Long, long ago, in the days when couriers were called carters, and had to get up at silly o'clock to feed and harness their horses, someone realised that this was hard work, and invented the bank holiday (I think). Either that, or they grew on trees and someone invented the extending ladder so they could pluck them from the low-hanging boughs. However it happened, it was what messrs. Sellar & Yeatman (the writers of "1066 and All That", in the opinion of many the best history book ever written) might have called 'A GOOD THING'. I'm therefore able to write this account late on a Saturday afternoon, confident that there are still two more days left before I must forsake my bed 'ere 6 o'clock in order to earn a crust.
So, what's led to the pinnacle of exhaustion that prompts this fine literary opening? It's been a fairly normal week, really. Someone asked me last weekend, after I'd narrated the events of one particular day, "Is that a normal day for you, then?" to which I replied, "I don't have normal days!", but I do claim to have the occasional normal week, by which I mean a mixture of all the stuff that comes my way. In common with recent weeks, most of this week has been moderately local, the furthest destinations being Halesowen, Lancing and a round trip to Basingstoke and Fareham. A lot has been early and late, though, and I think I managed one breakfast at home, and possibly two evenings.
The prestigious phase of the week actually began last Thursday, when I was called while driving to check that I would be working on Monday and Tuesday, and to check the registration number of my van. My excitement was immediately dampened by the words, "It's nothing, really." Then came the detail. "It's just that we've been asked to give the driver's details for a delivery and collection at Twickenham Rugby Stadium, and we thought of you." Isn't that nice? It turned out to be a conventional service of a marketing event, but because of the venue security was heightened. I delivered a box of banners, projector and literature, and then brought it all back next day to our customer in Harpenden.
The week's interesting highlight came on Thursday morning, when I tried to deliver an expensive car part to a serving airman at an RAF base in Suffolk. Over the years I have learned that nothing except friction and non-cooperation is achieved by losing one's patience on these occasions. The key is to just sit back and let things take their course. This I did, looking forward to the breakfast I would get on my way back home, however matters might work out before then. I spoke to the man at the gate, and was politely directed to report to the guardroom. Here I gave my name and presented photo ID as expected, and explained my purpose for being there. That was when the smooth operation broke down. I had the man's name and rank, even his service no., but there was no sign of him on the computer. I had a telephone extension number, too, and the officer at the window rang it, but no one answered. I offered the fact that I had his mobile no. in the van, so we agreed that I would call the man, and get him to come to the gate to collect his parcel.
The number was not recognised. Time to call the office. I was asked to sit there while they made further enquiries. After half an hour - or more - they returned my call. The person who had booked the job couldn't be found. They had tried the mobile no. too, and agreed that it was no good. I was asked to return to the guardroom, and get them to have another try to get an answer from that extension. I did so, but by now the officer I'd dealt with before had been replaced by a lady. She too heard my tale, tried the extension with no success, and looked for the man on the computer. She said, hesitantly, "well, I've found him, but . . . he isn't here." I asked where he was, and was told, "I don't know - because he's not here, I can't see any more details." Without further comment from me, she picked up the phone again. After a brief chat she hung up and smiled, "I don't know what they'd do without us civilians! My friend knows him - he's doing some training here, I think. She's coming over to see if she can carry the parcel. Otherwise I'll book you in and she can escort you to the postroom."
By now the security people had realised that I'd been there some while, and decided to come and search the van. While this was going on, the lady arrived, discovered that the item could be comfortably carried, so signed for it and went off. Somewhat relieved, I'd just made ready to depart, when the controller rang to see how I'd fared. I told him briefly what had transpired, and was told I was a star.
What more need be said? Now, resting on my laurels, I prepare for Pinewood Studios again on Tuesday morning.
Saturday 24 May 2014
Sunday 18 May 2014
On Stage, in Hospital, Finding the Wing, and a Bath . . . Nearly!
He's still around, that Repeating Genie. He raised his head a number of times this week. Although I lost most of Monday because I had the van serviced, it turned out quite a good week over all, through a couple of nicely full days running on from one job straight on to the next, and an attractive invitation for yesterday morning - more of that anon.
