The sort of coffee I like is without sugar and with a little milk but not too much. Someone I know is very specific about coffee made for her ... even down to the sequence of assembling the ingredients. She swears she can tell if it's not made 'her' way. If someone brings me a mug, I can usually tell by the colour whether I'm going to like it, but I wouldn't have a clue how they made it. But regular readers will have guessed that I'm not writing this whole blog about coffee.
It's a busy time of year - quite apart from the General Election and all that has brought with it - as church and personal activities lead up to Christmas time. Last weekend our vicar invited us to a party in the church hall to celebrate one of those 'big' birthdays and there were people there from her past life whom I didn't know and who didn't, of course, know me. One of these saw my cross and asked me what was my role in the church. The first thing that came to mind must have been a bit of a surprise to him. I replied, "At the moment it's a distributor of Christmas cards!"
Three years ago, my friend and I discovered that we'd both delivered cards to the same street in the same day and one of us said to the other "We must be able to do better than this!" During the following summer I helped for the first time in an election campaign office and discovered how they organised the distribution of election leaflets. This was a system to cover the thousands of homes in a parliamentary constituency but, I reasoned, it should be possible to devise on a spreadsheet a pocket-sized version for the hundreds of homes in our parish.
As autumn progressed, the system came together and was launched for 2017. After fine tuning - which is still ongoing - it was launched once more last Sunday. At the party the previous afternoon, I had arrived in a car laden with lots of boxes containing bundles of cards which I later displayed in the church for collection after Sunday's services. These were all prepared with the names of people who had allowed themselves to be persuaded in advance to deliver to specific walks covering a road or two, or parts thereof. This seemed a better idea than the virtual free-for-all that had gone so spectacularly wrong before.
The fine weather today drew me forth to deliver my own small share in the plan. I had opted for a small estate on the very edge of the town, overlooking the motorway. Its white-walled and red-tiled houses are typical of our town and although they had always struck me as very welcoming as I'd seen them when driving home after a long day on the road, with their lights twinkling through the leafless trees on a cold evening, I'd never actually been in the road until today.
One of the problems of making deliveries, whether it's parcels, political leaflets or Christmas cards, is flats. I've lost count of the times I've asked someone to deliver, only to meet the anxious reaction, "There aren't any flats, are there?" I'm not sure whether it's the image of walking along isolated corridors, the fear of not getting into the building in the first place, or the knock-on admission of 'failure' to get rid of all their cards, but it seems few people want to deliver to flats. In fact, this year, I put out a notice with the cards, advising people 'If you can't get in, don't worry; it's their loss and not your problem.'
Imagine my surprise then, when I discovered that 65% of those lovely white walled and red-tiled, light-twinkling signs of 'welcome home' were FLATS! Not only that, but they are examples of the two different types of flats we deliverers are confronted with. I've made notes, for whoever does that street next year. nos. 6 to 15 (which, of course, may or may not include no. 13, but that's a topic for another day) are 'numbered access'. In other words, by the door is a key-pad intercom by which the caller can enter the flat number and speak to the person he's visiting in order to be admitted. Nos. 26 to 34 have a separate button for each flat (for the same purpose), but also a very useful 'trade button', by which there is access to the hallways and corridors, enabling leaflets and cards to be delivered quite successfully.
With my own instructions followed, and now feeling for myself that 'guilt' of failure, I returned home, with a small packet of undelivered cards to return to church tomorrow, along with a greater understanding of what I'm asking others to do.
Friday 29 November 2019
Saturday 23 November 2019
Flatlanders
I thought it might be of interest - whatever your political persuasion - to know what goes on in an election campaign. I can only write about what I have experienced, of course, but there seems to have been a general pattern in the four locations and five campaigns in which I've played a small part. I don't feel what follows will betray any confidences or 'state secrets'.
