I had issued a warning on Sunday that I wouldn't be at bell-ringing practice this week. When our church started a 'traditional' choir during the summer - not for regular but occasional involvement in our varied range of worship - the leader very wisely decided that, while some practices would be held on a Sunday morning after the service, others would rotate from one weekday evening to another. The latest one was to take place this Monday, and I had decided that it should take precedence over bell-ringing.
The week has proved yet again what I've been saying for years, that the life of a courier is not one that can be blended with, or lived alongside a conventional social life. Work-wise, Monday started tamely with a job to Leamington Spa; I hadn't left home for the pick-up when a second job was added to it sending me first in the opposite direction to collect in Stevenage for Bolton. When I left Leamington I decided that, unless I should be delayed, I ought just to make choir practice at 8.0pm. I was still on the M6, not far beyond Birmingham, when the phone rang: when would I be likely to get to Bolton?
When I answered, 'about 3.10,' there was a brief pause before I was asked to collect something in Manchester on my way back, to be delivered next morning in Letchworth. I hadn't even said yes, before the controller continued, "... and while you're that way, would you like a 5.0 pick-up to go to Liverpool before you come home?" The very fact of the first foray into Manchester had threatened my singing, so it seemed little further sacrifice to express gratitude for the extra work, and turn a possible 'yes' to choir practice into a definite 'no', and promptly called the leader to tender my apologies. It was 6.0 before I left Liverpool's Albert Dock after making my delivery, and this set the pattern for the week: financially beneficial, but socially disastrous.
Once the collected item had been delivered Tuesday proper began with a visit to the garage. I had noticed that my indicator appeared to need a new bulb, but this turned out to be a relay fault which can (hopefully) be fixed when I take the van in for service next week. By mid-afternoon I was returning from the second of two local jobs when I was sent to 'that' engineering firm, whose vans have provided us with many rescue jobs over the years. It's all too easy to shut the rear doors without making certain that the keys are on the person, and the slam lock spells disaster with the key shut inside the van. This mission was to Burgess Hill where the incident had occurred - fortunately - outside a large office block. As I pulled up in front of his van, the driver scampered across the lawns to greet me.
In a gabble made scarcely intelligible by the tension of his afternoon, he explained how he had turned his back on the van for only a moment; the wind caught the open door and ... slam! He was left outside in the rain, and his coat, with the precious key was locked away. Luckily he had his phone in his pocket, and the firm had allowed him to shelter in their reception area. I have never been accorded such profuse gratitude for one of these missions as on this occasion. My hand was shaken with such warmth that I had difficulty in getting away. While I had been dealing with this, my phone had been busy. There were two missed calls from the Brighton office and, as I got into the van, it rang a third time. Would I be able to do a job for them from Hayward's Heath into Brighton before heading north? It was already past 5.30 and, after a long day on Monday followed by a short night, I was whacked, so I apologised and made for home.
After returning the keys on Wednesday morning, I enjoyed a lull, during which I was able to catch up with some of the desk stuff I'd had to shelve in two late evenings. About lunchtime came the only job of the day, a drive up to West Yorkshire, to collect some laminate from a factory in Morley. By the time I had got there and collected the goods, it was clear that I wouldn't return before our customer would have closed for the day, resulting in the third 'carry-over' of the week. This time, however, the office were on the ball, and before I had reached Newark, I received a phone call, after which I experienced a great sense of calm. Two jobs had been assigned to me for the following morning. I would deliver the laminate at 7.30, collect in Royston for Southampton at 8.0, and then make for Stansted airport for another pick-up at 8.30, this to go to Bournemouth International Airport. It worked almost to plan and I was loaded and on my way shortly after 9.0.
I recalled on my way south-west that, even in the early years of the last century, Hampshire was referred to officially as 'the county of Southampton', and found myself wondering why its current name wasn't accorded to Northampton instead. My idle mind clicked into gear in time to make my deliveries and, clear by 1.0, I began to look forward to a more leisurely evening. I forgot the 'spy in the cab', however, and made the fatal error of leaving the M25 because of traffic, only to be spotted by the Heathrow office, who asked me to perform a transfer from Feltham to Willesden, which is only 13 miles but at rush-hour took at least two hours, so yet another evening was foreshortened by work!
