Open Writing

Although the commercial banks recruited their staff from a wider cross-section of society than the accountancy profession, formality remained the watchword. The wearing of a suit was mandatory for men, whilst women were required to turn out in skirts. The suit jacket had to remain on one's shoulders irrespective of the temperature. It was many years before this rule was relaxed allowing it to be disregarded during particularly hot days.

This ridiculous and archaic attitude to male attire was amply demonstrated by the convention which applied on a Saturday morning. It was appropriate to turn up at the branch in one's sports clothes, usually a sports jacket and grey flannel trousers. Brown suede shoes were not on the approved list on this day, although permitted the rest of the week.

In 1964 I had moved into our first house as owner/occupier, having married in 1962. It was a detached three-bedroom bungalow in Calverton, a soon-to-be-dormitory area 12 kilometres north of Nottingham. I had previously lived within walking distance from the branch.

As a racing cyclist I realised that this new residence provided me with the opportunity to incorporate my training by means of a longer route home. This would considerably reduce the amount of time I needed to devote to my training programme. Time was precious to me because I was engaged on a demanding course of study for my banking qualification. In addition, I was due to become a father during the summer.

In order to implement my plan regarding training, I placed a suit together with a complete change of clothing in my locker. I would ride to the branch at a modest pace unless I was late, in which case it would be treated like a short training ride.

Most of the time, however, I was free of such a problem. I would arrive at the branch without too much sweat or visible signs of my means of transport. This was, of course, to ignore my clothing which sent out a very clear signal that a racing cyclist had entered the premises.

I sensed early on that my dress code was being frowned upon. I continued to arrive by this method of transportation on a regular basis. It was only when it rained that I chickened out and caught the bus.

One particular Tuesday I decided that my suit needed dry cleaning. A customer with premises nearby owned an agency. She advertised a 24 hours turnaround service. I finished work each Tuesday at 1 pm as part of my study leave. I asked if I could leave my suit with her soon after 1 pm and be guaranteed a pickup at 8.45 the following morning. "No problem. A van always collects around 2pm and returns at 8am the following morning." I duly deposited my suit.

The following morning I cycled to the branch as usual. I called into the dry cleaners to collect it. "Sorry, it hasn't arrived yet. I'll bring it over as soon as it comes." Branches opened their doors to the public at 10 am in those days so there was plenty of time.

I parked my bike up and gained entry to the branch. I had no option but to don my Saturday trousers. It was permissible to disregard one's jacket whilst closed to the public. I took advantage of this rule to avoid drawing attention to myself.

The hour of opening duly arrived; still no sign of my suit. The public was admitted. Fortunately I was not on counter duty and continued with other tasks behind the one and-half-metre high screen. I resorted to a bent knee walking style in an attempt to reduce my two metre protrusion to something resembling the height of the screen. By this means I hoped to avoid the onset of a heart attack afflicting anyone in the banking hall catching a glimpse of me without the approved attire.

Some fifteen minutes elapsed during which time Mr M_ repeatedly caste a disapproving glance in my direction. "Mr Biddulph; put your jacket on."

I pretended I had not heard him.

"Mr Biddulph, I've told you to put your jacket on."

I cast an anxious last glance in the direction of the doorway hoping for salvation. No such luck; no drycleaned suit was going to appear to save my bacon. I owned up.

He went bananas. "Can't you borrow a suit?" he said. What a ridiculous thing to say.

Hurriedly conferring with Mr P_, a decision was made to send me to the sub-branch in Basford, which was open between 11 am and 1 pm. Presumably customers down there were considered less likely to be offended by the sight of a suitless bank clerk masquerading in sports clothes on a Wednesday morning. My suit was delivered around noon.

I had been expecting it for some weeks after this incident. I walked into the branch one morning to be met by "It's about time you started coming to work dressed like a banker." I knew the game was up.

It was no good pointing out that the Lord Chancellor, Lord Hailsham, regularly cycled to the Houses of Parliament, and a Midland Bank colleague in Welwyn Garden City who was destined to represent Great Britain at the 1964 Olympic Games had featured in the staff magazine arriving at his branch in riding gear. Etiquette determined that bankers working in this branch did not ride bikes to work.

Determined not to be thwarted, I asked an elderly relative who lived near the branch if I could use her house to change. By this means I was able to continue to ride to work.