As the world of work gets more and more strange, I'm running out of adjectives to describe my weeks. I have already described here how unusual it was to go to Ireland twice within a week; I was home by about 2.0 am on Tuesday so, after sleep, prayers, breakfast and admin, it was around 11.00 when I drove to the office to collect my invoice for the previous week, and advise my readiness for work.
I returned home for more admin, and soon returned to the presently all-consuming work on those Sturgeon family histories. To my surprise, as the working day drew to a close, there was no mention of a job for the morning, so I made sure I was promptly prepared on Wednesday, lest there should be a call at 7.30 as was once my fate not too long ago. With all at the ready, I settled down at the computer again, and waited ... and waited. Just to be sure, I rang the office just before lunch to check that I was still on the list. Yes, it was a very slow day for small vans: one had been sent off early to Plymouth, but nothing but local work since then; I was top of the list. And so it was at the end of the day; at 4.30 I was called to be assigned an 8.30 collection in town for Birmingham, and took advantage of the opportunity to do some essential shopping that I'd been putting off in case I should be sent off on a job.
Thursday's trip to Birmingham was no problem, but I have to marvel at the 'thinking' behind the SatNav technology. My destination was to the south side of the city, but I was directed along the M6 and through the city centre. I sometimes wonder whether it was any less efficient in the days of maps and driver experience. On my return, I told it to avoid the M6, and had a much more direct and relaxing journey home. Next I visited the garage, where I amazed the folks there with the news that, in the ten days (including a weekend) since the van was serviced, I had covered more than the advised 2,000 miles by which time they wanted to re-inspect a suspect shock absorber. While this was being looked at and given the 'thumbs-down', I was called to collect a local job from the same estate. By the time I'd returned from this, the new shock absorber was sitting in the workshop, and within a further half-hour it had been fitted.
As I totted up my situation for the week to date, I reckoned that two days with no work had soaked up the 'bonus' element of the Irish job, and I was about on target so, comfortable but not ecstatic, I settled down for the evening. I had barely started eating my evening meal when the night controller called. A job had just been called in from a printing company in Broxbourne to go their site at Knowsley, north of Liverpool: would I be interested? Given the performance of the last three days, I decided that a job on the sheet was better than a hope for tomorrow, so I explained my situation and said that, once I'd finished my meal, I'd be on my way. That seemed OK, so by 7.30, I was heading north again. After a couple of comparatively restful days, my return journey was considerably less drowsy than that coming home from Ireland on Monday. Even so, I still stopped for a doze midway, and arrived home just as day was breaking. I went straight to bed, and slept for about three hours; it would have been more but first the window-cleaner, then the neighbour leaving for work, and finally the postman disturbed me, and by 9.0, with further sleep out of the question, I got up.
I rang in about 11.0 after I'd caught up with admin and social media, and eventually came another first. For the first time ever, I think, I was sent to Kettering to make a collection with the intention of calling our customer once I had it loaded, to find out where it was to be taken - it could be anywhere in the UK! In the event, after a voicemail message and a fifteen-minute wait for a return call, I was sent to a small industrial estate near Walsall. Responding to a call to ring the office when I'd made the delivery, I was asked to go across to Dudley to collect something for a firm in Letchworth. I'd just set SatNav and was preparing to move off when the office called again - our esteemed customer had cancelled the job. He'd been in touch with his suppliers, who were only prepared to wait until 4.0pm for me. SatNav had just told me that I should be there by 4.03 ... talk about precision!
I had no alternative but to return home, at the end of a week that surely must be the only one in over 11 years that I've worked five days (or more) and done only five jobs albeit, thanks to the visit to Enniskerry, with no significant drop in income. Now, with three busy Saturdays before me - the bank holiday next weekend, the regular family history society meeting that always clashes with the FA Cup final, and then a charity market the following week - I've got a month to plan my next family history research day but, with past performance an all-too-reliable indicator of future likelihood, it will be interesting to see what hampers that schedule!
Saturday 27 April 2013
Wednesday 24 April 2013
All in a Day's Work
Last weekend I left my reader with the news of my impending departure for Ireland - thanks to the repeating genie - for the second time in six days. I'm pleased to say that, like the previous one, that trip went well too. Although I had no secondary agenda this time, the gap between ferry sailings and the proximity of my destination to Dublin meant that I had a few extra hours to practise my tourism skills.
I got my feet wet trying to get a close-up view of the monastic buildings at Glendalough, and treated the camera to similar conditions in the mist and/or drizzle on the Wicklow Hills, as I passed some excellent viewpoints on my way to finding an elusive monument.