Yesterday I felt rewarded for having learned all my lessons, when I was given two complementary jobs, one from a firm of structural engineers in Letchworth to an isolated business development near Salisbury, and the other from Hertford to Chertsey on the way. Neither caused me any problems and I had completed them both by about 2.0. Since I'm not working next week, there was no need for me to remain in contact so I logged off and made my way home completely away from the dreaded M25, travelling up towards Oxford. Unfortunately, I realised just too late that I'd missed the turning I'd planned to take off the A34 to go through Abingdon, and had to go round the Oxford ring-road. As I did so, going even further away from the direct route home, I found myself unable to escape feelings of guilt. Common sense told me a) that no one would know; and b) it was entirely up to me which route I used since, having signed off for the day, I was no longer at the beck and call of the office. Yet I still felt uneasy because I was going a longer way round than necessary, and would be late as a result. Was it the uniform? ... the van? ... or simply habit?
Today brought excitement of a different kind. As part of the prayer ministry team at church, I had received an invitation to a birthday party for a little girl for whom we have been praying for some while. She is gradually overcoming a combination of health difficulties that have beset her first year of life and, although not the size of a normal one-year-old, she was clearly happy and at ease in the arms of her loving parents. It's not the sort of occasion that I'm used to, but fortunately others from our church were also there and, by the end of a couple of hours of watching and chatting, I had to agree that it had been an enjoyable occasion, as much for me as for everyone else.
Next week I have the usual list of outstanding tasks to be attended to, but I expect to be able to relax considerably more than in recent days!
Showing posts with label people-watching. Show all posts
Showing posts with label people-watching. Show all posts
Saturday, 21 November 2015
Saturday, 25 April 2015
Friday Night and Saturday Morning
It's been quite an exhausting week. With four early mornings, three late nights, two of them following a continuous day on the road, and one night tormented by some kind of allergy - I notice the rape is in flower - I was glad yesterday evening to settle down briefly at Beaconsfield Services. After eating my Carvery Express (the healthier alternative to KFC, only marginally more expensive, and far less messy on the fingers!), I cradled my coffee and examined the world as it bustled to and fro all around me.
There's one in every week, and I've lost count of the times I've noticed something intangibly 'special' about them. At last I've grasped the nettle of trying to set down in words that special whatever-it-is about Friday afternoons. I use that term with some elasticity, of course, because there is great variety in the times at which people leave off ... something I regularly have to take note of if I want to make a successful delivery! But whether it's lunchtime, or 3.30, 6.0 or - as in my case yesterday - 9.35, that point of stopping work at the end of the week has a special quality. It has the power to make the transition, in the words of the ubiquitous Mars Bar advert, from the world of work to the world of rest-and-play.
I grew up in a world where, to my young eye, there seemed to be little distinction between these three phases of life for the working man. After 'proper work' was over more jobs could easily be found at home. The garden would need attention, or something had to be done in the shed; there was coal to be brought in for the fire, or wood to chop. With luck there might be an hour or so to look through the newspaper, or watch TV, but it was likely that this pleasure would be overtaken by sleep in the armchair.
And then came the end of the week. In my father's case it was Saturday lunchtime, for the normal working week of forty-eight hours couldn't be fitted into five days. I well remember the glow that seemed to fill the house once lunch - on the table immediately upon his homecoming ... just like the evening meal during the week - had been eaten. At the age of about eight or nine, I would follow him to the bathroom and watch the progress of the weekly shave, marvelling that he could wield that razor (with its blade that I was expressly told not to touch because it was so sharp) up and down his throat with such carefree abandon. Now, many years later, I make just the same moves with the same nonchalance.
I was looking forward to my weekly walk with him into the town, perhaps to stand on the market place while he chatted to some friend or other, maybe to make some small purchase from one of the shops, but almost inevitably to finish up at the football ground, where I was infused with an interest that had stayed latent until about four or five years ago when I suddenly felt a Saturday 'tickle' to rekindle it again. If we happened to arrive after half-time we could get in free, because the man at the ticket stall would have shut his window. Otherwise I think it was 6d for adults and 3d for children. I was more interested to see who else was there that I might know than to watch the game, but there was a feeling of excitement nonetheless, and the homeward journey would always be paused at the market stall to buy some chips to take home for tea.
Diss Town played in the Norfolk & Suffolk League in those days; for the the bigger and better teams there was the Eastern Counties League, and for the smaller ones the East Anglian League. After I ceased to be interested in the world of football, the two smaller of these leagues merged to become the Anglian Combination of today, with its many divisions and reserve divisions, of which only the premier division figures at step 7 in the national pyramid. Diss by then had moved up to the Eastern Counties League, where now they seem to flit between the premier and first divisions.
When I moved into the world of work, I began to see a different format to Friday afternoons, but all with that same 'glow'. Wherever I've worked, there has been a particular atmosphere that surrounds people leaving behind their workplace behind them. I carry with me an image - partly real, partly an imagined stereotype - of men and women, young and old, streaming from a factory gate to rows of back-to-back houses, or walking in ones and twos down a country lane to a solitary row of cottages or post-First World War 'homes for heroes', each one looking forward to time with their family or friends, and to whatever the weekend holds, be it routine or special.