A candidate can be their own agent and run their own campaign, but it's usual for these to be three people. It's the Agent's responsibility to see that all the legal requirements are completed and in the right time frame. In the larger campaigns that I've helped with, in addition to the semi-professional campaign manager, there is also an office manager or supervisor, who makes sure that the office is open, warm, and has enough pens and elastic bands to run the operation and coffee and cake to sustain all who come and help. As a plan of campaign is devised and adjusted according to progress made, the detailed requirements filter down to the supervisor who will allocate tasks to the volunteers available.
In my delivery days, I became very familiar with boxes of printed matter. I still have painful memories of a converted church building in north London, where I delivered fifteen boxes of leaflets to an office on the first floor. By the second or third trip up the staircase, my asthmatic panting was telling me this wasn't a job I wanted to do again - I recall stubbornly refusing it on a later occasion - and at the end of the task, I sat in the van for quite some while before considering I was in a fit state to drive back.
Imagine my feelings then when, on Thursday afternoon, it was announced that a van had arrived downstairs (this office is also on the first floor) with seventy boxes of leaflets. All available staff were drawn in to form a chain from street to door, from door to staircase and, with two or three people actually stationed on the stairs, a flow of boxes emerged to where the office manager and I moved them from the landing to a place of temporary storage in the general office.
The task was then to transform these into bundles to be delivered by other volunteers to as many houses as possible across the fourteen wards that make up the constituency. Someone manned the electronic counter - without which the whole operation would have taken at least three times as long - one wrapped the delivery list around the leaflets, another embraced this with a strong elastic band, while a fourth co-ordinated the storage of bundles in (the original) boxes, duly labelled with the ward name and street codes, and placed this with lots of others on shelves ready for collection.
Before any of this could take place, the boxes had to be opened and emptied, which I found myself doing. My bricklaying skills were severely tested! At best, there were six in the bundling team; when I arrived yesterday morning I found one lady doing it all by herself. Amazingly, in the extent of about a working day, the whole task was done and some bundles had already been collected in bulk for one of the outlying wards, where they would be farmed out to local volunteers in the area.
And so we come to my title. I was just coming to the end of a little tidying up when Daisy, our candidate, arrived. After a brief word with me and my colleague Ray, who had grown up in Bury St Edmunds, she went into the inner office. As I mentioned last week, I was at school with her mother, so it was no surprise to discover that she, too, was born in Suffolk. A few minutes later, a man arrived from the street and asked broadly, 'Is the girl about?' My colleague ascertained that he meant our candidate, and sought advice from the manager. The man explained that he was on his way home to Felixstowe and had called in on the off-chance of having a word and, perhaps, getting a picture to inspire his local party when he got back.
Daisy emerged and a short impromptu video was produced, and in conversation she observed, "Isn't it amazing that we've got four Flatlanders here in the office all together!" It's a term I hadn't heard before, but its meaning is clear. The three of them came from Suffolk and I from only just over the Norfolk border ... all good solid East Anglian stock, and now all engaged in different ways in the same cause.
A candidate can be their own agent and run their own campaign, but it's usual for these to be three people. It's the Agent's responsibility to see that all the legal requirements are completed and in the right time frame. In the larger campaigns that I've helped with, in addition to the semi-professional campaign manager, there is also an office manager or supervisor, who makes sure that the office is open, warm, and has enough pens and elastic bands to run the operation and coffee and cake to sustain all who come and help. As a plan of campaign is devised and adjusted according to progress made, the detailed requirements filter down to the supervisor who will allocate tasks to the volunteers available.
In my delivery days, I became very familiar with boxes of printed matter. I still have painful memories of a converted church building in north London, where I delivered fifteen boxes of leaflets to an office on the first floor. By the second or third trip up the staircase, my asthmatic panting was telling me this wasn't a job I wanted to do again - I recall stubbornly refusing it on a later occasion - and at the end of the task, I sat in the van for quite some while before considering I was in a fit state to drive back.
Imagine my feelings then when, on Thursday afternoon, it was announced that a van had arrived downstairs (this office is also on the first floor) with seventy boxes of leaflets. All available staff were drawn in to form a chain from street to door, from door to staircase and, with two or three people actually stationed on the stairs, a flow of boxes emerged to where the office manager and I moved them from the landing to a place of temporary storage in the general office.
