16 of 24 Back on the tools
After Falmouth I nursed a vague notion that I’d drift into computer graphics—join the ranks of those producing animated films in sleek studios lit by enthusiasm and energy drinks. I suspected that kind of future might favour a London postcode, so we moved in with the in-laws in Essex and waited for destiny to send an embossed invitation. It never came. In the meantime, I turned back to my trade. I secured a job as an odd-job man in a construction company’s yard. The company was a prominent figure in British civil engineering and construction, and undertook lots of work in the Dagenham Ford factory. The yard was typical enough: a squat tower crane for shunting cabins and containers, a repair workshop with creaking stores, and a small office block that smelled of photocopiers and lukewarm tea. The work was menial, physical, varied—and to my surprise, I didn’t mind. When the site cabins returned from jobs the floors were mosaics of trampled newspapers, chip packets, bent drawin...