Readers are invited to send
in their own 400-word submissions about the past
In 1978, I was a young mum with two children under the age of three.
Christmas was approaching and my husband and I were wondering how we would pay for the children’s presents.
Local factories were hiring short-term twilight-shift workers. So I signed up at Sterling Winthrop’s in Fawdon, near Newcastle.
The 5pm-9pm shift worked perfectly because, as my teacher husband got home, left for work.
We twilight recruits were an odd mixture of young mums from various walks of life, who sang along to background music while working and exchanging blue jokes.
We sat around a conveyor belt installing blister packs of paracetamol, labels and boxes, all of which had to be assembled as they passed us.
Paracetamol could be replaced by bottles of Dolrasa noship syrup, which had to be boxed up.
Dolrasa was “by-lickerous day”, as the old bottle would disappear down the front of one’s underwear to be smuggled out, with the supervisor tuned a blind eye to this practice, which provided a cheap thrill but seemed a tad foolish, given there was an on-site shop with discounted prices.
The supervisor, a regular staff member, conducted random checks and, once, a lapse in concentration by one employee resulted in an entire pallet being reopened and repacked because she had omitted to include the instruction leaflet.
Tins of Andrews Liver Salts often passed by. On these, we taped a giveaway teaspoon, a freebie for the festive season.
In the break, we set up raffles to vote for a night.
Out once the seasonal employment was over. In one raffle, I won a donated,
hand-knitted doll, much appreciated by my little daughter.
Our night out, chosen by majority vote, involved a trip to see a downward version of the Chippendales.
Despite our diversity, we all got along famously, united by motherhood and the need to give our kids a decent Christmas.
The twilight shift women were regarded as something of a threat by the regular staff because our output was higher.
But imagine working at that conveyor belt from 9am-5pm week after week would be less entertaining than our brief version.
By Pat Gannon-Leary, Gateshead
Readers are invited to send in their own 400-word submissions about the past
