Well, I know how it was. Right at the bottom of the pecking order. After all the Management Board, Buildings Advisers, Gardens Adviser and Curators had been given the once-over in the relative comfort of the house, a few of us were lined up against the wall as if facing a firing squad, and I was presented after my Line Manager and the Surveyor, the penultimate obligatory credit, with only the Forester at the end of the queue behind me.
Now, I can laugh and employ sarcastic phraseology all I want, but I've kept the order of proceedings all this time, so it must have meant something, mustn't it? And I suppose it did, although I think I've kept the paperwork more for my kids than myself. Mind you, without it at my fingertips, I couldn't have written this blog post, because I certainly haven't remembered it that clearly after all these years.
I don't recall a firm, enthusiastic handshake. I have no idea what was said, to me or by me. I just have a cloudy recollection of an old lady in blue, wearing her best hat, who looked like somebody's mum. Well, she was, wasn't she? The Queen's. She was also a granny. To him who would be king. If it ever comes to that. Not looking great, is it? Anyway, she flopped her hand into mine, muttered something polite and moved on. And that was it.
I was wearing my best interview suit, £28 from TopShop, and my interview tie, from the same source. I liked that tie. I still have it. It has wings on. At tea after the celebrations, a few of us were sitting at a table, and someone asked, 'Were you in the forces?' I didn't have a clue what he was on about. 'The tie? The wings?' he prompted. Oh. I stumbled for words, and one of the Curators stepped in to my aid and announced 'Flymo Pilot!' I could have been offended. Could have felt patronised. But that is with hindsight. I wasn't quick enough to read it as an elitist comment. I thought it was hilarious, like everyone else, and somehow a vindication of the black arts of the professional horticulturalist. I was sure I would become one of those one day.
As it turned out, he wasn't far wrong. As you can imagine, after two years with the sort of rapid turnover of demotivated, untrained staff, all the machinery was knackered, and to go forward and present the place to an acceptable standard to the visiting public, I had to upgrade the entire stock of machine tools. I bought the Rolls-Royce of greens mowers of the time, the Lloyd's Paladin, replaced the mini-tractor with a bright orange hydrostatic model, bought a flail mower to drag behind it to cut the rough areas, and, quirkiest of all, to give a neat finish to the borders of the main drive, I bought a ride-on Flymo. 30" cut, seat on the back, self-propelled. I loved it. Flymo Pilot. Squadron Leader more like. When I left, I don't think my successor liked any of my choices, and he scrapped the lot, but I knew what worked for me.
It was a good day, though, and a veritable one-off for such a small village. The whole school was invited, and for the kids it was a bit of a pageant. I haven't got a photo with all my family in it on the day, but here's one with the two eldest visible, and me, in my interview suit and tie towering over proceedings. The youngest two are probably in the bushes somewhere, being scallywags.
I won't be accepting a knighthood if I'm put forward by the current government, though. In fact, probably any government, if truth were told. But it's not going to happen, is it? Knighthoods get squandered rather too often on the unworthy. I'll bet you can all think of a few names. No place in that list for a grass-cutter from Liverpool. Who in fact actually originated a mere forty miles up the road from where these photos were taken. Funny business, eh?
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