Now, even on an August morning with the promise of a hot day ahead, standing at the bus stop opposite the Woolwich Ferry at 5 in the morning could be a grim place.
And when the weather had turned sour, and the wind and sleet swept off the River it was not the best way to start the day.
But then I was lucky, all my jobs along the Thames were indoors, not for me the full force of the weather unloading goods from a tramp steamer or scraping the bottom of a rusty old vessel in one of those small boat yards along the River.
Instead I spent a time in the old R.A.C.S. food warehouse, dispatching groceries to stores across south east London and beyond.
It was a fascinating place, where its earlier life lingered on in the powerful smell of tea which permeated one floor, and the loop holes on all the floors which gave access to the River, but I guess had long ago seen the last cargoes hoisted from the jetty water side.
When I worked there in the early 1970s everything came in and went back out by road, and the closest I could get to the Thames was from those loop holes.
And now the building has gone. Just when this complex of Victorian warehouses was demolished I have yet to discover, but gone it has.
And so it seems has Glenvilles which was close to the Blackwall Tunnel and stood in the shadow of Tunnel Refineries.
Even now a full 52 years later I can still remember that pungent smell from the Refineries.
It always won out over the variety of odours at Glenvilles, which made everything from custard and blancmange powder, to Ice Pops and powdered milk.
I say powdered milk but to be more accurate it turned milk powder into granules for a variety of companies from Sainsbury, Tesco to Fine Fare.
The process was a simple enough one and involved blowing milk powder along giant stainless steel tubes under heat, which turned the powder into granuales.
The story was that the process came from Arizona, which is hot and dry, but made for difficulties in a factory beside the Thames where the climate can be damp and cold.
The upshot was that on some days the parts clogged up and production stuttered to a halt, and on a very bad day ceased all together, which was bad news given that we were on a bonus scheme.
Nor was that all, because the outlet valve where the granules left the tube was often faulty, which presented problems. Ideally it was a simple task, to fill a 56 lb bag of the stuff and shut the tap off. But
When the tap was faulty one of the team had to place his had underneath it while the other quickly yanked the bag away and replaced it with another. Any tardiness on the part of the team could lead to a spillage of very hot granules across the floor and led to a cloud of milk dust which clung to your overalls, mixed with your perspiration and made for rivulets of sticky sweet smelling milk to run down your face.
Later in the cooler parts of the plant that milk powder hardened on your boiler suit forming a crunchy surface, which fellow passengers on the bus home stayed well away from, making you the Billy No Mates of London Transport. But it did have just one perk, and that was the after shift drink in the Cutty Sark pub.
The early shift ran from six till two, offered up the chance of a couple of pints at the end of a very long morning, with the added pleasure of mixing with those who had shot across the River to take in the atmosphere of “that delightful and still genuine watering hole”.
Needless to say their visit was a tad challenged by the two young workers in boilersuits emanating a distinct milk perfume and shedding the occasional crispy white flakes.
It was a childish tilt at “class war”, which I doubt pleased the landlord, and still involved that long bus journey back to Eltham.
All of which is now over 50 years ago. In the intervening decades I have added several other jobs to the portfolio including a builder’s labourer in Blackheath, a scaffolder’s mate, and a brief brush with the post office in Eltham. This last job hardly counts as a job as it was as temporary postman in the run up to Christmas, and I lasted but two days.
Leaving me just to admit that for 35 years I taught in inner city schools, and now fill out my time as a researcher and a writer.
But I still look back on those first jobs, and reflect that while I have changed so has much of the River that I knew.
Some of what has gone is no loss. Those dangerous low paid jobs which offered little security can surely not be missed, along with the overcrowded and unsanitary dwelling places tucked away and out of sight.
Here were strong communities bounded together by poverty and adversity, but lets not kid ourselves that poverty and adversity, are anthing to be nostalgic for.
I do miss the bustle of the River, and the hours I spent as a kid wandering the area, but the past should always be judged with a critical eye.
I remember my foreman at Glenvilles admitting that he never ate the left overs from the Sunday roast, reckoning it was not a question of wasting food, but just simply it reminded him of growing up in the age of "make do and mend", where new was a luxury, and food remainded something to be grateful for.
Location; between Woolwich and Greenwich along the Thames, in the 1960s and 70s
Pictures; Woolwich and Greenwich, the 1970s, from the collection of Andrew Simpson