The excitement paled somewhat as the dampness grew, and I thought that perhaps a little retail therapy might have a restorative effect on my spirits. Serious shopping, I found, is a little difficult in rural Ireland - no disrespect to the resourceful Irish, of course! Since it was the next stage on my planned mini-tour in any case, I headed for Wicklow town, thinking there might be somewhere there that I could get some new socks and shoes. By the time I got there, the feet had grown accustomed to their new circumstances, and I was more concerned for the shopkeepers than for myself when I discovered that not one but two gents' outfitters had closed within fifty yards of each other on the high street. To my joy, however, I did find a charity shop with a sale on! I lashed out on a quite decent pair of shoes at half-price - €3 instead of €6!
Apart from the minor excitement of finding a pay-and-display on-street parking area for which the payment machine was not only on the opposite side of the road but some eight feet higher up a flight of stone steps, there seems little to report of my hour or so in Wicklow - I got the feeling that the recession had squeezed the life out of what had been a thriving little port. The deserted quayside, pictured as I departed, seemed to say it all.
The afternoon ferry sailing brought me to Holyhead in daylight, and I made a good start on my homeward journey before tiredness overtook me. As I worked my way through the resulting admin on Tuesday morning, and realised how young the week still was, a thought occurred to me that was really the reason for framing this blog entry now instead of waiting until the weekend as usual.
This was only the second time in my working life - unless memory fails me - that I had actually gone to work on a Sunday. Now, I know, that for some whose work involves regular Sunday working that claim may seem almost obscene, but I believe it to be true and it brings into focus the whole business of seven-day-a-week trading, and people's attitudes to it. I have to say that I don't have any religious objection to Sunday trading per se, so long as those involved receive adequate payment and rest days without struggle. My own reticence to indulge thus is based solely on my personal preference to ring bells and attend services on Sunday mornings; I have no qualms about going from church to a supermarket, since one of my friends works on the tills at one of the biggest, and I know she gets adequate time off on other days. On the odd occasion I have left my cosy flat on a Sunday afternoon to collect goods for delivery on the following morning, and in a way I suppose my six-hour journey this Sunday evening differed little from this.
However, my mind drifted back many years to that other day of Sunday work. I was in post as an accountant in a manufacturing company. The year-end stocktaking was always a critical time - more so before the advent of complex computerised stock-control systems. On this occasion greater importance than ever had been placed on the need for both completeness and accuracy. Plans were made, detailed instructions issued, and the exercise began promptly at the end of production on the Friday evening. It continued during Friday's night shift, throughout Saturday, and with some work still to be done, we called a halt at 4.30pm, with a select band (including me) being detailed to re-appear at 9.0 on Sunday morning to complete the task. After finishing about 1.0pm on Sunday, I remember well the feeling of over-familiarity with the workplace as I turned up for work at 8.30 the next morning to start a new week. By about Thursday it almost seemed that the world consisted of nowhere else but the office and the works. Ever since, I have made sure that - however much I might do on Saturdays - that Sunday break was sacrosanct. Even a curtailed weekend satisfies the need to separate one week's work from the next.
As an afterthought, I never did find that monument I was chasing, so here are a couple of shots of one I found in the middle of Wicklow. The shot of the base came out much better than I'd hoped, and explains it all.
 |
| Glendalough |
I got my feet wet trying to get a close-up view of the monastic buildings at Glendalough, and treated the camera to similar conditions in the mist and/or drizzle on the Wicklow Hills, as I passed some excellent viewpoints on my way to finding an elusive monument.
 |
| Wicklow Hills |
The excitement paled somewhat as the dampness grew, and I thought that perhaps a little retail therapy might have a restorative effect on my spirits. Serious shopping, I found, is a little difficult in rural Ireland - no disrespect to the resourceful Irish, of course! Since it was the next stage on my planned mini-tour in any case, I headed for Wicklow town, thinking there might be somewhere there that I could get some new socks and shoes. By the time I got there, the feet had grown accustomed to their new circumstances, and I was more concerned for the shopkeepers than for myself when I discovered that not one but two gents' outfitters had closed within fifty yards of each other on the high street. To my joy, however, I did find a charity shop with a sale on! I lashed out on a quite decent pair of shoes at half-price - €3 instead of €6!
Apart from the minor excitement of finding a pay-and-display on-street parking area for which the payment machine was not only on the opposite side of the road but some eight feet higher up a flight of stone steps, there seems little to report of my hour or so in Wicklow - I got the feeling that the recession had squeezed the life out of what had been a thriving little port. The deserted quayside, pictured as I departed, seemed to say it all.
 |
| Wicklow - Quayside |
The afternoon ferry sailing brought me to Holyhead in daylight, and I made a good start on my homeward journey before tiredness overtook me. As I worked my way through the resulting admin on Tuesday morning, and realised how young the week still was, a thought occurred to me that was really the reason for framing this blog entry now instead of waiting until the weekend as usual.
