I blame the bank

It seems to be the fashion since the world was overtaken by an economic crisis for the banks to be blamed for the crisis and all the other ills of mankind. I have so far managed to resist taking part in the bank bashing because, whilst I agree they made mistakes, those mistakes would not have happened if there had not been greedy people prepared to take advantage of them and, indeed, positively to encourage bankers in their folly. But today it is my turn to join the lynch mob.

While I was at school I probably smoked the very occasional cigarette - when there is a group of six-formers on the beach with one or two smokers among them, it seems natural. But I wasn't really a smoker then although I have been a smoker now for round about 50 years. It is all the fault of the banks. Well, not so much banks (plural) as one bank in particular: the bank that employed me. I left school at the age of 18 without any real idea of how I would earn a living. My intention had been to attend university and, during my time there, think about my options. However, my exam results were not of the high standard required by any university of my choice and I was brought down to earth with a bit of a jolt. It was all very well stacking supermarket shelves to earn pocket money, but that wasn't going to bring me the standard of living I hoped to enjoy. I needed to look elsewhere and banking seemed a reasonable choice.

The bank I selected for the honour of employing me was doubtful. The local staff manager had no doubts about the bank's suitability to be honoured in such a way: his doubt was about me. My health record was not good and he was a little dubious about my ability to withstand the rigours of staying on my feet all day at a till, there being no thought in those days of sitting while serving a customer. Wisdom eventually prevailed and I duly reported to one of the Brighton branches to be inducted into the secrets of the financial world. It goes without saying that my working day was taken up entirely with such exciting activities as applying a rubber stamp to several thousand pieces of paper, filing, sticking stamps on envelopes and other similar activities dangerous to my health.

I had not been employed for a year before I was informed that I had been selected to attend a course, an Outward Bound course at a centre in the Lake District. This course, I was told, involved team-building exercises and would fit me for future leadership. So, in the late autumn of that year, I caught a train to Penrith for a month in the mountain air of Cumbria. During the course there would be no alcohol and no tobacco. And the tea contained bromide. In any case, it was an all-male affair.

Much of the first week was spent in the classroom learning first aid and map-reading with a daily work-out on circuit training - press-ups, pull-ups and all sorts of other torture. We students gazed longingly at the hills, wishing we could be up there with the circuit training nothing but a bad memory. We were allowed one luxury. It was considered too cold for us to take a 6.00am dip in the lake and we took cold showers instead.

It was the second week before all the classroom instruction was to be put into practice, at first in large groups led by an instructor. We hiked the hills, bivouacking overnight, we canoed, we scaled rock faces and abseiled down again. It was a sort of junior commando training. All this was in preparation for the final hike when we would spend three days on the fells in groups of four.

I can't remember the exact make-up of my group for that last exercise but I do recall that one of the group was a police cadet from Rugby. We seemed to team up naturally and he and I spent the nights in a small two-man tent. I can't remember his name. It wasn't Tom, but for the sake of ease I will call him that.

Mid-afternoon on the third day of the hike: darkness falling and the fog so think we could hardly see our feet. We were walking downhill towards a flattish spot beside a tarn that we had identified on the map. We knew we were walking in the right direction as we could hear the stream feeding the tarn bubbling along on our left. (When the fog lifted slightly we saw that if we had taken just one step to the left we would have been in the stream.) Reaching the selected camp site we wasted no time erecting the tents, changing out of our wet clothes and diving into sleeping bags before lighting the primus stove to cook our meal. With the stove and dirty utensils put outside the tent until morning, sleep came easily.

We woke in the early hours to find that the tarn had overflowed and the tent was full of water. Our sleeping bags - and the dry clothes we had put on - we sodden. There was no chance of further sleep. As we lay there, I fantasised. "What wouldn't I give," I declared, "for a rum and coke".

"And a cigarette," replied Tom.

Two days later we left the centre for home. The first thing Tom and I did was to visit a near-by tobacconist's shop and I have smoked ever since.