I've enjoyed a much deeper insight into Pinewood Studios this week. Usually my visits there are for the firm across the road from my home, who liaise with a particular office in a corner of the site, access to which doesn't involve more adventure than crossing the car park next to the main gate. On Tuesday morning, however, I made a delivery for another of our customers to the opposite corner of the Pinewood complex. These items were taken to one of their 'Stages', and nothing could have prepared me for the amazing difference from any stage I've seen before. No elevated performance area here, let alone a proscenium arch; just a big - and I mean BIG - brick shell with a wooden floor.
As I walked through the doorway, past a notice which read 'Closed stage - no entry without authorisation', it was like going into an assembly workshop. A few men were working on a model behind a wall of mobile screens, but I could hear other voices, too. I lifted my gaze, realising just how high was this place and there, among the girders that support the roof, spotted another team, installing lighting to suit whatever production would eventually make use of the props being constructed below. Feeling somewhat lost in this strange and spacious realm, I was glad to see the approaching orange safety jacket of the security officer who was to meet me and find a home for my delivery. And then on Thursday, came the same thing again, though more familiar by then.
Tuesday also took me to the Royal Orthopaedic Hospital at Stanmore, where I discovered the remote location of the theatre stores, and on to a health firm in Tilehurst for the first of two visits there during the week. Wednesday brought the other 'excitement' of the week. I'm sure some would find it exciting, anyway. I was summoned to one of our regular customers to collect 'something urgent for Northamptonshire'. Our normal cargo for this company is secure documentation for their directors, so I wasn't surprised to be given a fat envelope. What did surprise me - not to say confuse me a little, too - was the address: 'The Wing, Silverstone', which turned out to be the massive admin. building on Silverstone Grand Prix circuit. To reach it I must have driven all the way round the outside of the actual racetrack on its ring road: quite a distance, at least; and that was after getting through the main gate!
What I've described above as 'nicely full days' can comprise either one or two jobs some way away, where most of the fullness of the day lies in the getting there and getting back, or else, as this week, lots of what I would call local work. Nothing was more than 100 miles away, and the two jobs that came closest to this milepost were on Friday. In the morning I had an enjoyable ride in the sunshine to Thurmaston near Leicester, after collecting four boxes of accounting paperwork from St. Albans. With scarcely a break upon my return, I was despatched up the M1 again, with two containers of parts for a motor plant in Birmingham. This was somewhere I've been to before, and I was aware of the need to ignore the post code and ask SatNav to go to the road name, or else one is simply 'dumped' on the M6!
And then came the weekend. On Friday evening, as I drove home, I was asked if I'd be available to do a collection on Saturday morning. After Monday's activities, which had involved the replacement of my windscreen wiper motor, the recalcitrant behaviour of which had been driving me quite mad, I decided that the right answer would be 'yes'. So yesterday I set off to collect a bath from an industrial and retail park on the outskirts of Clacton-on-Sea, where I'd delivered to a nearby factory only last week. "The bath is in two parts," I was told, "so it should go in your van." Famous last words!
I was puzzled in the first place, because I couldn't see how a bath could be in two parts, presumably to be assembled on site, and still be reliably watertight. I was given a clue when, as a first instalment, I was presented with an oval of ceramic, duly shrink-wrapped for protection, with the words, "here's the plinth." The bath itself was quite complete, and impressive both in size and style. Its sweeping curves ended in broad horizontal surfaces that could hardly be described as a rim, and a hole midway along one side determined the position of the taps. This bath was luxury. It was also too big for my van, as you can see, and there followed a wealth of telephone negotiation, and even verbal pressure on me to authorise the removal of the bulkhead from my van in order to accommodate it!
None of this changed things one iota, and I returned home with an empty but intact van, confident that right had prevailed, and encouraged that I had the complete support of the firm I work with.
I've enjoyed a much deeper insight into Pinewood Studios this week. Usually my visits there are for the firm across the road from my home, who liaise with a particular office in a corner of the site, access to which doesn't involve more adventure than crossing the car park next to the main gate. On Tuesday morning, however, I made a delivery for another of our customers to the opposite corner of the Pinewood complex. These items were taken to one of their 'Stages', and nothing could have prepared me for the amazing difference from any stage I've seen before. No elevated performance area here, let alone a proscenium arch; just a big - and I mean BIG - brick shell with a wooden floor.