This was only the second time in my working life - unless memory fails me - that I had actually gone to work on a Sunday. Now, I know, that for some whose work involves regular Sunday working that claim may seem almost obscene, but I believe it to be true and it brings into focus the whole business of seven-day-a-week trading, and people's attitudes to it. I have to say that I don't have any religious objection to Sunday trading per se, so long as those involved receive adequate payment and rest days without struggle. My own reticence to indulge thus is based solely on my personal preference to ring bells and attend services on Sunday mornings; I have no qualms about going from church to a supermarket, since one of my friends works on the tills at one of the biggest, and I know she gets adequate time off on other days. On the odd occasion I have left my cosy flat on a Sunday afternoon to collect goods for delivery on the following morning, and in a way I suppose my six-hour journey this Sunday evening differed little from this.
However, my mind drifted back many years to that other day of Sunday work. I was in post as an accountant in a manufacturing company. The year-end stocktaking was always a critical time - more so before the advent of complex computerised stock-control systems. On this occasion greater importance than ever had been placed on the need for both completeness and accuracy. Plans were made, detailed instructions issued, and the exercise began promptly at the end of production on the Friday evening. It continued during Friday's night shift, throughout Saturday, and with some work still to be done, we called a halt at 4.30pm, with a select band (including me) being detailed to re-appear at 9.0 on Sunday morning to complete the task. After finishing about 1.0pm on Sunday, I remember well the feeling of over-familiarity with the workplace as I turned up for work at 8.30 the next morning to start a new week. By about Thursday it almost seemed that the world consisted of nowhere else but the office and the works. Ever since, I have made sure that - however much I might do on Saturdays - that Sunday break was sacrosanct. Even a curtailed weekend satisfies the need to separate one week's work from the next.
As an afterthought, I never did find that monument I was chasing, so here are a couple of shots of one I found in the middle of Wicklow. The shot of the base came out much better than I'd hoped, and explains it all.
Friday 19 April 2013
A Strange Week
Strange, but quite exciting in places.
I suppose the story has to begin on Sunday morning, when I left to go ringing as usual. I got into the van, turned the key, and ........ nothing; well, to be honest there was a quiet 'whirr', but its tone was hardly encouraging, and died away even as I listened. Quickly, truth dawned. I had returned quite tired from Newcastle on Friday afternoon and, not realising that the day was done, van-wise, had forgotten to turn off the radio; then for the first time this year, I decided on Saturday to use the bus rather than the van to do my shopping. The result was that the radio had been on for 41 hours and had drained the battery. The AA patrolman was to be praised. Prompt and effective, he had me running within minutes, and advised a decent run to restore charge levels. Conveniently, I had been planning to drive to Royston with some pension papers after church; sadly, this trip now had to take precedence, and I missed the service.
The working week began with the usual men's breakfast at the church; I was glad to be back with my friends there, especially having missed this last Monday. Then I took the van in to the garage for a service, and came home to follow up the weekend's family history exercises. Even before I had regained mobility, the office had called to say there was a job to Enniskillen - was I interested? If it had been possible to 'bite his hand off' by telephone, he'd have been fingerless. Was I interested? You bet! Since Christmas 2011, I had been waiting for such a call, and had asked that, if there was an Irish trip coming up, could I be considered because I would like to call at the record office in Belfast to research my great uncle, who had settled in Ireland after his discharge from the army in 1876. At last such a call had come, and to the very town where great uncle George had once lived!
After a surprisingly smooth ferry crossing I arrived in Dublin at 6.0am as usual, but instead of heading up to Belfast as on previous such arrivals, this time I set off through the city to join the N3 to Navan, Cavan, and the north-west. Apparently it was only the previous day that the ferry company had ceased changing currency aboard so, unarmed with euros, I had to make use of the toll booths on the motorway for change. They willingly accept sterling, but only on a 1:1 basis. Needing a break from the driving, I stopped briefly in Cavan to top-up at a cash machine, against the need for any further purchases during my brief passage to and fro through the Republic.
My delivery was simplicity itself, and I turned my attention to the 'real' business of the visit, beginning at the Tourist Information Centre. The ladies there were very helpful, within the mutually understood limitations of the service that they could provide, supplied me with both a current tourist map of the city and also a photocopy of a 1925 streetmap, on which I could see where the streets of my interest had once been situated. Amazingly, on that site today is the public library, which is where they sent me for more detailed information.
