Jane had a problem with one of her branches. Morale was awful,
projects were way behind schedule and budgets were ignored. The work
turned in was far below expectations. The Director had asked for a
transfer and Jane was ready to give it to him, but she had not been able
to find a suitable replacement. There were three Chiefs of Division who
reported to the Director and all three were female. Jane was aware of
the work I‟d done mentoring up-and-coming young women and thought
with that in my background I would be well accepted by the chiefs. Jane
asked if I would take a little time and think about this offer, and I said
sure, about half a minute should be enough. I started the job the
following week.

About HR Planning Branch:

The first thing I did was change the name. Planning was only one of
the things we did, and not even the most important. We became the HR
Programs branch. The next thing I did was change the rules, or more
accurately the way that the rules were applied. Barry‟s first rule: If a
rule makes no sense, use sense. I gave my Division Chiefs much more
scope to manage their staff with less emphasis on the rule book. If you
want to reward an employee for work above and beyond the call of duty
tell them to sleep late tomorrow, come to work when they‟re ready. Or
give them the day off and accidentally lose the paperwork. Never let
extra effort go unremarked or unrewarded.
By the end of my first month I had established Fishburn rules and
morale was perking up already. I even heard someone singing one
afternoon. Beautiful!
I had a huge corner office, bigger than some of the places I‟d lived in
as a young man; it had a great old wooden desk with a ragged old chair,
but I got a copy of the furniture catalogue mailed to me by Jane with a
note saying „pick out a classy chair for yourself; my treat.‟
One area of my office contained a conference table with four chairs
and there was a big couch in one corner. Enormous windows made up
two walls, with views down to the Chaudiere bridge over the Ottawa
river. The Director‟s Office at British Ropes and the Chief Chemist‟s
Office at Fishburns could both have fitted into my office with room to
spare. I sat in my crappy old chair and laughed so hard that my secretary
came in to see if I was alright. “Never better,” I told her. Before she
could go back to her desk I asked her „What did they say about me?‟
She said “Sir?” I said “I know that all of you must have had your feelers
out to other places I‟ve worked. You probably talked to Loraine at the
Printing Bureau, while the Chiefs called some of my protégées from the
Program Evaluation Branch. What did they say?” She blushed prettily.
“They all said you were awesome,” she told me. I liked that. If that was
to be my epitaph I was well pleased. It looked like this might be a nice,
cosy place to play out my last few years.
I was stable on three pills a day and I was happy. The euphoria of my
first pill had worn off and I was just ordinary everyday happy, but this
was still new to me and I loved it. I made no secret of the fact that I was
mentally ill and taking medication to stay sane. My Div Chiefs were fine
about this and treated it lightly, which I liked; if I got snippy or upset
about something one of them would say “For God‟s sake will somebody
get him a pill!” I encouraged and enjoyed long lunches, and when I
came back from one I found a pill bottle on my desk. The label said
„Screwitol tablets‟; having a hard day, think Screwitol! I turned the
tables on them; When one of them upset me, or even if they didn‟t, I
would open the bottle, swallow a handful and tell them „having to deal
with you lot has driven me to drugs‟. When I‟d used up the original
supply of candy I refilled the bottle with Smarties.
Before long, word of the „crazy HR Director‟ spread throughout the
department and people started calling to make discrete appointments to
see me, usually during lunch break or after five o‟clock quitting time.
Some suspected that they were Big-D Depressed and wanted to compare
symptoms; some wanted to talk about the behaviour of a colleague or a
loved one. I would send them away feeling better, sometimes having
made a promise to see their GP as soon as convenient. They often left
relieved to have shared their secret worries with someone who had been
there.
A long time friend took me for coffee and confessed that he had been
taking anti-depressants for years and knew several highly placed men
and women in the same boat.
The women of HR Programs Branch soon turned me into a hugger.
When one was undergoing a marriage breakup and things got on top of
her she would come to my office for a hug and when she felt better we‟d
go for a long coffee break. When one was diagnosed with breast cancer
she needed daily hugs and promises that she would defeat it. She did.
My Chiefs and I were often called up to the DM‟s committee to
explain a program, or to request money to develop a new one. We had a
different DM by this time, but they all seemed cut from similar cloth and
it made little difference. This one didn‟t know who I was either.
Time went by pleasantly and quickly. The kids all finished their
education, the mortgage was paid off, Marion went back into the
workforce, and the money started to pour in faster than we could spend
it. We put a lot of it into tax shelters for the retirement which was
coming nearer by the day.
If I‟d still been interested in promotions my new attitude would have
blown my chances out of the water. If I was in a meeting at five o‟clock
I‟d pack my briefcase, say „goodnight‟ and leave them all open mouthed.
When regional representatives were in town I‟d join them for supper, but
when they all wanted to start talking shop at eight o‟clock I was off,
despite entreaties to stay.
As Director of HRP I became the departmental representative on the
government‟s Official Languages Committee. I thought it was hilarious
to sit around with a group of Anglophones, all speaking our second rate
French for the benefit of the Francophones, most of whom spoke better
English than any of us.
As the departmental representative on the education committee I met
with a group of university profs and assorted intellectuals and asked
them to stop turning out children with liberal arts degrees. I got, on
average, four or five enquiries a month from graduates begging for a job,
any job, as they‟d been unable to find one, sometimes after a year or
more of searching. I had to tell them we don‟t have any use for a BA
History either. A fellow director in HR told me that many of our key-
punch „girls‟, young women who worked eight hours a day pecking
away at a typewriter keyboard, had deliberately omitted their degrees on
their job applications, afraid that we would think them over qualified.
The committee called my DM (who still had no idea who I was) and
asked to have me replaced. On this and other committees I happily
delegated my seat to one of my Div Chiefs.
Jane had lunch with me to ask if I was happy in my job and let me
know that I was blowing my chances for promotion away with my blasé
attitude. I told her I loved my job but I might in a year or two make
enquiries about a demotion. I told her that Marion and I had plans to
retire to Nova Scotia but since there were so few openings at the EX
levels there, I would be happy to move at a lower level classification.
Jane said there was no way she or the department would allow me to
take a demotion, but something could possibly be done about shipping
me out to the Maritimes if I was serious. We agreed to discuss this again
closer to 1995, when I would become eligible for early retirement.