As I walked through the doorway, past a notice which read 'Closed stage - no entry without authorisation', it was like going into an assembly workshop. A few men were working on a model behind a wall of mobile screens, but I could hear other voices, too. I lifted my gaze, realising just how high was this place and there, among the girders that support the roof, spotted another team, installing lighting to suit whatever production would eventually make use of the props being constructed below. Feeling somewhat lost in this strange and spacious realm, I was glad to see the approaching orange safety jacket of the security officer who was to meet me and find a home for my delivery. And then on Thursday, came the same thing again, though more familiar by then.
Tuesday also took me to the Royal Orthopaedic Hospital at Stanmore, where I discovered the remote location of the theatre stores, and on to a health firm in Tilehurst for the first of two visits there during the week. Wednesday brought the other 'excitement' of the week. I'm sure some would find it exciting, anyway. I was summoned to one of our regular customers to collect 'something urgent for Northamptonshire'. Our normal cargo for this company is secure documentation for their directors, so I wasn't surprised to be given a fat envelope. What did surprise me - not to say confuse me a little, too - was the address: 'The Wing, Silverstone', which turned out to be the massive admin. building on Silverstone Grand Prix circuit. To reach it I must have driven all the way round the outside of the actual racetrack on its ring road: quite a distance, at least; and that was after getting through the main gate!
What I've described above as 'nicely full days' can comprise either one or two jobs some way away, where most of the fullness of the day lies in the getting there and getting back, or else, as this week, lots of what I would call local work. Nothing was more than 100 miles away, and the two jobs that came closest to this milepost were on Friday. In the morning I had an enjoyable ride in the sunshine to Thurmaston near Leicester, after collecting four boxes of accounting paperwork from St. Albans. With scarcely a break upon my return, I was despatched up the M1 again, with two containers of parts for a motor plant in Birmingham. This was somewhere I've been to before, and I was aware of the need to ignore the post code and ask SatNav to go to the road name, or else one is simply 'dumped' on the M6!
And then came the weekend. On Friday evening, as I drove home, I was asked if I'd be available to do a collection on Saturday morning. After Monday's activities, which had involved the replacement of my windscreen wiper motor, the recalcitrant behaviour of which had been driving me quite mad, I decided that the right answer would be 'yes'. So yesterday I set off to collect a bath from an industrial and retail park on the outskirts of Clacton-on-Sea, where I'd delivered to a nearby factory only last week. "The bath is in two parts," I was told, "so it should go in your van." Famous last words!
 |
| "Can't you squeeze it?" |
I was puzzled in the first place, because I couldn't see how a bath could be in two parts, presumably to be assembled on site, and still be reliably watertight. I was given a clue when, as a first instalment, I was presented with an oval of ceramic, duly shrink-wrapped for protection, with the words, "here's the plinth." The bath itself was quite complete, and impressive both in size and style. Its sweeping curves ended in broad horizontal surfaces that could hardly be described as a rim, and a hole midway along one side determined the position of the taps. This bath was luxury. It was also too big for my van, as you can see, and there followed a wealth of telephone negotiation, and even verbal pressure on me to authorise the removal of the bulkhead from my van in order to accommodate it!
None of this changed things one iota, and I returned home with an empty but intact van, confident that right had prevailed, and encouraged that I had the complete support of the firm I work with.
Sunday 11 May 2014
Two Wasn'ts, a Was and a Could Be
The story of this week has been something of a parody for life itself . . . or so it seems looking back from here, with a good day and one that might turn out to be average, following two that didn't even make the chart! Last weekend, to begin with, was pleasant, social, but unexciting. I spent most of the time in a two-day visit to my cousin in Nottinghamshire; it was two days that took up the best part of three, because I left late on Saturday in order to get home 'stuff' out of the way first, and then I departed mid-afternoon on Monday in order to be home in time for the bellringing practice.
However, the absence of anyone else at the church told me that nothing was happening, and an exchange of text messages confirmed that the practice had been cancelled 'for want of interest'. I hadn't made the practice the previous week and so missed the moment where those present completely forgot our discussion before Easter . . . which, to my recollection at least, determined that there would be no practice on Easter Monday, but that there would be one on the next Bank Holiday. Starting, therefore, with that assumed blank sheet, they agreed that those who were able to come were too few to make a practice possible. It was presumed in my absence that I would come to the same conclusion, so no one had bothered to let me know.
