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It was so convincing that even I who worked with him, and knew a little about him and his circumstances, had to ask if his stories were true. Yet, when dealing with the mostly wealthy customers in the shop, he spun a web of fantasy about his life.
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Mr R lived with his elderly mother in a rented tenement flat in Govan. He would tell customers he was ‘just back from Tangier’, and ask ‘don’t you love my tan?’, when in fact he had bought a tin of Max Factor Creme Puff, and slathered it on his face. I was both terrified and in awe of him, and could not wait to get in to work every day, just to see what would happen next. You simply did not know what he would say next to the customers (who adored him, I might add). Then, with an adjustment of his tie knot, and with alcohol level topped up – hey presto! – he was ready to face his public at 9-15am.Įvery day in the shop was a performance. I would hand him the opened can, and having scoffed the contents with a spoon, he would drink the brandy. It was a long narrow can containing 4 whole fruits in the alcohol liquor. Most mornings Mr R would head straight into the changing room, dim the lights and send me to Ferguson’s (a high-class grocers) in Union Street, for a tin of Epicure white peaches in brandy. He wore a leatherette coat, green corduroy trilby with feather, and a pair of leather driving gloves (he had neither a driving licence nor car and bussed it everywhere). Starting at the cocktail bar in The Royal, he would then move onto Guys, or The Strand. He arrived for work drunk most mornings, having spent the evening before on a journey though the 1960s Glasgow gay scene. He was 37, quite small, slim, bald, with slightly protruding front teeth, and wore thick horn-rimmed spectacles. Whilst I had no idea I was gay, he clearly did, possessing a ‘gaydar’ long, long before the birth of the internet dating site. This was Mr Robertson, the senior salesman, who interviewed me initially for the position. He instilled within me the belief that no one was better than you. For the princely wage of £5 10s 6d a week, I was to learn more about life working in that shop, from a man who would change my perception of myself and other people. He wore a leatherette coat, green corduroy trilby with feather, and a pair of leather driving glovesġ966 saw me starting work, aged 17, as a junior sales assistant in the menswear department of an upmarket shop in Buchanan Street, Glasgow. The only time I felt happiness and acceptance was in the 5th year, in that class. You could go to her classroom any lunchtime, and she would be playing classical records on her Dansette record player, while we ate peanut butter sandwiches and drank diluting orange juice. I only ever felt accepted, and comfortable, in the Art Department, amongst the most gentle, creative, fellow pupils and my very own ‘Jean Brodie’, Mrs Barclay. Attending a senior secondary in East Kilbride, I wished every schoolday would finish quickly, so I could get back to the safety of home. I found myself amongst a bunch of growling wannabe engineers and factory workers. The myth once perpetrated that schooldays are ‘the happiest days of your life’ certainly did not apply to a shy, quiet, non-sporty, spotty youth like me, who wanted to be a fashion designer.