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 ....?