Almost four and a half decades ago, Bill Anderson gave me my first job (Obituaries, The Herald, February 10).
I had just graduated from Glasgow University and most of my friends were shooting for megabucks with banks or chemical companies. After an interview doon by the Broomielaw, not far from Dirty Dick's bar, Bill gave me a job on the Sunday Post as a cub reporter. I was 21 years old and happy as Larry. I didn't understand money. I knew, as Bill did, that words would be our only currency – for the rest of our lives, as it turned out.
Bill did me the honour of letting me be the Hon Man – a top secret assignment, they always gave me a wee white face on the page. One of the first assignments went like this: "Phil, We'll give you a car and we want you to travel the coast of Scotland. Every inch. Start on the south-western border. Turn left at every opportunity. Keep the sea on your left. End up on the south-east, right on the English Border. Don't straddle it. Keep both feet on Scottish soil."
It took me four weeks, as I recall, and my Hon Man stories from that trip probably ran for six weeks in the Sunday Post.
I remember Bill's comment when I got back from that one: "Whit kept ye?"
Water Lane House,
Richmond upon Thames.
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