About Endings and Beginnings:

In spring 1994 my Dad died. I had been too busy to go over when
my Mum died, but had no excuse this time. I met up with my brother
and sister at the funeral home. I went in to see Dad for the last time and
was surprised to see him looking so well. I touched his face, which was
hard and cold, and I thought that might be the first time I‟d touched him
since he came up the stairs at Doncaster railway station at the end of the
war. I told him I was sorry we hadn‟t been able to get along, and I said
that it might have been partly my fault but it was 90% his. No, that was
not it. I told him he had been suffering all his life with a nasty mental
illness -- who should know better than I? -- and that his Depression
caused him to behave badly to those he should have loved and cared for.
In another place at another time it might all have worked out quite
differently.
I told him „thank you‟ for keeping a roof over my head and food on
the table while I worked at the education which had been the key to my
escape plan. I said it wasn‟t important that the food was often bread and
jam; we never really went hungry, and that was the main thing. I asked
him to say hello to Mum from me when he met her, as I had no doubt
she would be waiting. I told him he needn‟t give her my love as I send
that to her every day.
I said Goodbye, Dad.
I‟m sure that he heard.
His flag-draped coffin was carried by his wartime comrades as a
bugler played the last post. His ashes went to the memorial garden with
Mum‟s. Now there was no need for me ever to return to Doncaster.
When I got back to Ottawa I found that the Department of Supply
and Services had been combined with the Department of Public Works.
I‟d known this was coming. The main impact of this move was that there
were two of all the common services, including Human Resources. I
now reported to an ADM, the second highest rank in the Civil Service.
Technically, that made me a Director General at an EX02 level, but
nobody ever mentioned a promotion and I no longer cared. While away
in England I had become the Director of Education and Training, with a
huge staff which I was asked to cut in half. On the Supply side Training
people had always reported to me, so there was no change involved. On
the Public Works side I inherited a bunch of divas who seemed to think
that the department was there primarily to give them something to do
while they collected more diplomas. The lowliest employee held at least
one degree and half of them had PhDs. Apart from my secretary I think I
was the only one in the group who didn‟t have at least a bachelor‟s
degree, and I‟m not too sure about her. Ninety five percent of the
employees were female.
I was a year and a half away from early retirement with sufficient
medical justification to retire even earlier. I had close to two years of
accumulated sick leave, built up during the previous 28 years, in which I
had used very little. It worried me that by dealing with these strange
people I was in danger of backsliding from my stable happy state of
mind. I explained as much to Ernest, my ADM, who was sympathetic
but asked me to stay a while until things calmed down a bit.
Then, as it had done so often before, Fate stepped in.
Julia was one of the young women I had groomed for higher things
and who now worked with me in HR as a fellow director. She had just
returned from a visit to the Atlantic Region and came back to report
major problems in the area. One woman there had filed a harassment
grievance and several others had told Julia that they were not far from
following suit. It was well known that when the two Departments
merged, half the employees faced the possibility of being declared
redundant; this included half of the HR employees in the area. It was
rumoured that redundancy lists were being prepared in Ottawa to be
implemented next year, with numbers involving up to one half of the
department‟s employees. We could do nothing to quell the rumours, for
the simple reason that they were true.
 Julia suggested to Ernest that a high-ranking officer from Human
Resources should be sent on assignment for eighteen months or so to try
to keep a lid on things and lead the region into the inevitable downsizing
which was scheduled to begin –although this information was still top
secret – the following year. Barry would be perfect for this, Julia
suggested to our mutual boss, given his proven people skills. (She knew