The game of 'pass the parcel' continued, for apart from courtesy and helpfulness, the lady in the library added nothing to my store of gathered knowledge. Instead, on learning that my great uncle had lived in the town, and raised a family of (as I thought) nine children on or near the very spot where we were chatting, she escorted me to the front door of the library and pointed to the building across the road - the Cathedral Office. She assured me that the secretary there was not only likely to be of assistance in my searches, but also had within her custody detailed registers of births, baptisms, marriages, and so on.
I was amazed that, not knowing me from Adam, this lady was indeed quite willing to usher me into the conference room, and within minutes furnish me with not only half a dozen bound volumes of register transcripts, but also pen and paper with which to record my findings, these latter having been ignored in my preparations for the trek around the city. Even more amazing, if this were possible, was the discovery that my great uncle's family totalled not nine but eleven children, the two eldest having been already married before the 1901 census on which my knowledge hitherto had been founded.
I came away full of achievement, and turned tourist for a while, touring the city briefly with my camera at the ready, and then exploring the nearer parts of Lough Erne, which is the fourth largest lake in Ireland.
The rest of the week pales into insignificance beside this excitement, from which I returned mid-morning on Wednesday, after a few essential doze-stops on the way back from Holyhead. I did one short job that afternoon, and four on Thursday, culminating in a frustrating trip to the rural part of Surrey, arriving in the early evening thanks to the clogged M25. The outcome of this was that, with no hint of industry in a long, twisting lane with many named houses, along with a phone number, the calling of which brought no response, I was unable to make a delivery. Having already loaded another job for delivery this morning in Lincoln, I had no alternative but to come home, and arrange with the controller to have this box collected by another driver on the way, to make a fresh attempt to deliver it this morning.
Today's delivery in Lincoln was interesting, but not problematic, to a special needs school. I arrived to find wheelchairs and other appliances conveying a large number of pupils to their studies, as the staff were arriving for the day. I was re-directed to the rear of the building, where I discovered that it seems to be connected with a much larger establishment that fronts onto the main road. Having delivered some heavy electronic equipment to the team who will be installing it, I returned home to await further developments.
They were some while coming, allowing me to have the 'me-time' that I'd missed in the last couple of nose-to-tail days. Then about 3.0, came a call asking, gingerly, 'Do you fancy another trip to Dublin?' Sensing there might be a catch to this, I asked when, and was told for a Monday morning delivery. So I have now collected some advertising material for a conference at a hotel in Enniskerry, Co. Wicklow, been to the office for my ferry booking, and on Sunday evening will be making my way, for the second time in six days to Holyhead for the 2.30 am ferry. Talk about repeating genie - this couplet comes after a gap of 21 months or thereabouts!
I suppose the story has to begin on Sunday morning, when I left to go ringing as usual. I got into the van, turned the key, and ........ nothing; well, to be honest there was a quiet 'whirr', but its tone was hardly encouraging, and died away even as I listened. Quickly, truth dawned. I had returned quite tired from Newcastle on Friday afternoon and, not realising that the day was done, van-wise, had forgotten to turn off the radio; then for the first time this year, I decided on Saturday to use the bus rather than the van to do my shopping. The result was that the radio had been on for 41 hours and had drained the battery. The AA patrolman was to be praised. Prompt and effective, he had me running within minutes, and advised a decent run to restore charge levels. Conveniently, I had been planning to drive to Royston with some pension papers after church; sadly, this trip now had to take precedence, and I missed the service.
The working week began with the usual men's breakfast at the church; I was glad to be back with my friends there, especially having missed this last Monday. Then I took the van in to the garage for a service, and came home to follow up the weekend's family history exercises. Even before I had regained mobility, the office had called to say there was a job to Enniskillen - was I interested? If it had been possible to 'bite his hand off' by telephone, he'd have been fingerless. Was I interested? You bet! Since Christmas 2011, I had been waiting for such a call, and had asked that, if there was an Irish trip coming up, could I be considered because I would like to call at the record office in Belfast to research my great uncle, who had settled in Ireland after his discharge from the army in 1876. At last such a call had come, and to the very town where great uncle George had once lived!
 |
| Stena Adventurer, with open mouth, ready to eat next meal of vehicles |
My delivery was simplicity itself, and I turned my attention to the 'real' business of the visit, beginning at the Tourist Information Centre. The ladies there were very helpful, within the mutually understood limitations of the service that they could provide, supplied me with both a current tourist map of the city and also a photocopy of a 1925 streetmap, on which I could see where the streets of my interest had once been situated. Amazingly, on that site today is the public library, which is where they sent me for more detailed information.