Tuesday started the working week with a sequence of unconnected jobs, the furthest of which was a familiar run to Corby. Wednesday was even worse, with an early start to Basildon and an afternoon collection in Rushden for Luton before loading some white goods for delivery in Thame on Thursday morning.
It's always good to have prior advice of an awkward destination, and it was comforting to know that, although SatNav said the nearest number to my requested 32 was 35, nearby was a stone gateway that would lead to my Thame 'target'. It was even better to approach this across an increasing queue of oncoming traffic, and see the small number '32' smiling at me from the gatepost! Thursday was apparently busy, and I was almost home when the phone rang to despatch me immediately to Welwyn Garden City to collect a small item for Clacton-on-Sea that 'should have been sent last night!' There are occasions when it is better not to be given such details, so that one can react with natural ignorance and surprise to any complaint, but in the event there was no comment at all when I made the delivery, adverse or otherwise, and I retreated happily homeward.
I had been home this time for about an hour, when I was given an interesting early-evening job. It involved collecting an electrical item from a farm in Leicestershire, and delivering it to a food processing firm in Dunstable. I found the village, and traversed the length of Leicester Road twice, but saw nothing approaching an industrial presence let alone the name of the company from whom I was collecting. In fact all the gates along the road were field entrances rather than to a farm. Enquiries led me to a cluster of scruffy farm buildings beside a footpath, behind which were hidden a house and a double garage. I tried the phone no. that I'd been given, and learned that the office was closed. The only alternative was to approach the house and ask. Yes, this was the right place (gesture towards the garage), "my daughter has left the parcel here to be collected." With the detective work successfully concluded, I sped south for the delivery. It was fortunate that I'd delivered to this particular factory before, so I knew where I was going, because the name had now been changed, and there was no sign at all of the name I'd been given!
On Friday morning, I rang the office to be added to the list, and as I narrated the events of the previous evening, one of the other controllers was trying to call me with work. I was sent to King's Lynn with security equipment for a smart new office building in a nearby village. Then came a local job which, unusually for this particular customer, was far too big for my van, so I had to summon a larger vehicle and retreat. Instead, I was sent south with a repaired lift motor for Reading University, and a large steel bar for McLaren Racing in Woking.
Yesterday was the second of this year's meetings of the family history society, so at lunchtime I made my way through the town to start my journey to Hillingdon, hoping as I did so that I wouldn't get caught in the cufuffle caused by the Women's Cycle Tour passing through our Garden City. Success; I wasn't delayed, and arrived at the beautiful school just in time for the start of procedings, the highlight of which was this time the showing of a video of Suffolk life in the early 20th century.
Now I'm looking forward to another four-day week, with the van in for a service tomorrow. Normal life will be resumed . . . one day!
However, the absence of anyone else at the church told me that nothing was happening, and an exchange of text messages confirmed that the practice had been cancelled 'for want of interest'. I hadn't made the practice the previous week and so missed the moment where those present completely forgot our discussion before Easter . . . which, to my recollection at least, determined that there would be no practice on Easter Monday, but that there would be one on the next Bank Holiday. Starting, therefore, with that assumed blank sheet, they agreed that those who were able to come were too few to make a practice possible. It was presumed in my absence that I would come to the same conclusion, so no one had bothered to let me know.
Tuesday started the working week with a sequence of unconnected jobs, the furthest of which was a familiar run to Corby. Wednesday was even worse, with an early start to Basildon and an afternoon collection in Rushden for Luton before loading some white goods for delivery in Thame on Thursday morning.
It's always good to have prior advice of an awkward destination, and it was comforting to know that, although SatNav said the nearest number to my requested 32 was 35, nearby was a stone gateway that would lead to my Thame 'target'. It was even better to approach this across an increasing queue of oncoming traffic, and see the small number '32' smiling at me from the gatepost! Thursday was apparently busy, and I was almost home when the phone rang to despatch me immediately to Welwyn Garden City to collect a small item for Clacton-on-Sea that 'should have been sent last night!' There are occasions when it is better not to be given such details, so that one can react with natural ignorance and surprise to any complaint, but in the event there was no comment at all when I made the delivery, adverse or otherwise, and I retreated happily homeward.