of my dream for retirement by the sea; I had done a couple of favours
for Julia in the past and this was payback.)
Ernest met with me, and when I agreed to the assignment, he told me
to write it up any way I wanted and he would make it happen.
Thanks, Julia. Our account is squared.

About Coming to Nova Scotia:

Marion and I left Ottawa in the fall of 1994. Driving down the
Queensway, heading East, the sky was full of colourful Hot Air Balloons
in many shapes and sizes. They escorted us out along the same road
which had brought me into Ottawa nearly three decades ago, and I
thought it was a very nice gesture even if the balloon pilots hadn‟t
known they were making one. The drive to Halifax took sixteen hours
and we were very tired when we arrived at our hotel.
The next morning I checked in at the office to meet my boss, Mark, a
long time friend who had climbed the ladder along with me. He knew
about my mental state, and that my assignment was part of a golden
handshake. He knew that I was answerable to Ernest and still on his
payroll. He told me essentially that I should keep myself occupied with
whatever I felt appropriate, and come to see him any time I needed help.
One of the Good Guys.
While I was doing this Marion found us a nice though very small
apartment on the 14th floor of a nearby block. We had a wonderful view
of the Navy dockyards and watched frigates and subs coming and going
from our balcony. When the Tallship festival came to Halifax we had
one of the best seats in the house.
I was given a small office in the HR area and spent the first few
hours walking around and chatting with the staff. I spent an hour setting
up my computer, then played a few rounds of solitaire, and was back at
the hotel by 3 p.m.
I met with a reporter from the departmental newspaper and gave her
some information on what 1995 would bring. I told her that anyone with
reasonable intelligence should realise that the new department didn‟t
need two HR branches, two Security Branches, two Finance Branches –
or two of anything else so we may as well face up to the fact that
downsizing was inevitable. I said that anyone who had any good, logical
ideas about how this could be handled humanely could give me a call
and we‟d get together to discuss them. I also said I‟d arrange some
focus groups if enough people were interested in participating. I
reported directly to the ADM of Human Resources, I told her, and I
would most definitely pass on any good ideas.
She seemed to be happy with this and reported pretty much what I‟d
said. I got a few calls and ran a couple of focus groups. I typed up the
details and e-mailed a report to Ernest. I was home in time for afternoon
tea with Marion.
Marion was spending her days house hunting, and was learning a lot
about the area south-west of Halifax, known locally as the South Shore.
This is a very beautiful, very sought after area. We were looking for an
oceanfront home, or at least a nice view of the sea, and we‟d been told
by friends in Ottawa that Chester was a very nice area. When we told
the realtor that we were interested in oceanfront property in Chester she
laughed and said that waterfront in Chester never came on the market
since every property on the water had a waiting list of people ready to
put money down – and lots of it – in the event that the owner decided to
sell; in the rare event that an oceanfront property came onto the open
market we would be looking at one and a half million and up. We had a
little laugh and left.
A yellow sticky note was pinned on my office door when I came in
one morning. Someone had written on it “How many executives does it
take to play a game of solitaire?” I didn‟t find this funny and became
upset about it. I left it sticking there and next morning somebody had
taken it down. There was no open hostility from the employees in the
office but I couldn‟t help feeling that there was a lot of jealousy and
bitterness. Everybody knew now that layoffs were coming, and nobody
knew for certain whether they would be the ones to stay or go. Nobody
except me.
I could have helped them, or any of the other employees of the
department. I could have explained that even if they were targeted they
would get preferential placement for vacancies at their level elsewhere
in the federal government, and it would be wise to get their CVs up to
date and be ready. I could have explained how to access the vacancies
board and get a jump on the competition for new openings. But in the
end I simply didn‟t care.