The task was then to transform these into bundles to be delivered by other volunteers to as many houses as possible across the fourteen wards that make up the constituency. Someone manned the electronic counter - without which the whole operation would have taken at least three times as long - one wrapped the delivery list around the leaflets, another embraced this with a strong elastic band, while a fourth co-ordinated the storage of bundles in (the original) boxes, duly labelled with the ward name and street codes, and placed this with lots of others on shelves ready for collection.
 |
| Bricklaying skills |
And so we come to my title. I was just coming to the end of a little tidying up when Daisy, our candidate, arrived. After a brief word with me and my colleague Ray, who had grown up in Bury St Edmunds, she went into the inner office. As I mentioned last week, I was at school with her mother, so it was no surprise to discover that she, too, was born in Suffolk. A few minutes later, a man arrived from the street and asked broadly, 'Is the girl about?' My colleague ascertained that he meant our candidate, and sought advice from the manager. The man explained that he was on his way home to Felixstowe and had called in on the off-chance of having a word and, perhaps, getting a picture to inspire his local party when he got back.
Daisy emerged and a short impromptu video was produced, and in conversation she observed, "Isn't it amazing that we've got four Flatlanders here in the office all together!" It's a term I hadn't heard before, but its meaning is clear. The three of them came from Suffolk and I from only just over the Norfolk border ... all good solid East Anglian stock, and now all engaged in different ways in the same cause.
Saturday 16 November 2019
Where to go for your Holidays!
Everyone is entitled to his or her opinion, of course and, for many, politics is either a complete mystery or is plainly understood as one lying idiot talking against another (rarely is it face to face!). For anyone holding either of these opinions the mere mention of politics is an incentive to switch off. For some the switch-off is literal, causing a changed TV channel or a blank screen, while others simply glaze over and think of a sunlit beach or the beauty of nature until it passes.
It's an ideal time just now, if you can stand it, to offer a personal view. If I'm honest, I can't blame those 'off-switchers' one little bit and, for many years, I was one of their number. That said (and I'm sure this snatch appeared on this blog some years ago), I've always voted Liberal, and have taken a mild interest in their fortunes (or lack of them) over the past forty-odd years. I never knew how my parents voted ... I guess Labour, but that is only a guess. I remember my father once telling me that his father - he died when I was only a year old, so I never knew him - always spoke well of the 'Little Welshman' (i.e. David Lloyd George).
For years my political interest was purely mathematical ... remember that Swingometer on the TV coverage decades ago? This view peaked when I found I was able to listen to RTE on my radio as I drove around the country, and I followed the Irish General Election in 2007 intently, supporting what I heard by online research about their voting system, a proportional system called the Single Transferable Vote. There each constituency elects four or five members, ensuring that virtually everyone is represented by someone of their own persuasion ... something I've never experienced in fifty years of adulthood!
Looking back from now, I can't be clear whether it was my recollection about my grandfather, or the Irish system, or simply the devastating cut in the number of Liberal Democrat MPs in the 2015 General Election, about which something clearly had to be done. Whatever had led to my decision, that last was the actual trigger! On the day after the election, I enrolled as a member of the Party. Soon I began to get emails, and later that year I went along to a meeting where a local branch was being created. There were many new faces, and among them a couple of people I knew. I soon got to know a few more!
The following year, I was persuaded to join the branch committee and allowed my name to appear on a ballot paper for the District Council elections. One summer's evening in 2018, as I was leaving the theatre in the town, I was spotted by our chairman. He quickly explained that the secretary had resigned and asked if I would be able to take the minutes at our meeting in a few days' time. The rest, as they say, is history, and I've now been the branch secretary for a year and a half.