 |
| Rear of Enniskillen library, once the site of my great-uncle's home |
I was amazed that, not knowing me from Adam, this lady was indeed quite willing to usher me into the conference room, and within minutes furnish me with not only half a dozen bound volumes of register transcripts, but also pen and paper with which to record my findings, these latter having been ignored in my preparations for the trek around the city. Even more amazing, if this were possible, was the discovery that my great uncle's family totalled not nine but eleven children, the two eldest having been already married before the 1901 census on which my knowledge hitherto had been founded.
 |
| A small part of Lower Lough Erne |
 |
| Time for patrol boat practice |
The rest of the week pales into insignificance beside this excitement, from which I returned mid-morning on Wednesday, after a few essential doze-stops on the way back from Holyhead. I did one short job that afternoon, and four on Thursday, culminating in a frustrating trip to the rural part of Surrey, arriving in the early evening thanks to the clogged M25. The outcome of this was that, with no hint of industry in a long, twisting lane with many named houses, along with a phone number, the calling of which brought no response, I was unable to make a delivery. Having already loaded another job for delivery this morning in Lincoln, I had no alternative but to come home, and arrange with the controller to have this box collected by another driver on the way, to make a fresh attempt to deliver it this morning.
Today's delivery in Lincoln was interesting, but not problematic, to a special needs school. I arrived to find wheelchairs and other appliances conveying a large number of pupils to their studies, as the staff were arriving for the day. I was re-directed to the rear of the building, where I discovered that it seems to be connected with a much larger establishment that fronts onto the main road. Having delivered some heavy electronic equipment to the team who will be installing it, I returned home to await further developments.
They were some while coming, allowing me to have the 'me-time' that I'd missed in the last couple of nose-to-tail days. Then about 3.0, came a call asking, gingerly, 'Do you fancy another trip to Dublin?' Sensing there might be a catch to this, I asked when, and was told for a Monday morning delivery. So I have now collected some advertising material for a conference at a hotel in Enniskerry, Co. Wicklow, been to the office for my ferry booking, and on Sunday evening will be making my way, for the second time in six days to Holyhead for the 2.30 am ferry. Talk about repeating genie - this couplet comes after a gap of 21 months or thereabouts!
Friday 12 April 2013
The Early Shift
The last chapter of this on-going saga ended with me having two jobs loaded for early delivery on Monday morning. Needing to be in Crawley by 8.0 am, I was careful to advise my friends at church that I should not be turning up for breakfast at 6.30 as their usual routine resumed after Easter. In fact the organiser was just arriving as I drove past on my way out of town. The journey was a smooth one, and I arrived in time to complain that the firm's van was blocking my access to the goods in door. One this situation had been rectified, the driver helped me unload my parcels.
I was home in the late morning, and the day's work was completed by a hospital run from Stevenage to Cambridge, the highlight of which was tripping against the kerb as I entered the latter. I was sent sprawling on the ground, but fortunately suffered far less than my immediate fears imagined. Both hands threatened to display bruises, but by the next morning all signs of damage had disappeared.
The logistical pattern for the week was thus laid down, subject to variation in the daily detail. Returning from throwing myself at the hospital door, I paid my weekly 'paperwork visit' to the office, and while there was asked if I would present myself at the premises of such-and-such at 5.0 am the following morning, to take something to Heathrow airport. I cancelled my evening plans to go to bell-ringing practice, had an early night, and at 4.56 am could be seen waiting outside the required gate. When I'd driven up to the door and saw what the proprietor and his assistant were loading into the van, I realised why I hadn't been asked to collect these goods - as would normally have been the case - the evening before. They were eight boxes of live fish! I ought to have guessed as much; these little beauties got added to my tales of other exploits for this customer: collecting on their behalf baby alligators on one occasion, and on another some shopping-bags containing tortoises, each one accompanied by its own 'passport' document, which I was invited to check against the number painted on its shell.
I was home again in time for breakfast, after which I enquired about further work, and was given a pleasant, but unusual cross-country assignment, collecting some roofing felt from Woodstock near Oxford, and taking it to a destination near Chichester. I was back home and sitting at my desk by teatime, and could ponder the next day's early start, having been phoned while I was driving home, and been given a post code, and asked to be there at 8.0 am on Wednesday and ring in for further instructions.
This was at Witham, Essex, and began another cross-country trip, this time to Leicester with an electric motor to be repaired. Like Monday, the day finished with a local job to take me away from my desk, and instructions for an early start the next morning. This was a bit more civilised, though, as I collected four boxes before the close of the day, to be delivered between 8.0 and 9.0 at Barlborough near Chesterfield, a place I had visited before, only a short distance from the motorway.