About the return of the Shadow:

Marion had found a GP in Halifax, Dr. C., who was prepared to take
us on as new patients, I went with Marion to meet him and talk about my
mental condition. We set up a time for a consultation and he put me
through a series of tests to check my mental state. I thought that being
on three pills per day I‟d come out of the tests as normal, but to my
surprise his diagnosis was very similar to that of the young doctor in
Ottawa. He told me that I was the most seriously disturbed individual he
had ever met outside an institution. I couldn‟t understand this since I still
felt quite happy, but Dr. C said that regardless of how I felt, the move to
Halifax had been a very stressful event, as was the job I was trying to do.
He said he‟d noticed signs of anxiety the first time we met. As it had
already been established that I would be treated by drug therapy he said
he could accept responsibility for my ongoing treatment, which was fine
by me. He suggested that Nortriptiline might not be the best anti-
depressant for me, and we tried a number of newer drugs, but the
unpleasant side effects of these drove me back to my old friend, the little
yellow and white capsule of magic pixie dust which had changed my
life. Dr. C was concerned about my mental condition so we arranged a
series of appointments to monitor and adjust my medication as needed.
I hadn‟t noticed it before but Dr. C was right, there was something
wrong. I was slipping back into some of my old ways. I asked if I
should increase my dosage for a little while, and Dr. C agreed.
It didn‟t work.
 Marion had found a boatyard for sale on the South Shore and we
drove down to see it. Our Ottawa home had sold well so we were in a
good position to make a cash offer. The property had an acre of land
with nearly 250 feet of oceanfront; I couldn‟t believe that it had not been
snapped up. The problem was the house, a small fisherman‟s „saltbox‟
with one large and three very tiny bedrooms, and inside we found dirty
water in the bath and hamster poop everywhere, as though no effort had
been made to sell. The reason it had not sold was that it had been billed
as a family home and any woman seeing the house in such condition had
probably walked away then and there with her husband in tow. The
boathouse was a huge 3,500 square feet. It contained three boats and a
small airplane, all under construction.
We went off to a nearby coffee shop to talk about it and although the
house was a comedown for Marion after our Ottawa home she let me put
in an offer, which was instantly accepted, and we closed just before
Christmas 1994.