Administration is one thing, but what does it achieve? From the outset, I needed to do something. I quickly discovered that I couldn't cope with the twists and turns in and out of gateways to go delivering leaflets and I knew that I don't have the personality to get involved with canvassing. So I became an itinerant helper with the operation of election campaigns. My first venture was just after the famous Brexit Referendum in 2016, when the Prime Minister resigned and there was a by-election in his constituency, Witney in Oxfordshire. I realised that this was a driveable distance from home and, over three weeks, I spent a total of four days in their office, albeit staying one night at a charming little B&B near Swindon, and making a 'mini-holiday' out of it.
The next spring came an impromptu General Election, where I found that the candidate in St Albans - much nearer home - was the daughter of someone I was at school with, so I went there for a week, commuting on a daily basis and I've just started an elaborate plan of helping there again for three days a week to fit in with my other commitments.
Meanwhile, there have been other excursions. This summer I spent a couple of days in the lovely countryside of eastern Wales, staying at a B&B in Llandrindod Wells and helping in the Brecon & Radnorshire by-election. In Sheffield in September, there was great uncertainty whether there would be a by-election or an imminent General Election and I found it convenient when house-sitting for my cousin's holiday, to commute in that direction for a couple of days helping a campaign that had been reduced to a gentle simmer.
All in all, it's a wonderful combination. There's the underlying feeling of 'doing something to help' while, at the same time, the mundane duties and growing friendships with new colleagues are an adventure of themselves. And if - as in the case of Wales and Sheffield - there's equally attractive scenery as a backdrop to it all, that's an added bonus! To me politics is far more than talking and a cross on a ballot paper!
It's an ideal time just now, if you can stand it, to offer a personal view. If I'm honest, I can't blame those 'off-switchers' one little bit and, for many years, I was one of their number. That said (and I'm sure this snatch appeared on this blog some years ago), I've always voted Liberal, and have taken a mild interest in their fortunes (or lack of them) over the past forty-odd years. I never knew how my parents voted ... I guess Labour, but that is only a guess. I remember my father once telling me that his father - he died when I was only a year old, so I never knew him - always spoke well of the 'Little Welshman' (i.e. David Lloyd George).
For years my political interest was purely mathematical ... remember that Swingometer on the TV coverage decades ago? This view peaked when I found I was able to listen to RTE on my radio as I drove around the country, and I followed the Irish General Election in 2007 intently, supporting what I heard by online research about their voting system, a proportional system called the Single Transferable Vote. There each constituency elects four or five members, ensuring that virtually everyone is represented by someone of their own persuasion ... something I've never experienced in fifty years of adulthood!
Looking back from now, I can't be clear whether it was my recollection about my grandfather, or the Irish system, or simply the devastating cut in the number of Liberal Democrat MPs in the 2015 General Election, about which something clearly had to be done. Whatever had led to my decision, that last was the actual trigger! On the day after the election, I enrolled as a member of the Party. Soon I began to get emails, and later that year I went along to a meeting where a local branch was being created. There were many new faces, and among them a couple of people I knew. I soon got to know a few more!
The following year, I was persuaded to join the branch committee and allowed my name to appear on a ballot paper for the District Council elections. One summer's evening in 2018, as I was leaving the theatre in the town, I was spotted by our chairman. He quickly explained that the secretary had resigned and asked if I would be able to take the minutes at our meeting in a few days' time. The rest, as they say, is history, and I've now been the branch secretary for a year and a half.
Administration is one thing, but what does it achieve? From the outset, I needed to do something. I quickly discovered that I couldn't cope with the twists and turns in and out of gateways to go delivering leaflets and I knew that I don't have the personality to get involved with canvassing. So I became an itinerant helper with the operation of election campaigns. My first venture was just after the famous Brexit Referendum in 2016, when the Prime Minister resigned and there was a by-election in his constituency, Witney in Oxfordshire. I realised that this was a driveable distance from home and, over three weeks, I spent a total of four days in their office, albeit staying one night at a charming little B&B near Swindon, and making a 'mini-holiday' out of it.
The next spring came an impromptu General Election, where I found that the candidate in St Albans - much nearer home - was the daughter of someone I was at school with, so I went there for a week, commuting on a daily basis and I've just started an elaborate plan of helping there again for three days a week to fit in with my other commitments.