So yesterday fitted into the now established template, the afternoon accommodating more work on the family history notes I'd gleaned at the record office on Saturday. Then came the greatest excitement of the week (live fish apart, that is - but they weren't really exciting). The controller phoned to ask if I were going out in the evening. 'Not unless you send me somewhere,' I replied. He explained that one of our customers was at that moment working on an urgent project. When it was completed, it would need to be collected in two parts for delivery in Workington and Newcastle this morning. If I were willing I should take the one for Newcastle, and should expect a call some time during the evening, when the job was done. It was then about 4.0 pm; I stopped what I'd been doing on the desk, and sped out to take advantage of the implied absence of any more work that afternoon, and do some shopping. I then packed up today's lunch, prepared and ate a meal, all the while wondering when this phone call might arrive. After a few other regular chores, I decided to go to bed with the phone alongside, knowing that I should have to leave about 4.0 this morning, and that therefore the normal hours of slumber would be curtailed. I think I'd just got to sleep ...
As I left in the rain with my parcel for the east coast, my colleague pulled up to collect the other for the west. We exchanged a smile and an elevated thumb, and headed for our respective beds, in my case, again. All too soon I was awake once more, and setting out on the dark roads for my destination. The journey was trouble-free, and the destination located right by the Tyne. I had the privilege of seeing something more than previously of the city centre, and drove underneath some of those magnificent bridges that span the river. From close up they are enormous!
And so, by late afternoon, a whole week of early starts had been completed. I stopped for an essential doze halfway home and realised just how draining this is. When it's just one or two days, the body seems to cope - I read somewhere that it never makes up more than about 30% of lost sleep - but when normal 'night hours' are shunted forward with such regularity, and foreshortened, the effect does seem more intense. However, a nice hot bath was most relaxing, and this evening looks to be fairly normal ... Hooray!
I was home in the late morning, and the day's work was completed by a hospital run from Stevenage to Cambridge, the highlight of which was tripping against the kerb as I entered the latter. I was sent sprawling on the ground, but fortunately suffered far less than my immediate fears imagined. Both hands threatened to display bruises, but by the next morning all signs of damage had disappeared.
The logistical pattern for the week was thus laid down, subject to variation in the daily detail. Returning from throwing myself at the hospital door, I paid my weekly 'paperwork visit' to the office, and while there was asked if I would present myself at the premises of such-and-such at 5.0 am the following morning, to take something to Heathrow airport. I cancelled my evening plans to go to bell-ringing practice, had an early night, and at 4.56 am could be seen waiting outside the required gate. When I'd driven up to the door and saw what the proprietor and his assistant were loading into the van, I realised why I hadn't been asked to collect these goods - as would normally have been the case - the evening before. They were eight boxes of live fish! I ought to have guessed as much; these little beauties got added to my tales of other exploits for this customer: collecting on their behalf baby alligators on one occasion, and on another some shopping-bags containing tortoises, each one accompanied by its own 'passport' document, which I was invited to check against the number painted on its shell.
I was home again in time for breakfast, after which I enquired about further work, and was given a pleasant, but unusual cross-country assignment, collecting some roofing felt from Woodstock near Oxford, and taking it to a destination near Chichester. I was back home and sitting at my desk by teatime, and could ponder the next day's early start, having been phoned while I was driving home, and been given a post code, and asked to be there at 8.0 am on Wednesday and ring in for further instructions.
This was at Witham, Essex, and began another cross-country trip, this time to Leicester with an electric motor to be repaired. Like Monday, the day finished with a local job to take me away from my desk, and instructions for an early start the next morning. This was a bit more civilised, though, as I collected four boxes before the close of the day, to be delivered between 8.0 and 9.0 at Barlborough near Chesterfield, a place I had visited before, only a short distance from the motorway.
So yesterday fitted into the now established template, the afternoon accommodating more work on the family history notes I'd gleaned at the record office on Saturday. Then came the greatest excitement of the week (live fish apart, that is - but they weren't really exciting). The controller phoned to ask if I were going out in the evening. 'Not unless you send me somewhere,' I replied. He explained that one of our customers was at that moment working on an urgent project. When it was completed, it would need to be collected in two parts for delivery in Workington and Newcastle this morning. If I were willing I should take the one for Newcastle, and should expect a call some time during the evening, when the job was done. It was then about 4.0 pm; I stopped what I'd been doing on the desk, and sped out to take advantage of the implied absence of any more work that afternoon, and do some shopping. I then packed up today's lunch, prepared and ate a meal, all the while wondering when this phone call might arrive. After a few other regular chores, I decided to go to bed with the phone alongside, knowing that I should have to leave about 4.0 this morning, and that therefore the normal hours of slumber would be curtailed. I think I'd just got to sleep ...