About a lucky break: In the new year detailed plans for downsizing
were announced; as expected they involved large numbers of employees.
Not surprisingly the plans contained a section on the executive ranks,
since when one executive is removed from the top of the ladder eight
employees can climb up one rung each. The plan was to provide an
incentive for executives near retirement age to leave early, in the form of
a choice between a cash settlement or a waiver on pension penalties. I
had worked for 29½ years and so was only six months short of a full
pension so the waiver was worth little to me and I took the cash. My
pension would kick in when I turned 55 in October so I needed only a
few months on my „assignment‟. But that was going to be harder than
I‟d expected.
I rarely went into the office any more, usually only if I needed to use
the computer. It was hard for the employees not to notice that I no longer
even pretended to work. After the jibe about executives playing solitaire
I‟d stopped caring, even though the rational part of my mind kept trying
to tell me that it was wrong to blame the entire HR staff for one person‟s
silly practical joke gone wrong. Most of them looked sick with worry,
probably well justified since HR had been hit hard. Wherever there were
two sets of programs running, say Language, Employee Assistance, or
Training one of the two was going to be closed.

About the Black Dog’s Bite:

I was very upset about my relapse, mostly because I had believed
that it was under control for the rest of my life so long as I kept taking
the pills. Dr. C said I shouldn‟t be worried as he was sure it was a stress
reaction and would pass as soon as I took my retirement and left all the
stress behind me.
I was mixing dream and reality in something like an episode of „The
Twilight Zone‟, a symptom I remembered from long ago. I was at my
desk when I realised it was my desk from the Printing Bureau lab, and
by an act of will I woke up. Marion sometimes woke me in the middle
of the night to say that I had been crying in my sleep. The worst of thes e
episodes was one in which I dreamed I was running along Brunswick
Street, carrying my briefcase, late for a meeting. I had no idea where I
was supposed to be going nor why I was running. After trying hard to
wake up I realised that I was not dreaming, not asleep. I decided to go
home, but could not immediately remember the way. Trying to find my
way home but not knowing the way had for some years been a recurring
nightmare. I noticed that people were looking at me, and tried to be
casual as I walked away. When I got home I told Marion I‟d had
enough.
Dr. C advised me to take time off and spend it at our new house,
watching the tide roll in and out. I told him I was ready for more than a
couple of weeks vacation, I was finished with work. I only had si x
months until my 55th birthday and official retirement, and I had close to
two years of accumulated sick leave, so I was gone. Dr. C gave me a
sick note even though I‟d told him that nobody would ask questions. He
said it wouldn‟t hurt to follow the rules, and gave me an open ended note
saying I was „under care and observation until further notice‟, which was
the truth anyway.
In the boathouse I cleaned out one of the rooms which had a large
door opening onto the ocean, twenty feet away. I took four Adirondack
chairs which had been left with the house and fixed them up, replacing
broken slats and giving them a couple of coats of white paint. I sat for
hours pushing a paintbrush and listening to the sound of the surf on my
rocky oceanfront. Sanity came back gradually but it came, and one
afternoon I sat inside my boathouse, sheltering from a sudden shower
and watching the tiny waves break on the shore, and I realised that I was
happy again.

Chapter Seven: Depression Checklist: Warning Signs:

#1 Feelings of helplessness and hopelessness; Yes.
#2 Loss of interest in daily activities; Yes.
#3 Appetite or Weight changes; No.
#4 Sleep changes; insomnia; oversleeping; Yes.
#5 Anger or Irritability; Yes.
#6 Loss of energy; Yes.
#7 Self Loathing; No.
#8 Reckless Behaviour; Dangerous driving.
#9 Concentration problems; trouble focusing; Yes.
#10 Unexplained Aches and Pains; No.

