An Average Joe's Search For The Meaning Of Life. David Shaw
think I had much chance of getting an interview for this position, never mind the actual job – but don’t tell me not to apply because my prized ‘O’ levels were not of a suitable calibre! Fortunately, when I read the advert a second time it didn’t say that your five ‘O’ Grades must be passes. I was in, and after submitting my application form I was invited to sit the dreaded aptitude test.
There were at least another fifty people sitting this test, all vying for only three available jobs. Kevan had mentioned to me beforehand that nobody managed to finish the test when he had previously sat his ill-fated attempt. He also added smugly that he knew of at least three people who had multiple higher qualifications than me, and that they would probably get the jobs.
However, this wasn’t a test of academic ability or of how hard you were prepared to work to achieve your goals. No, this was an arithmetic test – and I was lightning fast at arithmetic. I was Carol Vorderman, without the legs – again, apologies if we’ve gone global!
I once sat an arithmetic test in primary school. It was the same test for the whole school, from age five to twelve. We were instructed to get friends and family to sponsor us with each correct answer receiving a specific amount of sponsorship money. I was third in the whole school, even though I was only in Primary four. I was feeling really chuffed with myself until I found out that because I only had two sponsors, my mum and dad, I raised less money than the class dunce, who must have been sponsored by the entire population of China. Still, my teacher was impressed by my arithmetic abilities, if clearly not by my marketing skills.
The Post Office aptitude test would last for thirty minutes. After ten minutes my head had surfaced, and as I gazed around the room it was evident that I was the only person who had finished. I had twenty minutes remaining and decided to double-check my answers. I only found two answers that needed to be amended. I was then convinced that I had every answer correct. I sat for the next fifteen minutes watching my fellow competitors chip away at their task, before the adjudicator announced that the given time had elapsed. There were muffled groans as the other applicants realised that they had fallen short of the required standard. I walked home feeling that I must have done enough for an interview, but that I’d probably mess up if it got to that stage.
I received a call that same afternoon from someone at the Post Office informing me that ‘Obviously you know that you passed the test, would you come for an interview next week?’ I had in fact been for several interviews recently and got absolutely nowhere, so I did not share too much optimism about being successful this time in a job that paid far more money than any of the others. However, as I walked into that interview room and was formally introduced to the two interviewers from the Post Office, I intuitively knew before a word had even been spoken that I would be offered the job. In fact, I could have jumped on the knee of either man, smacked him in the face with a wet fish, while singing Dixie – and still have got the job. I didn’t bother with Dixie, but I did get that job.
When I told Kevan about my success I could see he was both surprised and a bit jealous. Kevan was the opposite of me. He was a hard worker and showed great determination to succeed. He suffered from an illness that often held him back, but eventually he would recover and move down to Manchester, becoming both very successful and wealthy. I, on the other hand, would work for the Post Office for the next twenty years.
At first it was a difficult job, but it was a valued profession and I felt privileged to be a part of such a well thought-of organisation. Latterly, though, the job became a nightmare and I became embarrassed by how it was being run. In fact, the rumour was that you could murder your own mother and still get a job with the Post Office.
I worked at the Post Office counter and met some amazing people in my time there. I also met some right nutters!
Still, as an eighteen-year-old single guy, earning over £100 per week in 1985, I had the world at my feet.
Unfortunately, there was one particular thing blocking any potential spiritual development. I had been introduced to alcohol. I would drink four nights a week – Thursday to Sunday. I had nothing else to spend my hard-earned cash on and I decided to live the good life!
My teenage years were coming to an end, roll on the nineties. Somehow I had managed to land a decent job, despite that decadent spell in my teenage years. I could now start to be positive about my life for the first time in five years. Job Done!
THE NINETIES – A TIME FOR CHANGE
The start of the nineties brought very little change to my fast-becoming-decadent lifestyle. I was still going out four nights a week for excessive amounts of alcohol, and I had even endured a two week drinking binge in Ibiza that culminated in yours truly spending a night in the cells for being drunk and disorderly.
In Kilmarnock, I would regularly go out on a Thursday night with my friend Bobby. Friday night was usually with Cameron, Saturday night with Fraser and Sunday night with whoever could still stand. Kevan with an ‘A’ would often join us on a Saturday, although he didn’t drink alcohol. Kevan’s job was to get us all home safely, and of course to inform us of what we got up to the previous evening! Occasionally, Bobby, Fraser and I would also go to our local pub on a Monday, Tuesday or Wednesday, if we were bored. I got bored very easily. I remember scouring the pubs of Kilmarnock with Fraser one Christmas Day, pleading with landlords to let us in out of the wind and rain.
It had to stop and eventually it did – we met women. I never really had many girlfriends in my twenties. I would flirt with pretty office workers when they visited my workplace, but if I met them in the pub I usually completely embarrassed myself due to being drunk.
However Fraser started dating a girl that we used to socialise with and thankfully my alcohol intake started to decrease since my drinking accomplice was otherwise engaged! Fraser and I used to drink for seven hours solid on a Saturday night until we actually started to sober up, before eventually crawling home to our respective pits.
It was shortly afterwards that I met my wife to be, Anne. Anne studied at college with Bobby and we used to talk occasionally in the pub. Eventually I plucked up the courage to ask her out.
I had finally met someone that I wanted to get to know better. We started to see each other three or four times a week and very soon became inseparable. I was happier than I had ever been and there was no booze involved – well, only the occasional vodka or two.
While we were dating, Anne suggested that we get a Tarot card reading. A certain psychic had previously told Anne that she would meet a guy called David with a sister called Susan. Guess my sister’s name? – go on! It’s Angela! – No it really is Susan!
I was a bit sceptical at first. This woman seemed too good to be true. I was worried that she might be the kind of medium who will tell you warts and all: ‘You’re going to have three kids, one will die in a car crash, one will become a transvestite, and the other will end up in prison.’
I was first to receive a reading. I deliberately kept my answers brief to gauge the psychic’s reaction. She commented that I was difficult to read and couldn’t really see much, although she did say that I would pass my driving test, which, to be fair, I was actually about to sit just a week later. Mind you, Anne’s car was outside with ‘L’ plates on – what a cynic I am! Meanwhile Anne received her reading and then rather oddly refused to tell me anything about it.
The next day Anne informed me that the Tarot reader thought she would die in ‘a crushing of metal’, but that it wouldn’t happen for a long time. I was horrified that she had been told this. To me, this was bad mediumship. You don’t tell a client how she is going to die, no matter the circumstances. Furthermore, no spirit would ever divulge this sort of information. Why would they wish to frighten their loved one?
I told Anne that I thought it was nonsense and she smiled approvingly, although I knew that she still believed the medium to be correct. After all, if you tell someone the name of the person they are going to