Typist in Charge, episode 2

 Hi there

Here's my so-called monthly update of my typist autobiography.  Episode 1 was about five weeks ago.

above:  Sheila's wedding reception.  I am to the left of the bride, wearing a frothy confection of a hat and I'm demurely clutching a handbag.  Over my shoulder is Mrs Rowley (typist in Charge).  Far left is Miss McNeill Supervising Typist in Charge.  To the right of the bride is Miss Hopkins, now a staff typist but recently retired from Sup Typ-in-Ch job.  Behind Miss Hopkins is Valerie (bridesmaid) who was a Miss Wellington.

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The 'girls' in the room 305 typing pool at Government Buildings, from 1961, were a varied lot -

Vivacious blonde Elspeth was a weekend nightclub singer; after a row with her boyfriend, she'd thrown all the jewellery he'd given her into the Hutt River.  Mariana loved anything mechanical.  Valerie, a Miss Wellington, was granted time off work to tour the country with Joe Brown's Miss New Zealand Show.  Evaline was a junior tennis champion who told me I was too old, at sixteen, to learn to play.  Del, a future minister of the faith, went all fluttery whenever she looked out the window and spotted her fiancee's car trundling down Lambton Quay.

Singleton Sheila had come straight off the ship from England, and into the typing room.  Tamsin was a snob.  Francie,  a mature spinster, hadn't paid any attention to Taboo perfume's warning about being careful around men when wearing it; she had to fight off a long-time guy friend the first time she spritzed on the perfume.  We all decided none of us would run out and buy a bottle.

Mrs Parr, Elizabeth, and Tall Pat sat at the back of the room, smoking like chimneys.  The rest of us in the pool patted away the smoke as it got in our eyes, never thinking twice about the health repercussions of second-hand smoking..

Every payday, there was a timid knock on the typing room door.  Mrs Parr, who was nearing retirement age, would greet her funeral insurance salesman, and hand over her small fortnightly contribution.  The two guys who delivered our pay had casually sauntered into the building carrying a small leather suitcase containing thousands of pounds worth of crisp new bank notes, and a myriad of change.  We typists lined up to get the little brown envelopes that had our names on them.

Several of us wore 'bop' skirts, with layers and layers of stiff petticoats underneath.  As Val, Elspeth or I sauntered down the two narrow aisles of typing desks we often knocked work off the desk-tops because our skirts were so voluminous.  I was the proud owner of a stiff petticoat with a hem that could be blown up.

Mrs Rowley, my Typist-in-Charge, came up to me.  "I want you and Mariana to relieve in the Thorndon office today," she said.

"I'll take my scooter," said Mariana.

"I'll walk," I said.  It would take about twenty minutes.

But it was decided (not by me) that I would ride on the back of Mariana's motor scooter.  Yes, I was worried.  What if there was an accident?  What if my bop skirt blew up to reveal all my stiff petticoats?"

"Psshw, there's nothing to it," said Mrs Rowley, who had never been on a scooter.

It was awful.  I kept forgetting to lean in certain directions when we turned corners, and there were lots of corners.  For years, Mariana retold the story about how I almost caused umpteen accidents.  The story gradually got embellished so much that after a time I didn't recognise myself as the maniacal devil over her shoulder that nearly caused the biggest pile-up the suburb of Thorndon may ever have seen.

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