Interlude: Dandelion and other Four Legged Therapists

We had a cat named Clyde once, a big Maine Coon, all grey. He was
a beautiful animal, but not the brightest. He climbed a tree outside our
house and slipped, somehow getting his tail twisted around a branch. He
hung there suspended by his tail for a while before anybody noticed him,
swinging gently to and fro in the breeze, totally unconcerned, secure in
the knowledge that eventually someone would climb up and get him
down; someone did.
Unfortunately, Clyde‟s road sense was on a par with his other
intellectual abilities and he mistakenly thought he could cross the road
before the sixteen wheeler truck arrived. Marion found what was left of
him the following morning. Sadly, he made his doomed attempt the day
before we were due to head off from Ottawa for a camping holiday on
Prince Edward Island. My boys were visiting with their Mum, so there
were four of us taking the PEI trip. The children were devastated, they
had both loved the cat, but I told them I‟d had a premonition that we
would find our next cat – not a replacement, we were sure there could
never be another cat like Clyde – somewhere on our travels. He would
be an orange coloured cat and we would call him Dandelion.
The trip to the Island was a thousand mile drive, so we did it in two
stages, stopping at a roadside motel just outside Fredericton, and as we
parked the car and walked towards the office, a small orange kitten
crawled out from under a nearby car. He was about the size of a large
mouse. We were told the kitten was the last of the litter. His mother and
all of his siblings had perished on the busy road outside the motel. He
was sharing a kennel with a Great Dane and eating whatever insects he
could catch. I left the manager‟s son $10 to buy the little cat some
decent food and told him we would collect the animal on our way home.
We picked up Dandelion on our return and stopped at a fast food
outlet to buy him a fish burger, without the bun. It was probably the first
truly good food the little cat had ever eaten and he really seemed to
appreciate it. Marion bravely held him while he shared a load of fleas
with her.
Back in Ottawa our vet found that Dandelion had in addition to the
flea infestation, ear mites, an eye infection, a runny nose and several
kinds of intestinal parasite. She told us later that she hadn‟t expected
him to survive; but survive he did, for the next fourteen years.
When I couldn‟t sleep, which was often, and when I felt that I was
down a deep hole with no way out, which was not rare, I would get up as
quietly as possible so as not to disturb the rest of the family, and make
my way downstairs to the TV room and sit. I never heard him coming
and I never saw him until he jumped up into my lap. He would sit there
purring, allowing me to pet him, and from time to time he would get up
and stretch, and rub his cheek against mine. He never left until he was
sure I was feeling better, when he would disappear as silently as he had
arrived and I would tiptoe back to bed. I did feel better and usually slept
well for the rest of the night. I suspect that it takes a special animal to
perform this type of therapy (Cat scan? Sorry!) but if you can find such a
pet, I strongly recommend the treatment.
 After I retired and we moved out to Nova Scotia I met a man who
bred and trained German Shepherd dogs for the RCMP. He asked if I‟d
like to put a claim on one of the pups due shortly. I‟ve always loved
GSDs so I jumped at the chance. The result was Jack Daniels, a big and
beautiful dog, who weighed 120 lbs as an adult and stood tall enough to
rest his head on the dining room table. When I was in the grip of an
attack I would yell at anyone or anything near me, and this upset Jack,
who would slink up to me, ears and tail flat, and put his head in my lap
to beg my forgiveness for whatever he had done to make me mad. It
should have been me saying sorry to my lovely dog and, given that
Depression had me in its grip, it always brought me to tears; but it
always sped up the healing.
Jack suffered from epilepsy. We tried everything. The standard
medicines did no good, and we tried homeopathic remedies, Chinese
herbs and acupuncture. There was no way we could get Jack to the vets
while in a seizure so they taught me how to place the needles, and that
helped for a while. Jack ballooned to 140 pounds due to his illness (and
quite possibly due to the remedies) and shortly after his third birthday he
went into chain seizures, and we took him to the vet one last time. This,
folks, is sadness, and on top of my Depression it left me helpless for a
while; the sadness passed; Depression remained.
After Jack came Mutsi, a Shepherd-Husky cross, and my princess.
Like her predecessors Mutsi knew when I needed help and was always
there for me. She was mine for fourteen years, and healthy up until her
final month. At the time of writing we have two big Shepherds, a mother
and son who have been with us for eight months. Both dogs love to curl
up with me on the sofa in the evenings, and in terms of anti-Depression
therapy I know of nothing which can compare.
Marion often knows when a Depressive episode is coming even
before I do. The clues are in my behaviour, but also in my body odour,
which seems to be the best early warning system. She says that I smell
different; not unpleasant, just different, and sometimes when we are
forewarned in this way I can take steps to minimise the severity of what
is to come. If I step up my dosage of anti-depressant medication, and if I
can avoid all stress for a while, I sometimes get off lightly. If Marion
can detect this change, how much more effectively can my super-sniffer
dogs detect it. When they start fussing around me (more than usual) I
think that they are sometimes trying to tell me “Look out; Winston‟s
Big Black Dog is coming for you.” I just have to improve my ability to
speak and understand dog.
 Chapter Eight:
Happy Ever After:
1995 - ?

