Author Ted Dakin looks back on his first experiences of joining the world of work in Wigan

Previous to that though, when my final schooldays, aged 14, came to an end, I was ecstatic, and ran as fast as I could, all the way home.

For me, my life was just beginning and I couldn’t wait.

With those hateful teachers of St Joseph’s Catholic School behind me, I couldn’t wait to grow up and start living.

But being as thick as one of mam’s jam butties, it wasn’t easy.

Not many businesses wanted to hire a poorly educated strip of a lad and I struggled to find work.

Then, just by chance, Dad saw this job advert in the then Wigan Evening Examiner, that read something like this: "Young apprentice required

to learn and secure a permanent position in the leather industry. Contact JT Robinson and Son, Wallgate, Wigan.”

Mam and dad pounced on me like a shot.

"How about that, lad, eh? You’ll never be out of work. You’ll always have a wage. You’ll never get this chance again. Think of the future.”

And guess what?

Come Monday morning I was first in the queue for an interview, simply because there was no-one else there to form a queue. There was only me.

And one week later, I was sweeping the floor of Robinson’s workshop adjacent to the LMS railway station on Wallgate.

Owd Robinson, the owner, was a stocky, slightly stooped, religious character with a trimmed bushy moustache.

His son, and partner in the business, was a chap called Jim.

The owd chap was stern and methodical, but Jim didn’t give a monkey’s toss about owt and enjoyed sniffing snuff.

His favourite snuff was Singleton Best, which was always available from a tobacconist shop just around the corner from Robinson’s, on Wallgate.

During those war years, Jim dabbled enthusiastically in the black market, flogging silk stockings and other feminine goods.

Robinson’s, although a workshop, still dealt and haggled with visiting farmers and gypsies and land owners from in and around Wigan, and

with rolls of bank notes exchanging hands at a regular rate, I saw many deals confirmed and settled.

On a personal note, close to Robinson’s workshop was the Iron Bridge that looked down on the railway yards below and was also a shortcut to King Street, which was handy for me when making dinnertime early bookings at the County and Court cinemas for me and mi mates or my current girlfriend.

I remember well those gaudy cinema billboards advertising the latest blockbuster films and trailers, like Gone With The Wind and Dodge City, starring Errol Flynn.

One day while crossing over the bridge I had a "bird’s eye” view of a vet dressed-up in a black rubber apron and green Wellington boots, delivering a newborn calf from its mooing and distressed mother.

A mother who was awaiting her turn to be led away to be slaughtered.

Here was my very first lesson, in life and death after sex.

Robinson’s workshop was a cluttered place of leather goods; saddles, harness, horse brasses, suitcases, belts, handbags and all things, that today have become plastic replicas.

Just writing about those times brings back to me the pungent smell of real leather.

But, as the saying goes, nothing lasts forever, which in my case, it all came down to money.

In our house, poor wages meant poor pocket money.

My mates though, Alan Scott and Bill Gallagher, always had a jingle in their pockets, and me, well, I struggled to keep up and that broke my will, so I gave up my job for life at Robinson’s and went on the dole.

Mam went bonkers, Dad said nowt but wasn’t a happy bunny.

And thus, my first taste of life on the dole began.

I walked the streets and despaired, but life after despair was just a spit away from our house, on the other side of the Leeds and Liverpool Canal.

Riding and Anderton’s was a wood yard and its location was probably chosen because of the scarcity of surrounding properties.

Trees that had been felled in the wilds of Scotland and Wales were transported to this woodyard to be stripped of bark and turned into planks, which in turn, were used for rafters on new buildings and other kinds of building work.

One of my workmates was minus a couple of fingers on his left hand; lost, he said, whilst felling trees in the wilds Scotland.

He was transferred to Wigan and became part of our team to makes planks.

He used to brag about his days in the wilds and said several trophies of severed fingers were strung across the saw mill as a warning to take care, keep alert and your mind on the job.

He once told us a tale about a workmate who suffered from a tight, infected foreskin, and because of the wild conditions, a foreman decided to become a stand-in surgeon by using his pocket knife as a scalpel and carried out an emergency operation.

I think he was having me on.

However, here at Riding and Anderton’s, my job was to keep just one chap happy with timber that he machined into planks.

It was boring work but it was bonus work, and it was a continual rush to make a decent wage

Once when I was a bit slow in delivery, this thick set, bullish machinist, gave me a right b*********.

I retaliated, but taking my youth and experience into consideration, he forgave me, and as a peace making gesture gave me a bite on a new plug of his chewing tobacco.

I had never tasted such a foul taste in my life, nor since, but I wouldn’t admit it to him.

I chewed away and suffered in silence, until I could stand it no longer, took courage and spat it out.

After that experience, I believed every word about severed fingers and foreskin problems.

Over the years I was fortunate enough to have a variety of jobs.

I say fortunate, because work gives you stability and self-esteem and consideration for others and the will to keep on trying until you find a purpose in life.

"Never give in,”said Winston Churchill.