1983 and I’m Company Accountant at Pallot Glass, a family-owned glass, glazing and window replacement outfit. A new world and I loved it for the 12 years I was there. And I was in charge of all two of the staff which I inherited, together with a dog (Plonk) who seemed to be the doorstop to the Accounts Department, blocking all who tried to enter.
Desktop accounting was still in its infancy, but we managed the transition from Kalamazoo cards to a nice, little accounting system. And proper 5-inch floppy disks for backing up. And I self-taught myself the daily, monthly and annual routines that go with commercial accounting.

In time we opened (and eventually closed) outlets in Guernsey and the UK so my dread of flying was severely tested. I became Finance Director of our little group of companies.
But it was the lads that made it all so enjoyable. In the factory were a bunch of mainly Scottish tradesmen, time-served, hard working and hard playing. On the vans were another bunch who would drive off in pairs each morning on various jobs around the island. There was a natural stand-off between the lads and the office staff, but we needed one another and managed a rapport of sorts.

Their weekly wages were mostly gone by Tuesday and they’d come looking for a ‘sub’ to get them through the week. If you were kind-hearted and lent one of them a tenner then the rest would be queuing up outside. If you played hardball then they’d try again next day.
The stories were legion – I might write a book one day. One Monday morning there was a work experience lad waiting downstairs. The Works Director saw him and bundled him onto a van which was just leaving on a job. A week later the Works Director asked the young lad how he was getting on. The lad replied ‘Loving it, but I was hoping to be trained in Sales.’ There was a minor sensation when a GIRL was taken on as a window fitter. That lasted two weeks until she declared herself pregnant.
Twelve great years. I’d be there now but I was now married with a mortgage. One or two of our big contracts were stretching the company financially. I left for the safer pastures of the Jersey finance industry. (Pallot Glass happily trade to this day, still family-owned.)

Three years at Theodore Goddard & Co, a medium-sized trust company, deserves no more than a paragraph. It should have warned me off the finance industry for good. It’s a living death. But, through contacts, I got my next move.

Ten years at Bois & Bois, a small legal office. I’d found a new niche. Looking after the books, observing the strict legal accounting rules, reporting to the partners. Conveyancing (property transactions) which go through Jersey’s Royal Court each Friday was the climax of every week. And in Jersey, property deals can be very large indeed. It was crucial that the funds were in place to complete the transaction at Court and, if acting for the purchaser, that they were paid out the following Tuesday. Many close shaves we had.

Ten good years, good bosses, lovely colleagues. But for many months now I’d been planning to finish up my working days in Ireland, a country with which I have a great affinity. All the indicators were right, the Celtic Tiger was roaring. I was no longer married with a mortgage. In the last days of 2007 I said my goodbyes (and there were many) and I was on my way.

Work came to a halt in the Commercial Department of Turquands Barton Mayhew & Co. We gathered round in expectation. A few buttons pressed and our new-fangled facsimile machine, with its own dedicated telephone line, sprang into life with a series of hums and buzzes. We were faxing a document to New York and it was the wonder of the age. At the NYC end an identical machine was deciphering and printing the document. It took about six minutes. We gazed in awe.

Wonder of the age

Not so many years later the fax machine is more or less redundant, overtaken by even more wondrous technology.

The late 70s in Jersey were certainly different from now. The holidaymakers still arrived in their hordes, the sun seemed to shine continuously, the alcohol was cheap and plentiful, there were nightly shows and entertainment all over the Island. Most of us were still youngish and we hung out and partied lots. The idea of ‘going home’ after a couple of years got sort-of forgotten as careers progressed and love blossomed, faded, and grew again.

Work consisted of looking after portfolios of private clients, both Jersey-based and others. Much of it was familiar – churning out sets of accounts, but there was also administration and correspondence. Increased telephone work meant that I quickly learnt to moderate my thick Brummie accent so as to be understood.

One day a couple of oil barons from Calgary or somewhere turned up unannounced, boots, Stetsons and everything. That same day they had almost completed a reverse takeover of one of our smaller listed companies for one of their ventures. It wouldn’t have happened in Birmingham!

Those were the days of unregulated financial dealings. Clients (not necessarily TBM clients) would jet in, withdraw thousands from their offshore accounts, stick the money in envelopes and mail them to mysterious places. Funds arrived from strange sources and were merrily banked, no questions asked. Guys walked the streets with heavy briefcases, swapping Kruggerands for cash, and vice versa. There would be regular days out to Sark (the fourth largest Channel Island) for meetings of sham directors to be held and minutes signed there at the harbour. This malarkey was to change quickly and radically in the years that followed with the Channel Islands now at the forefront of financial regulation.

Good times, good friends. But after six years, in 1983, I took an opportunity to take my first venture into life outside a professional office.

”As the gale tore at her with renewed frenzy Tess put up her arms as if to fly. She closed her eyes, her legs wobbled and buckled.

La Fret Point, Portelet, Jersey

She visualised the rocks rushing up to meet her, the agony to follow. Slowly, very slowly she opened her eyes, lowered her arms, tucked her collar closer around her neck and struggled back to the cottage.”

From ‘Tess of Portelet Manor‘. Mental health, depression, suicidal thoughts – all are openly talked about these days. Help is available. Not so in 1935 when you just had to deal with it. Or not.

‘They had been married for 44 years, happily married, yet he had not shed tears at the funeral, or since.

Anne had left him quietly and in the natural way of things. Although sad, he had accepted her passing without fuss. He wondered about his reaction and had fully expected there to be some deferred effect, but this had not been so.

He moved on, slowly, reluctantly, before arriving at Charlie’s simple, white headstone. His great grandson, six weeks old. A simple inscription from his heartbroken parents and angels watching over Charlie from the corner of the headstone. As he knew there would be, tears streamed from Hedley’s eyes as he shook his head, turned, and walked away.’

From ‘A Jersey Midsummer Tale’

Last weekend saw the 7th running of this endurance event here in Jersey. It’s approximately 48 miles around our coastline, much of it off-road with long stretches of demanding but wonderfully scenic cliff paths.

Many did it solo – hats off to them. Others formed relay teams, such as my teams Jersey Joggers and Jersey Girls Run.

One of those solo runners was Stephen Cousins. He not only completed the course in just over 10 hours but filmed the whole thing. So here is a gorgeously produced 7-minute showcase of what Jersey’s coastline has to offer.