About settling in to Western Shore:

At the top of the stairs a long, narrow corridor led off to the right,
with two small bedrooms on the right, a closet sized bedroom and a tiny
bathroom on the left. Marion and I ripped out all the walls and turned
two of the bedrooms into one large lounge. We took out the three
windows on the side of the house facing the sea and replaced them with
large glass doors, leading out onto a huge deck. We built the deck on
two levels, each twelve feet by thirty six, connected by an outside
staircase. We hired a contractor to add a dormer to the side facing the
road, which gave us a large bathroom and a good sized bedroom.
Outside, the acre lot was essentially an industrial site. We told the
last owner to take what time he needed to finish the projects in the
boathouse, since we had no immediate plans for the building. He was
pleased and very relieved, and must have passed the word around the
village that we were „good guys‟. Everybody was very nice to us, and
neighbours arrived with gifts of food. We had been told by friends in
Ottawa that Maritimers were „stand-offish‟, and that it could be many
years, if ever, before we were accepted into the community, but this was
not so. We joined the Community Association and volunteered for
several activities, always seeming to meet the same group of people
willing to give their time to the community. We joined the Citizens
Patrol, working with the local RCMP, and took the night shift, driving
around the area in the early hours of the morning looking for signs of
trouble, but never finding any.
Marion and I were not shy about meeting neighbours, and would go
knocking on doors to introduce ourselves. Marion‟s Dad visited along
with others of the family and everyone had a splendid holiday. Her Dad
had warned us against the move, and had misgivings about our leaving
family and friends so far away, but shortly after he arrived he told
Marion that he had been wrong and he understood why we had moved.
 We arrived to find a single, small flowerbed at the side of the house,
and one mature tree, which died the year after we moved in. Marion
built flower beds and planted shrubs and trees, and within a few years
we had colour and variety in the garden and birdsong at all times of the
day. One visitor said that it was like owning our own park. We are
never short of house-guests in summer and enjoy the contrast with our
quiet winters. The climate is much milder than Ottawa and we are very
grateful to be away from the forty degree summer temperatures, and
winter mornings of waiting for the bus at 40 below.
A woman I worked with once told me that there are several centres
of spiritual power in the world. It‟s apparently something to do with ley
lines and where they cross each other. Most of these centres are well
known, and just where you‟d expect to find them. One of them sits on
top of the Himalayas, for example. One is apparently in Nova Scotia,
and I sometimes think that it might be in my back yard. I‟m comfortable
here. I can no longer travel; the further I get from home, the more
uneasy I feel, but once back home my anxiety floats away.
Growing old certainly has its downsides; in fact I‟m not too sure that
there are many upsides, but if I have to grow old, t his is a very pleasant
place to do it. What the future will bring, I don‟t know, and perhaps it is
better that way. One day at a time.
One day at a time.
 Epilogue
August 2014: Happy ever after was not to be. I had thought that
since my illness stemmed from a shortage of serotonin, if I took daily
doses of the stuff or improved the efficiency with which I used it
everything would tick along beautifully, like a diabetic using insulin.
But it wasn‟t meant to be. I am now taking one hundred milligrams a
day of Nortriptiline, one pill short of the maximum allowable daily dose.
At this dosage I have great difficulty getting up in the morning; it takes a
huge effort of will on my part to get dressed and face the day. Also, at
this dosage my thinking is fuzzy, and I sometimes watch the world go by