Meanwhile, there have been other excursions. This summer I spent a couple of days in the lovely countryside of eastern Wales, staying at a B&B in Llandrindod Wells and helping in the Brecon & Radnorshire by-election. In Sheffield in September, there was great uncertainty whether there would be a by-election or an imminent General Election and I found it convenient when house-sitting for my cousin's holiday, to commute in that direction for a couple of days helping a campaign that had been reduced to a gentle simmer.
All in all, it's a wonderful combination. There's the underlying feeling of 'doing something to help' while, at the same time, the mundane duties and growing friendships with new colleagues are an adventure of themselves. And if - as in the case of Wales and Sheffield - there's equally attractive scenery as a backdrop to it all, that's an added bonus! To me politics is far more than talking and a cross on a ballot paper!
Friday 8 November 2019
Operation Overload?
Somebody famous once said, "You know what will happen if you do that again!" Or at least, if no one did, someone ought to have done. While I feel, partly, as if I'm in the 'doing it again' camp, at the same time I'm on the 'but this time it's different because ...' team. Before I put flesh on the bones of that enigma, I'm going to tell you a story. See if you can guess the end from the beginning.
To protect the identity of the central character of my tale, I'm going to call her Anita, which isn't her name. I recently undertook the now annual task of identifying those of the regular and devoted worshippers at my church who would be willing to venture up hill and down dale across the length and breadth of our parish to deliver the church Christmas cards. It sounds demanding, I know, put like that, but in reality, it's all quite flat, and over the years I've split it into walks of between 50 and 150 homes, so no one should be engaged in the task for much more than a couple of hours.
The sales pitch must have been much more persuasive than I'd thought, for Anita boldly came up to me after the launch the other week and said 'I'll do some', whereupon I gladly slotted her into my programme and thought no more of it ... until ... I envisage that, after she'd got home, Anita was chatting to her husband over Sunday lunch, and realised that her life as a working mother-of-three offered little or no 'spare' time that wasn't already taken up by the almost countless tasks that beset ladies in that situation. A couple of days later a crie-de-coeur arrived in my inbox, saying, "I can't realistically see how I'm going to find the time to do this, please remove me from your list.
At this point - my story now ended - I recall a conversation (or at least part of a conversation) with one of my fellow-helpers at the drop-in where I spend my Thursday mornings. I forget what had prompted my comments, but it was directed towards the fact of me living alone. I told her that my life is full enough already, and if 'Miss Right' - or, more realistically at my age, the former Mrs Was-Right-Once - should come into view this minute, I wouldn't have the time to devote to building a new relationship.
You see, I have form. My life has more than once been through this cycle, and by now I should know better. Gradually I've taken on one social commitment after another until my life has been so full, I realise that things that ought to be taking pride of place, like family and relationships, have been squeezed out. Then, in order to try to rectify matters, to restore the proper balance, you might say, I've shed things abruptly, causing problems to other people in so doing.
The drop-in started a couple of years ago, almost to the day, as it happens. With almost two years of retirement behind me, I heard of a plan to explore this possibility, hopefully to be run by volunteers from the churches in the town. While it was outside of my comfort zone, I could see both the value and the necessity of the project and felt I ought to help. I attended the preliminary meetings and was eventually drawn into the operating team. Now, not only do I find it rewarding, but I can see clearly how my own behaviour patterns have changed for the better as a result of this involvement.
This was only one of a number of new ventures to become part of an active retirement. Finding time heavy on my hands, I began working at the warehouse run by the local hospice to serve its retail shops in the business of raising funds for the caring work that is its focus. Originally this was on Tuesdays and Friday mornings, but recently I've switched from a Friday morning shift to one on Thursday afternoons, giving me a 'clear' four-day weekend. Only now, of course - you won't be surprised by this - I'm itching to fill those days, too.