As I left in the rain with my parcel for the east coast, my colleague pulled up to collect the other for the west. We exchanged a smile and an elevated thumb, and headed for our respective beds, in my case, again. All too soon I was awake once more, and setting out on the dark roads for my destination. The journey was trouble-free, and the destination located right by the Tyne. I had the privilege of seeing something more than previously of the city centre, and drove underneath some of those magnificent bridges that span the river. From close up they are enormous!
And so, by late afternoon, a whole week of early starts had been completed. I stopped for an essential doze halfway home and realised just how draining this is. When it's just one or two days, the body seems to cope - I read somewhere that it never makes up more than about 30% of lost sleep - but when normal 'night hours' are shunted forward with such regularity, and foreshortened, the effect does seem more intense. However, a nice hot bath was most relaxing, and this evening looks to be fairly normal ... Hooray!
Sunday 7 April 2013
The Terrible Two
Last week is termed in the church 'Low Week'; it is well-named. Others have agreed with me that, for a variety of reasons, it was bad for business; it certainly was so for me, with likely earnings in four days not even nudging three. However, I'm not here to gripe, but to share with my readers some of the details of the courier life. After almost eleven years playing any game, you can be pretty sure of your ability to spot a wrong 'un - a job where something is likely to go wrong. Despite the paucity of work this week, I had two of these among the crop.
Take Thursday afternoon, for example. I was sent to a particular customer to collect for Nottingham, and upon arrival I was told, "Go to bay 9, and when they've loaded you, come back here for your paperwork." I did as bidden, and on return was presented by two multi-copied sheets for signature. I signed and quickly scanned the two layouts. "And they're going to ...?" I asked. "Here's the address," I was told, with an undercurrent of 'can't the imbecile read?' I read the address: Beeston Notts, and a post code. Upon further enquiry, it was indicated that the company name was on the opposite side of the sheet, nowhere near the 'address'.
I decided that any polite request for a street name would be a waste of breath and time, so departed. Hoping for the best, I keyed in the post code and headed north. My fears were exacerbated when I discovered that the road I was being led to was residential, and when SatNav confidently pointed out my destination between two double-dwellers, I felt my case to have been won. I drove up and back, the whole length of the road. To be fair, there were some industrial units at one end, but nothing to indicate the name I was seeking. In desperation, I pulled up at a convenient point, gave thanks that my phone has internet facilities, and told Google to search for the name. It confirmed that I was in the right street, which was some relief, but more important, it also provided a phone no. I rang and asked for directions. It turned out that my target was only a short way down the road from where I'd stopped, but hidden behind other premises. Access was by what I had taken to be no more than a driveway into the factory in front, and there was no sign to indicate the unit I'd been looking for.
Next day, I was given a couple of local deliveries east of Letchworth and, soon after I'd set out, a call came asking me to ring in once I'd done those, because there was a collection in Newmarket. I was despatched to a firm at unit 4 in a particular close, and my delivery point was to an individual at a private address in Stevenage. SatNav knew only of numbers at the collection address up to 2 - always a bad sign. I drove slowly down the close, and found at the far end a locked gate. To my left was another locked gate, bearing a notice which read, 'No vans or lorries to enter this yard without permission; contact reception for the gate to be opened.' I was in the right place, the sign on the wall told me so, but I was on the wrong side of two locked gates, neither of which bore any means of alerting the occupants. I could see no 'Reception' notice, and concluded that there might be access from the far side of the building, if only I could find it.
The premises lay between two fairly major roads, roughly parallel, but there are few roads actually linking one to the other. To get to the far side, I found, needed a drive of about a mile towards the town centre, and then a similar return journey along the other. When I got there, I found that these two roads were too far apart at that point, and another factory faced the second road, making any access from that direction completely out of the question. A little farther on I located the only other connecting road, and quickly found myself once more before the two gates. This time, however, the one with the notice was open; I entered and walked up to the door, which I now saw bore a brass number 4. Scarcely had I pressed the bell-push when the door opened in greeting. Recognising my shirt's insignia, my host clearly knew far more than I knew of my purpose for being there. "I didn't know you were coming today," he told me. "We close at 1.0." It was then about 2.20, so why was he there at all? Without explanation he invited me to drive round the corner to the shutter door, and wait - he'd have to get 'them' from upstairs.