in slow motion. Marion may say something to me, but by the time I‟ve
processed the message, formed and delivered a reply she‟s left the room,
busy on other matters. Several of my early „orbital‟ illnesses are trying
to creep back in. I can control them for the moment, but I find it very
distressing that they are trying to reclaim me when I had thought them
forever vanquished. I have no fear of visits to my doctor, thank heaven,
and keep him up to date with my symptoms. He suggested on my last
visit that my friend Nortriptiline is a very old anti-depressant and I might
benefit greatly from one of the newer drugs. I told him I was not ready
to do so, not yet, but I will visit again soon and tell him I am now ready
to try a different pill.
I do not like to leave the house. If Marion and I are driving to
Halifax on a simple shopping trip I will not sleep the night before. I
have no specific fears; I do not fear a traffic accident, or any kind of
calamity on the trip. Just old phobias re-emerging.
When I go for a run down my old jogging trail I fear attack from
behind every bush. I am five feet ten inches tall, weigh 180 pounds. My
dog, Kuba, is a ninety pound German Shepherd with attitude problems,
and he has started to come jogging with me. Together we should be safe
even from the brown bears which sometimes turn up on the wooded
parts of the trail. There are probably a thousand reasons why I need not
fear; unfortunately, logical thinking plays no part in this. I will still
move to the other side of the trail when passing a bush which could
conceal a mugger (six feet tall and wearing a grey overcoat?)
 Did you know that laughing is so like crying that I can start one and
morph seamlessly into the other?
The cruelest cut of all is that the pills no longer keep me free from
my „crashes‟, my „episodes‟. Winston‟s Black Dog attacks me five or six
times a year, with various degrees of violence. The worst episode of my
life occurred three years ago at a time when I was supposedly protected
by my medication, and it lasted five days.
Marion is still able to smell the difference in my body chemistry
when an attack is imminent, and with her help I can sometimes minimize
the severity of attack, even avoid it. She is, as she has always been, my
guiding light back to sanity, and as long as I have her I will not fear.
When I finally stand at the Pearly Gates and Saint Peter asks me if I
have any complaints about my life I will tell him „No, Sir, none at all‟. I
have lived my years in freedom, I have enjoyed good physical health
from the start, I‟ve had all the material success any man could wish for,
and I have been surrounded by love. To love and be loved counters an
awful lot of Black Dog bites. And who knows, perhaps my life-long
struggle against mental illness has made me spiritually stronger. Maybe
it was an intended part of this life, put there for a reason. No complaints,
Pete: open the gates, please, there are people waiting for me in there.
I haven‟t looked at my checklist for a while. I will do so now. To
fellow sufferers, God bless you and keep you strong. I don‟t expect to
live long enough to see a cure for our condition, but with luck, perhaps
developments in medication will allow us to negotiate a longer lasting
truce.
August 2014: Final Depression Checklist: Warning Signs:
#1 Feelings of helplessness and hopelessness; Yes.
#2 Loss of interest in daily activities; No.
#3 Appetite or Weight changes; No.
#4 Sleep changes; insomnia; oversleeping; Yes.
#5 Anger or Irritability; Yes.
#6 Loss of energy; Yes.
#7 Self Loathing; No.
#8 Reckless Behaviour; Yes.
#9 Concentration problems; trouble focusing; Yes;
#10 Unexplained Aches and Pains; Yes.
And a few extra signs I‟ve picked up from visits to Therapists:
#11 Are you uncomfortable at social gatherings? Yes.
#12 Do crowds make you nervous? Yes.
#13 Do loud noises disturb you unduly? Yes.
#14 Have you ever considered killing yourself. No.

Barry Daniels
Nova Scotia
Summer, 2014.
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