With the General Election now at last declared, I've made plans to repeat my involvement of June 2017, when I spent a week or so helping my school-friend's daughter who is contesting the nearby seat of St Albans. This time, of course, the time I can spare for this purpose has to be fitted around a now firmly constructed pattern of voluntary work. It goes without saying that I've readily decided to sacrifice my 'extended weekends' - or at least the extensions themselves, i.e. Fridays and Mondays - and to these I have added some Tuesdays and some Thursdays, limiting the impact on the respective charities to what I hope is an acceptable pattern.
Now, on the brink of executing this plan, I'm looking back at the 'form-book'. Have I over-filled my week? Can I fit all that needs to be done 'on the home front' into the three remaining days, which already carry some regular commitments I wasn't willing to sacrifice? On the other hand, as many thought in 1914, 'It'll all be over by Christmas'. That wasn't, of course, but this is finite, and will be. On that truism stands my 'this time it's different' philosophy. I hope it proves to be the case.
To protect the identity of the central character of my tale, I'm going to call her Anita, which isn't her name. I recently undertook the now annual task of identifying those of the regular and devoted worshippers at my church who would be willing to venture up hill and down dale across the length and breadth of our parish to deliver the church Christmas cards. It sounds demanding, I know, put like that, but in reality, it's all quite flat, and over the years I've split it into walks of between 50 and 150 homes, so no one should be engaged in the task for much more than a couple of hours.
The sales pitch must have been much more persuasive than I'd thought, for Anita boldly came up to me after the launch the other week and said 'I'll do some', whereupon I gladly slotted her into my programme and thought no more of it ... until ... I envisage that, after she'd got home, Anita was chatting to her husband over Sunday lunch, and realised that her life as a working mother-of-three offered little or no 'spare' time that wasn't already taken up by the almost countless tasks that beset ladies in that situation. A couple of days later a crie-de-coeur arrived in my inbox, saying, "I can't realistically see how I'm going to find the time to do this, please remove me from your list.
At this point - my story now ended - I recall a conversation (or at least part of a conversation) with one of my fellow-helpers at the drop-in where I spend my Thursday mornings. I forget what had prompted my comments, but it was directed towards the fact of me living alone. I told her that my life is full enough already, and if 'Miss Right' - or, more realistically at my age, the former Mrs Was-Right-Once - should come into view this minute, I wouldn't have the time to devote to building a new relationship.
You see, I have form. My life has more than once been through this cycle, and by now I should know better. Gradually I've taken on one social commitment after another until my life has been so full, I realise that things that ought to be taking pride of place, like family and relationships, have been squeezed out. Then, in order to try to rectify matters, to restore the proper balance, you might say, I've shed things abruptly, causing problems to other people in so doing.
The drop-in started a couple of years ago, almost to the day, as it happens. With almost two years of retirement behind me, I heard of a plan to explore this possibility, hopefully to be run by volunteers from the churches in the town. While it was outside of my comfort zone, I could see both the value and the necessity of the project and felt I ought to help. I attended the preliminary meetings and was eventually drawn into the operating team. Now, not only do I find it rewarding, but I can see clearly how my own behaviour patterns have changed for the better as a result of this involvement.
This was only one of a number of new ventures to become part of an active retirement. Finding time heavy on my hands, I began working at the warehouse run by the local hospice to serve its retail shops in the business of raising funds for the caring work that is its focus. Originally this was on Tuesdays and Friday mornings, but recently I've switched from a Friday morning shift to one on Thursday afternoons, giving me a 'clear' four-day weekend. Only now, of course - you won't be surprised by this - I'm itching to fill those days, too.
With the General Election now at last declared, I've made plans to repeat my involvement of June 2017, when I spent a week or so helping my school-friend's daughter who is contesting the nearby seat of St Albans. This time, of course, the time I can spare for this purpose has to be fitted around a now firmly constructed pattern of voluntary work. It goes without saying that I've readily decided to sacrifice my 'extended weekends' - or at least the extensions themselves, i.e. Fridays and Mondays - and to these I have added some Tuesdays and some Thursdays, limiting the impact on the respective charities to what I hope is an acceptable pattern.