I had been home this time for about an hour, when I was given an interesting early-evening job. It involved collecting an electrical item from a farm in Leicestershire, and delivering it to a food processing firm in Dunstable. I found the village, and traversed the length of Leicester Road twice, but saw nothing approaching an industrial presence let alone the name of the company from whom I was collecting. In fact all the gates along the road were field entrances rather than to a farm. Enquiries led me to a cluster of scruffy farm buildings beside a footpath, behind which were hidden a house and a double garage. I tried the phone no. that I'd been given, and learned that the office was closed. The only alternative was to approach the house and ask. Yes, this was the right place (gesture towards the garage), "my daughter has left the parcel here to be collected." With the detective work successfully concluded, I sped south for the delivery. It was fortunate that I'd delivered to this particular factory before, so I knew where I was going, because the name had now been changed, and there was no sign at all of the name I'd been given!
On Friday morning, I rang the office to be added to the list, and as I narrated the events of the previous evening, one of the other controllers was trying to call me with work. I was sent to King's Lynn with security equipment for a smart new office building in a nearby village. Then came a local job which, unusually for this particular customer, was far too big for my van, so I had to summon a larger vehicle and retreat. Instead, I was sent south with a repaired lift motor for Reading University, and a large steel bar for McLaren Racing in Woking.
 |
| Bishopshalt School (taken during the winter snows of 2012) |
Yesterday was the second of this year's meetings of the family history society, so at lunchtime I made my way through the town to start my journey to Hillingdon, hoping as I did so that I wouldn't get caught in the cufuffle caused by the Women's Cycle Tour passing through our Garden City. Success; I wasn't delayed, and arrived at the beautiful school just in time for the start of procedings, the highlight of which was this time the showing of a video of Suffolk life in the early 20th century.
Now I'm looking forward to another four-day week, with the van in for a service tomorrow. Normal life will be resumed . . . one day!
Friday 2 May 2014
History Repeating Itself
I've lost count of the number of times friends ask me at the weekend, "Have you been anywhere interesting this week?" Most weeks there is something I can pick out of the preceding days to amuse or occasionally enthrall them, prompting either envy - like when I stepped through the hallowed black door of no. 10 Downing Street - or more often empathy when I tell of being confronted by an incomplete or misleading address, or totally unco-operative 'Jobsworth' types who are neither use nor ornament when it comes to getting a job done.
This week's interest was not one but two instances of history repeating itself; in each case the original event had been potentially a unique occurence. And amazingly, as I searched the annals for chapter and verse, I discovered that both of those original events had taken place at about this time of year.
In May 2008 one of our customers, a printing company, had either discovered or been advised of an error in the preparation of exam papers. These exams were to be taken by students in certain private schools across the country. On the afternoon of the day prior to the exams, our customer requested that we make arrangements for disks containing the corrected papers to be delivered to all the schools involved by 9.0 am the following morning, so that staff could print out the correct text for the exam later that day. I happened to be in the office waiting for work when the envelopes arrived for assignment, and was given one for a school in Blandford, Dorset.
When all other available drivers had been allocated one, two or three of these, according to their geographical spread, one disk remained, for a school near Clitheroe, Lancs. I hadn't had a very good week thus far so, after doing a quick calculation, and taking into account that these were boarding schools and would therefore have staff on site all the time, I made a suggestion. Instead of setting off in the early hours to reach Blandford by 9.00, I offered to set off immediately, taking with me the disk for Clitheroe as well. My suggestion was accepted, and after the necessary stops en route for a meal and some sleep, I delivered the second disk at around 6.30am. It was a round trip of 632 miles.
This week, after a good day on Monday and nothing but a cancellation on Tuesday morning, I was asked mid-afternoon to collect a job for Stafford. This was not particularly out of the ordinary but what did surprise me was to be told by our customer to return immediately to my van because the office would be phoning me shortly. The controller advised me that there were in fact two jobs to be collected, and asked if I would be happy to do them both. He explained that, in addition to the one for Stafford, which was urgent, and had to be taken immediately, the other was for a factory in Plymouth, and was to be there by 8.0am. It was as I made my way down the M5 calculating where I would need to leave the motorway to find fuel and somewhere to spend the night, that I recalled that former occasion when I had made roughly the same triangular journey, but in the opposite direction. This time, the distance would have been slightly shorter, had it not been for a phone call on Wednesday morning, as I headed up the A303 past Andover. I was diverted to a night club in Bournemouth, to collect three air-conditioning units for delivery in Hemel Hampstead on my way home.
