Phonetically speaking
by Angus Shoor Caan
Genre: Memoir
Swearwords: None.
Description: When you have to re-learn the alphabet.
Swearwords: None.
Description: When you have to re-learn the alphabet.
Training to be a conductor/guard on the railway was never going to be easy for me, what with my life-long aversion to classrooms. It was like being back in school, never the right situation for one of life's great underachievers. Considering the fact that I always bagged a window seat in every classroom I ever entered after learning to read and write, written tests, maps and calculations were as mince to me. I simply didn't have the attention span of most of my classmates.
Every job I ever worked since leaving school aged fifteen was, by design, non-cerebral and more monkey see, monkey do. As long as I could count the number of hours worked and multiply that by the hourly rate I was quite happy.
I already had two jobs when I applied to work on the railway as a carriage cleaner. I was a landscaper during the week and a barman at the weekend, and I had it worked out that I could manage all three if I became a carriage cleaner, the friend who recommended it assuring me he was home every morning before one o'clock after a ten o'clock start. Unfortunately, the railway works in mysterious ways, something I soon discovered on meeting some of the so-called bosses at the time. They sent me to guard training school in Preston after a cursory interview which identified me as someone who could read and write. The labour exchange had been applying the pressure, they didn't know about my other two jobs, and I felt an obligation to accept the placement.
Other than actually driving the train, a conductor/guard is required to know just about everything a driver does whether it be line safety, line speeds, station outlays, awareness of other rail traffic, signalling and reporting incidents, accidents and train failures. It's a lot to take in and it involves hour upon hour in the classroom, a classroom without windows, a classroom consisting of three walls and a whiteboard.
Pie charts, endless diagrams and possible scenarios were rattled off or depicted by the instructors and if we hadn't been taken out on the trains twice per week for instruction on the practical side of things I feel sure I would have cracked up with the avalanche of knowledge I was being asked to retain. The practical side of it was a piece of piss compared to the theoretical and I managed to impress that particular instructor, but the classwork did my head in for the most part. In particular, I struggled with the phonetic alphabet, finding it difficult to instantly relate a letter to the corresponding word, and that was almost my downfall. The instructor all but lost his rag with me over that, but at the same time the instructor who took us out and about saw that I was capable outside of the classroom and as good in the field, if not better, than my fellow pupils. His words.
I failed the written test. Not by much but enough for that particular instructor to suggest to his superiors that I shouldn't be allowed anywhere near a train unless it was as a paying customer. The other instructor argued my case, insisting I'd make a very good conductor guard, which it turned out I was, and I was given a pass, welcomed to the fold, so to speak.
I had left my jacket in the classroom while we gathered in the tiny mess room to discover our fate. The place was empty when I returned for it and I couldn't resist the temptation. I picked up a black marker pen, approached the whiteboard and wrote in giant lettering:
ECHO
FOXTROT
FOXTROT
OSCAR
FOXTROT
FOXTROT
I'm quite sure the dude got the message.
Every job I ever worked since leaving school aged fifteen was, by design, non-cerebral and more monkey see, monkey do. As long as I could count the number of hours worked and multiply that by the hourly rate I was quite happy.
I already had two jobs when I applied to work on the railway as a carriage cleaner. I was a landscaper during the week and a barman at the weekend, and I had it worked out that I could manage all three if I became a carriage cleaner, the friend who recommended it assuring me he was home every morning before one o'clock after a ten o'clock start. Unfortunately, the railway works in mysterious ways, something I soon discovered on meeting some of the so-called bosses at the time. They sent me to guard training school in Preston after a cursory interview which identified me as someone who could read and write. The labour exchange had been applying the pressure, they didn't know about my other two jobs, and I felt an obligation to accept the placement.
Other than actually driving the train, a conductor/guard is required to know just about everything a driver does whether it be line safety, line speeds, station outlays, awareness of other rail traffic, signalling and reporting incidents, accidents and train failures. It's a lot to take in and it involves hour upon hour in the classroom, a classroom without windows, a classroom consisting of three walls and a whiteboard.
Pie charts, endless diagrams and possible scenarios were rattled off or depicted by the instructors and if we hadn't been taken out on the trains twice per week for instruction on the practical side of things I feel sure I would have cracked up with the avalanche of knowledge I was being asked to retain. The practical side of it was a piece of piss compared to the theoretical and I managed to impress that particular instructor, but the classwork did my head in for the most part. In particular, I struggled with the phonetic alphabet, finding it difficult to instantly relate a letter to the corresponding word, and that was almost my downfall. The instructor all but lost his rag with me over that, but at the same time the instructor who took us out and about saw that I was capable outside of the classroom and as good in the field, if not better, than my fellow pupils. His words.
I failed the written test. Not by much but enough for that particular instructor to suggest to his superiors that I shouldn't be allowed anywhere near a train unless it was as a paying customer. The other instructor argued my case, insisting I'd make a very good conductor guard, which it turned out I was, and I was given a pass, welcomed to the fold, so to speak.
I had left my jacket in the classroom while we gathered in the tiny mess room to discover our fate. The place was empty when I returned for it and I couldn't resist the temptation. I picked up a black marker pen, approached the whiteboard and wrote in giant lettering:
ECHO
FOXTROT
FOXTROT
OSCAR
FOXTROT
FOXTROT
I'm quite sure the dude got the message.
About the Author
Angus Shoor Caan is in an ex-seaman and rail worker. Born and bred in Saltcoats, he returned to Scotland after many years in England and found the time to begin writing.
Angus is the author of thirteen novels, two short story collections and ten collections of poems. All but four of his books are McStorytellers publications.
You can read his full profile on McVoices.
Angus is the author of thirteen novels, two short story collections and ten collections of poems. All but four of his books are McStorytellers publications.
You can read his full profile on McVoices.