Now, on the brink of executing this plan, I'm looking back at the 'form-book'. Have I over-filled my week? Can I fit all that needs to be done 'on the home front' into the three remaining days, which already carry some regular commitments I wasn't willing to sacrifice? On the other hand, as many thought in 1914, 'It'll all be over by Christmas'. That wasn't, of course, but this is finite, and will be. On that truism stands my 'this time it's different' philosophy. I hope it proves to be the case.
Friday 1 November 2019
Smaller than Mine!
A couple of weeks ago, I reported disposing of some excesses from my personal library, to the extent that a whole bookcase had been made redundant. A friend had been enquiring recently whether anyone had a bookcase, because she found herself in need of one. I asked if this need had been met or whether mine might thus find a new home. Sadly it wasn't the right size, but she did suggest a possible outlet for it. I investigated and subsequently made an arrangement for it to be collected. These things are never instant, of course, but by 10.0 this morning it was gone.
I'm not actively down-sizing in the accepted sense ... I can't imagine living in a smaller home than at present! That said, I'm well aware that many of my possessions - like those books - are surplus to my actual requirements, and may find fresh ownership over the coming months. I'm also well aware that many people do live in smaller accommodation than mine ... and not always by choice.
In my kitchen - and in fact, in daily use - I have a certain spoon. On first glance, it is just another teaspoon. It's marked 'stainless steel' and bears a number '18/0'. I like it because the handle is slightly longer than usual, making it able to reach to the very bottom of a jam jar. Its only 'distinguishing marks' are a few scratches on the back of the bowl, that constant use and washing up are slowly removing.
Those scratches remind me where I got it some ten years or so ago: it had caught my eye, just laying there bright and shiny on the car park as, having just returned from a delivery, I walked from my van to the office. Its scratches and their probable cause, the spoon's presence on the car park, remind me too of someone who might possibly have been its previous owner ... although, like a found coin, there is no way of establishing this one way or the other.
Like me, he was a courier driver and, like me, he was prepared to drive long distances and long hours in order to make a living. But that's where the resemblance ended. Peca - I never knew him by any other name - was about half my age, give or take five years or so, tall, dark-haired and athletic. From his accent, I should say he was of east European origin, but I don't ever recall chatting to him. He had little English beyond the vocabulary necessary to doing his work. Neither do I know how it was that he suddenly appeared in our Garden City. I imagined that he was a refugee, or a migrant, who had arrived with sufficient funds to acquire a van, and little more.
Somehow, Peca had discovered the same business that it had been my good fortune to trip over when I had been out of work some years earlier. Like me, he had found our boss welcoming so long as we did what we were asked, and unquestioning as to what went on in our lives outside of our driving. So far as Dave was concerned, if we did a job well, we were likely to get it again and, if we didn't, he'd think twice not only about our repeating the same job, but also about doing anything of a similar nature or for the same customer. It was, after all, his reputation on the line, and his business that would bear the consequences of a less than perfect service!
That determined my attitude while I did that work. I tried always to be polite and efficient and my efforts were rewarded. I took little interest in the other drivers and - as a recent post here recognised - tended to be very inward looking beyond the work itself. It was some while, therefore, before I realised that, at about the time when Peca had appeared on the scene, so too a large and scruffy white van had become noticed in the corner of the car park. To all intents and purposes, it had been abandoned. So far as I knew it didn't belong to us, was always there and was never seen going off on a job. It seems that, for the early part of his time with us, that stationary vehicle was Peca's home.
How long it stayed there, I couldn't say. Certainly not all the time Peca was with us. Where he moved to, I have no idea. Eventually, as he became more familiar with our language, and our ways, Peca became more assertive, more willing to object if he didn't like something, and there were disagreements between him and some of the other drivers, and between him and Dave, the boss. Finally, after upsetting an important customer - I don't know how - he was told not to darken our doors again.