What sort of 'them' would I be collecting? As I pondered this mystery, I examined my surroundings in the welcome sunshine. Beyond two fences in one direction was a netball or basketball court; in another was an empty house with the windows boarded up. As I waited, a van reversed up to the gate through which I'd entered, turning around to return to the main road. The shutter opened; four large machines were trundled out and loaded onto my van. As I walked round the van to drive off, I noticed a man on the roof of the house, apparently renewing the boarding to an upstairs window. The van I'd seen turning round was parked in the lane. I departed, and on my way back to home territory, I was advised of an alternate delivery address, to an industrial unit in the more familiar part of Stevenage, and here I was met by a lady who was clearly expecting the goods. The final detail of the story was the name by which she signed my delivery sheet - different from the one I'd been given at the outset. I didn't ask. It didn't seem worth the bother.
And now I have two jobs loaded for delivery tomorrow morning, a good start to the first five-day-week for some while, so my evening will be spent determining how long I shall have to allow to get through the traffic to ensure a timely delivery. Routine takes over again, until ....?
Take Thursday afternoon, for example. I was sent to a particular customer to collect for Nottingham, and upon arrival I was told, "Go to bay 9, and when they've loaded you, come back here for your paperwork." I did as bidden, and on return was presented by two multi-copied sheets for signature. I signed and quickly scanned the two layouts. "And they're going to ...?" I asked. "Here's the address," I was told, with an undercurrent of 'can't the imbecile read?' I read the address: Beeston Notts, and a post code. Upon further enquiry, it was indicated that the company name was on the opposite side of the sheet, nowhere near the 'address'.
I decided that any polite request for a street name would be a waste of breath and time, so departed. Hoping for the best, I keyed in the post code and headed north. My fears were exacerbated when I discovered that the road I was being led to was residential, and when SatNav confidently pointed out my destination between two double-dwellers, I felt my case to have been won. I drove up and back, the whole length of the road. To be fair, there were some industrial units at one end, but nothing to indicate the name I was seeking. In desperation, I pulled up at a convenient point, gave thanks that my phone has internet facilities, and told Google to search for the name. It confirmed that I was in the right street, which was some relief, but more important, it also provided a phone no. I rang and asked for directions. It turned out that my target was only a short way down the road from where I'd stopped, but hidden behind other premises. Access was by what I had taken to be no more than a driveway into the factory in front, and there was no sign to indicate the unit I'd been looking for.
Next day, I was given a couple of local deliveries east of Letchworth and, soon after I'd set out, a call came asking me to ring in once I'd done those, because there was a collection in Newmarket. I was despatched to a firm at unit 4 in a particular close, and my delivery point was to an individual at a private address in Stevenage. SatNav knew only of numbers at the collection address up to 2 - always a bad sign. I drove slowly down the close, and found at the far end a locked gate. To my left was another locked gate, bearing a notice which read, 'No vans or lorries to enter this yard without permission; contact reception for the gate to be opened.' I was in the right place, the sign on the wall told me so, but I was on the wrong side of two locked gates, neither of which bore any means of alerting the occupants. I could see no 'Reception' notice, and concluded that there might be access from the far side of the building, if only I could find it.
The premises lay between two fairly major roads, roughly parallel, but there are few roads actually linking one to the other. To get to the far side, I found, needed a drive of about a mile towards the town centre, and then a similar return journey along the other. When I got there, I found that these two roads were too far apart at that point, and another factory faced the second road, making any access from that direction completely out of the question. A little farther on I located the only other connecting road, and quickly found myself once more before the two gates. This time, however, the one with the notice was open; I entered and walked up to the door, which I now saw bore a brass number 4. Scarcely had I pressed the bell-push when the door opened in greeting. Recognising my shirt's insignia, my host clearly knew far more than I knew of my purpose for being there. "I didn't know you were coming today," he told me. "We close at 1.0." It was then about 2.20, so why was he there at all? Without explanation he invited me to drive round the corner to the shutter door, and wait - he'd have to get 'them' from upstairs.
What sort of 'them' would I be collecting? As I pondered this mystery, I examined my surroundings in the welcome sunshine. Beyond two fences in one direction was a netball or basketball court; in another was an empty house with the windows boarded up. As I waited, a van reversed up to the gate through which I'd entered, turning around to return to the main road. The shutter opened; four large machines were trundled out and loaded onto my van. As I walked round the van to drive off, I noticed a man on the roof of the house, apparently renewing the boarding to an upstairs window. The van I'd seen turning round was parked in the lane. I departed, and on my way back to home territory, I was advised of an alternate delivery address, to an industrial unit in the more familiar part of Stevenage, and here I was met by a lady who was clearly expecting the goods. The final detail of the story was the name by which she signed my delivery sheet - different from the one I'd been given at the outset. I didn't ask. It didn't seem worth the bother.
And now I have two jobs loaded for delivery tomorrow morning, a good start to the first five-day-week for some while, so my evening will be spent determining how long I shall have to allow to get through the traffic to ensure a timely delivery. Routine takes over again, until ....?
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