I get an agency job in Chambon’s Riverside printworks. I spend my days pushing machine parts on an ancient trolley from one likeable skilled set for life fitter and turner from the Black Country to another. The ‘progress chaser’ has a thin moustache and a tight t-shirt and used to be in the Foreign Legion. He says he will find something ‘more my style’ in the office. Next day, after twenty minutes cleaning ink out of feeder trays with turps and an old t-shirt, I stand up and walk straight out of the gate. The legionnaire is shouting my name.