Sometimes when I look at that spoon, I recall a lonely immigrant living in a van. I remember the odd journey I made when it was necessary to spend a few cold hours trying to sleep in the back of my van and the desperation that made me drive on, although not really refreshed, simply because that was the only way to get warm again. And I imagine how unattractive it must have been to know that it would be the same the next night ... and the next ...
And it's frightening to realise that there are those in our community today, who find themselves in the same plight ... for whatever reason. It may only be one morning a week, but it's a privilege to play a small part in an operation called Ark that can offer a crumb of comfort and hope for such folks.
I'm not actively down-sizing in the accepted sense ... I can't imagine living in a smaller home than at present! That said, I'm well aware that many of my possessions - like those books - are surplus to my actual requirements, and may find fresh ownership over the coming months. I'm also well aware that many people do live in smaller accommodation than mine ... and not always by choice.
In my kitchen - and in fact, in daily use - I have a certain spoon. On first glance, it is just another teaspoon. It's marked 'stainless steel' and bears a number '18/0'. I like it because the handle is slightly longer than usual, making it able to reach to the very bottom of a jam jar. Its only 'distinguishing marks' are a few scratches on the back of the bowl, that constant use and washing up are slowly removing.
Those scratches remind me where I got it some ten years or so ago: it had caught my eye, just laying there bright and shiny on the car park as, having just returned from a delivery, I walked from my van to the office. Its scratches and their probable cause, the spoon's presence on the car park, remind me too of someone who might possibly have been its previous owner ... although, like a found coin, there is no way of establishing this one way or the other.
Like me, he was a courier driver and, like me, he was prepared to drive long distances and long hours in order to make a living. But that's where the resemblance ended. Peca - I never knew him by any other name - was about half my age, give or take five years or so, tall, dark-haired and athletic. From his accent, I should say he was of east European origin, but I don't ever recall chatting to him. He had little English beyond the vocabulary necessary to doing his work. Neither do I know how it was that he suddenly appeared in our Garden City. I imagined that he was a refugee, or a migrant, who had arrived with sufficient funds to acquire a van, and little more.
Somehow, Peca had discovered the same business that it had been my good fortune to trip over when I had been out of work some years earlier. Like me, he had found our boss welcoming so long as we did what we were asked, and unquestioning as to what went on in our lives outside of our driving. So far as Dave was concerned, if we did a job well, we were likely to get it again and, if we didn't, he'd think twice not only about our repeating the same job, but also about doing anything of a similar nature or for the same customer. It was, after all, his reputation on the line, and his business that would bear the consequences of a less than perfect service!
That determined my attitude while I did that work. I tried always to be polite and efficient and my efforts were rewarded. I took little interest in the other drivers and - as a recent post here recognised - tended to be very inward looking beyond the work itself. It was some while, therefore, before I realised that, at about the time when Peca had appeared on the scene, so too a large and scruffy white van had become noticed in the corner of the car park. To all intents and purposes, it had been abandoned. So far as I knew it didn't belong to us, was always there and was never seen going off on a job. It seems that, for the early part of his time with us, that stationary vehicle was Peca's home.
How long it stayed there, I couldn't say. Certainly not all the time Peca was with us. Where he moved to, I have no idea. Eventually, as he became more familiar with our language, and our ways, Peca became more assertive, more willing to object if he didn't like something, and there were disagreements between him and some of the other drivers, and between him and Dave, the boss. Finally, after upsetting an important customer - I don't know how - he was told not to darken our doors again.
Sometimes when I look at that spoon, I recall a lonely immigrant living in a van. I remember the odd journey I made when it was necessary to spend a few cold hours trying to sleep in the back of my van and the desperation that made me drive on, although not really refreshed, simply because that was the only way to get warm again. And I imagine how unattractive it must have been to know that it would be the same the next night ... and the next ...
And it's frightening to realise that there are those in our community today, who find themselves in the same plight ... for whatever reason. It may only be one morning a week, but it's a privilege to play a small part in an operation called Ark that can offer a crumb of comfort and hope for such folks.
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