CHAPTER 2
From the experience, I considered that time in my life to be fun,exciting days,as one never knew what was going to happen from one day to the next, while in work, or for that matter,before even going to work. Such as the one particular occasion,before commencing my working day, upon arriving at the site discovering the gates had been chained and padlocked, both the chain and being quite substantial in size and extremely difficult to remove. All the other personnel had abandoned their vehicles outside the main gates. Upon looking out from my car towards the portacabin which doubled as the canteen and mess room, I observed my work colleagues gesticulating from comfort and warmth of their safe haven for me to clamber over the immense gates. Meanwhile two men from the local newspaper stood outside the gates of the plant, a cub reporter and a photographer. From the outset, the local rag had sided with the demonstrators becoming strongly anti Hyperwaste and throwing their weight whole heartedly behind the local action committee.
The previous evening, the Editor of the local newspaper had received an anonymous telephone call. During the subsequent conversation, the caller suggested it would be a prudent action on the Editor's part to send one of his reporters and a photographer to the plant gates for
6:00 am in the morning and acquire a journalistic scoop. However, the Editor had no knowledge of the fact, but work at the facility did not actually commence until 08:00 am. Hence the two unfortunate journalists turned up at 5:30 at the gates as instructed by their boss in the hope
of obtaining a newspaper revelation which could possibly propel them and their newspaper into the big time. Because of the cold weather, the
poor journalists were absolutely frozen.
As directed by my colleagues, I clambered over the substantially padlocked gates.The cub reporter, note book,suitably poised in hand, began firing questions at me, while at the same time, desperately attempting to take notes with the biro just about held in the white, frozen
fingers of his right hand. Although by this time, he probably thought his fingers actually belonged to someone else, having no feeling in them
whatsoever.
'What is your job on site?' he asked through chattering teeth and in his best investigative, journalistic style.
'My official title is "Plant Chemist."' I replied breathlessly, while at the same time, struggling desperately to pull my right leg over the top of the huge gates.
'And what does that actually entail?' persisted the cub reporter, trying to emulate Jeremy Paxman in an aggressive style of interrogation.
'Well....' I replied, carefully formulating my response so as not to land myself or the company well and truly in it, while at the same time,
gasping desperately for air through my overworked lungs.
By this stage in the proceedings, my legs straddled either side of the metal gates.Then I continued with my answer to this unwanted,
impromptu interview
'During the break periods, I go around with a small trolley selling condoms, aspirins, shampoo and toothpaste.'
The cub reporter, assiduously, with an almost religious fervour,began writing down all of my comments, verbatim. Suddenly, he stopped, thought a second or two, before realizing he had been well and truly wound up. As he glared up at me, I looked directly at him, exhibiting an almost cherubic smile, before sliding slowly down the other side of the gates, safely ensconced within the confines of the treatment plant.