The rest of the week was pleasantly gentle, finishing this afternoon with the collection of an electrical generator, to go to a building site in Ashford, Kent. As I approached the delivery point, I puzzled over the detail of the address, "Ashford W-T-W". It wasn't until I passed the safety warnings about deep excavations, that I noticed those key words, "Wastewater Treatment Works", and my mind whizzed back to April 2009, when I had followed a narrow lane alongside the A1 between Doncaster and Pontefract to a similar site at Wrangbrook. The situation there, though similar in purpose, was completely different. Today, I went down a dark leafy lane; on that occasion the lane, though narrow, was on an open hillside in brilliant sunshine, and I was delivering some chemicals to aid the repair of the concrete tanks.
I thought it then a unique - if uninspiring - experience to be able to report that I'd been to a sewage works. Twice this week I've learned that - though one might have to wait five or six years - even the most unusual can come round again in this bizarre lifestyle.
This week's interest was not one but two instances of history repeating itself; in each case the original event had been potentially a unique occurence. And amazingly, as I searched the annals for chapter and verse, I discovered that both of those original events had taken place at about this time of year.
In May 2008 one of our customers, a printing company, had either discovered or been advised of an error in the preparation of exam papers. These exams were to be taken by students in certain private schools across the country. On the afternoon of the day prior to the exams, our customer requested that we make arrangements for disks containing the corrected papers to be delivered to all the schools involved by 9.0 am the following morning, so that staff could print out the correct text for the exam later that day. I happened to be in the office waiting for work when the envelopes arrived for assignment, and was given one for a school in Blandford, Dorset.
When all other available drivers had been allocated one, two or three of these, according to their geographical spread, one disk remained, for a school near Clitheroe, Lancs. I hadn't had a very good week thus far so, after doing a quick calculation, and taking into account that these were boarding schools and would therefore have staff on site all the time, I made a suggestion. Instead of setting off in the early hours to reach Blandford by 9.00, I offered to set off immediately, taking with me the disk for Clitheroe as well. My suggestion was accepted, and after the necessary stops en route for a meal and some sleep, I delivered the second disk at around 6.30am. It was a round trip of 632 miles.
This week, after a good day on Monday and nothing but a cancellation on Tuesday morning, I was asked mid-afternoon to collect a job for Stafford. This was not particularly out of the ordinary but what did surprise me was to be told by our customer to return immediately to my van because the office would be phoning me shortly. The controller advised me that there were in fact two jobs to be collected, and asked if I would be happy to do them both. He explained that, in addition to the one for Stafford, which was urgent, and had to be taken immediately, the other was for a factory in Plymouth, and was to be there by 8.0am. It was as I made my way down the M5 calculating where I would need to leave the motorway to find fuel and somewhere to spend the night, that I recalled that former occasion when I had made roughly the same triangular journey, but in the opposite direction. This time, the distance would have been slightly shorter, had it not been for a phone call on Wednesday morning, as I headed up the A303 past Andover. I was diverted to a night club in Bournemouth, to collect three air-conditioning units for delivery in Hemel Hampstead on my way home.
The rest of the week was pleasantly gentle, finishing this afternoon with the collection of an electrical generator, to go to a building site in Ashford, Kent. As I approached the delivery point, I puzzled over the detail of the address, "Ashford W-T-W". It wasn't until I passed the safety warnings about deep excavations, that I noticed those key words, "Wastewater Treatment Works", and my mind whizzed back to April 2009, when I had followed a narrow lane alongside the A1 between Doncaster and Pontefract to a similar site at Wrangbrook. The situation there, though similar in purpose, was completely different. Today, I went down a dark leafy lane; on that occasion the lane, though narrow, was on an open hillside in brilliant sunshine, and I was delivering some chemicals to aid the repair of the concrete tanks.
I thought it then a unique - if uninspiring - experience to be able to report that I'd been to a sewage works. Twice this week I've learned that - though one might have to wait five or six years - even the most unusual can come round again in this bizarre lifestyle.
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