Mabel and Gladys are heads down over the pile of letters that was already on their table when they entered. Slip the paperknife in, pull out the cardboard cereal packet tops, and count the tokens ; enough for a set of fish knives or five packets of chemical dessert powder. Bang the coupon down in the out-tray and reach for the next envelope.

Joey goes from table to table, putting down the packs of letters. He'll do this until all the letters in the morning mail are distributed, and then he'll come and sit at the table next to mine. Joey's a suede-head ; short on top and long at the sides, it's a development from his elder brother's mod-cut. Joey spends all his money on shoes, clothes and hair-cuts ; his Mum doesn't ask him for anything, and Joey likes to look neat. Football matches aren't a problem ; he travels free on the trains, and knows how to get into just about any ground in the country without paying. Or so he tells me. Doesn't drink. Doesn't smoke. Takes pills at night particularly on weekends - gets you through from Friday night to Monday morning.

Joey likes to talk while he's slitting open the envelopes, and he and I and the other student who's working here usually engage in a bit of banter, a bit of politics, a bit of the crack. The women don't like it ; they think we're snooty and that Joey's a brat. And we spoil their concentration. I can get that ; there's something strangely fascinating about rummaging through the envelopes and counting out the piles of vouchers. And some satisfaction in thinking you've given away 250 sharp kitchen knives in a morning's work. Or all those packets of Angel Delight.

Joey says he's a football hooligan. He talks about the thrill of chasing after a couple of MU supporters through the corridors of Charing Cross tube station. Gets your blood up. What about when it's you being chased? I ask. It's part of the game - hunter today and hunted tomorrow. Sometimes you get a good kicking. Funny, you don't really feel it til afterwards.

Phil and I won't be staying here long. Neither will Joey. It's the late 60s, and finding a job's easy. You take one until you're really pissed off with it, or until you have a run in with the governor, then you tell them to fuck off. Go on the dole for a week or two, until the money runs out, then get another one. Easy.

Some of the women have been working here for years. They like it ; it's regular, it's routine and it pays enough. You meet your friends here. Don't talk during working hours though - leave that to the men - boys really. But you have a chat at lunch-time, and after, in the pub, maybe. Most of them know each other - looking for a job? Why don't you come with me next Monday?

Joey comes in one Monday with a number one. If you look hard, you can see the bristles. He's got the braces - suspenders to you - and the check shirt. The Doc Martin's he had already, but didn't used to wear them to work. Phil and I ride him a little and so do the women, but he doesn't care. Tells us he and his mates did over a couple of hippies on Saturday night. Not much fun, hippies - they just lie down and curl up. Pakis are more of a challenge. Leave the spades alone, though - too fucking hard, they are. I tell him that I live in West Ham, right next to the football ground, but haven't been attacked yet. No, he's says, looking thoughtfully at my Jimmy Page hair, you're fucking big.

Funnily enough, it's that weekend that we meet trouble. Four of us coming back from an open-air concert - was that the Stones in Hyde Park? - can't remember now. The straps on Andy's indian sandals have snapped, and he's walking bare-foot, carrying them in his hand. A bunch of youth on the other side of the road see us - there's one girl with them - and cross over. As they pass us, the one with the girl on his arm pushes her into me. What you fucking doing, pushing my girl around? He pulls out a knife. I use Daddy's voice and tell him not to be so stupid - he puts the knife away. 'Go, go, get away,' cries the girl, her voice breaking, 'it's been a terrible night.' One of the others suddenly whirls round, and takes a flying kick at my head - he knocks my glasses off. I can't quite remember what happens after that, but it ends up with the first one handing me my glasses, and hoping they're not broken. But his mates aren't satisfied, and start coming at us again. Tim and I start running, but Andy and Dave won't. One of them sneers at Andy for walking bare-foot - 'I've broken my fucking sandals, you stupid berk', he yells, and they pull back. One of them throws a dustbin lid at us, and then it's over.

Mabel and Gladys have sons out on the streets looking for aggro. They don't approve. But they can see why the boys do it. And they'll grow out of it, get a job on the docks or on the buses. Unless those Pakis and the blacks take them first. School? That's for other people. Once they've learned you to count and to do a bit of reading and writing, who needs anything else. It doesn't do to give yourself airs.

Comments to me at tmason@timothyjpmason.com.