For a lot of my time I've been fortunate to work where or when the economy was strong, and there seem always to have been calls for people willing to work overtime on Saturdays. As an office-worker, I was rarely called to do so myself, but sometimes it was nice to go in at the weekend to catch up on something, and on such occasions the feel of the place was totally different. At one factory, I would often see on a Monday morning that men from last week's evening shift, working normally from 2.0 till 10.0, sometimes with overtime each night until midnight Monday to Thursday, had left off at 10.0 on Friday only to arrived again at 7.0 on the Saturday morning for another five or six hours. I was filled with a mixture of admiration for their stamina, and sheer wonder at their home life. Looking back now, though, I realise that, with small children preventing their wives from taking up paid employment, the extra hours, along with the shift work itself, would have made such a difference to a young family.
In the history of mankind, the weekend has occupied only a tiny place; but for those of us who have enjoyed the privilege of this break from constant work for an employer or at a business, it has become precious. It feels an unalienable right, and I think it does us good from time to time to reflect on what a great benefit it represents in the lives of us all.
There's one in every week, and I've lost count of the times I've noticed something intangibly 'special' about them. At last I've grasped the nettle of trying to set down in words that special whatever-it-is about Friday afternoons. I use that term with some elasticity, of course, because there is great variety in the times at which people leave off ... something I regularly have to take note of if I want to make a successful delivery! But whether it's lunchtime, or 3.30, 6.0 or - as in my case yesterday - 9.35, that point of stopping work at the end of the week has a special quality. It has the power to make the transition, in the words of the ubiquitous Mars Bar advert, from the world of work to the world of rest-and-play.
I grew up in a world where, to my young eye, there seemed to be little distinction between these three phases of life for the working man. After 'proper work' was over more jobs could easily be found at home. The garden would need attention, or something had to be done in the shed; there was coal to be brought in for the fire, or wood to chop. With luck there might be an hour or so to look through the newspaper, or watch TV, but it was likely that this pleasure would be overtaken by sleep in the armchair.
And then came the end of the week. In my father's case it was Saturday lunchtime, for the normal working week of forty-eight hours couldn't be fitted into five days. I well remember the glow that seemed to fill the house once lunch - on the table immediately upon his homecoming ... just like the evening meal during the week - had been eaten. At the age of about eight or nine, I would follow him to the bathroom and watch the progress of the weekly shave, marvelling that he could wield that razor (with its blade that I was expressly told not to touch because it was so sharp) up and down his throat with such carefree abandon. Now, many years later, I make just the same moves with the same nonchalance.
I was looking forward to my weekly walk with him into the town, perhaps to stand on the market place while he chatted to some friend or other, maybe to make some small purchase from one of the shops, but almost inevitably to finish up at the football ground, where I was infused with an interest that had stayed latent until about four or five years ago when I suddenly felt a Saturday 'tickle' to rekindle it again. If we happened to arrive after half-time we could get in free, because the man at the ticket stall would have shut his window. Otherwise I think it was 6d for adults and 3d for children. I was more interested to see who else was there that I might know than to watch the game, but there was a feeling of excitement nonetheless, and the homeward journey would always be paused at the market stall to buy some chips to take home for tea.
Diss Town played in the Norfolk & Suffolk League in those days; for the the bigger and better teams there was the Eastern Counties League, and for the smaller ones the East Anglian League. After I ceased to be interested in the world of football, the two smaller of these leagues merged to become the Anglian Combination of today, with its many divisions and reserve divisions, of which only the premier division figures at step 7 in the national pyramid. Diss by then had moved up to the Eastern Counties League, where now they seem to flit between the premier and first divisions.
When I moved into the world of work, I began to see a different format to Friday afternoons, but all with that same 'glow'. Wherever I've worked, there has been a particular atmosphere that surrounds people leaving behind their workplace behind them. I carry with me an image - partly real, partly an imagined stereotype - of men and women, young and old, streaming from a factory gate to rows of back-to-back houses, or walking in ones and twos down a country lane to a solitary row of cottages or post-First World War 'homes for heroes', each one looking forward to time with their family or friends, and to whatever the weekend holds, be it routine or special.
For a lot of my time I've been fortunate to work where or when the economy was strong, and there seem always to have been calls for people willing to work overtime on Saturdays. As an office-worker, I was rarely called to do so myself, but sometimes it was nice to go in at the weekend to catch up on something, and on such occasions the feel of the place was totally different. At one factory, I would often see on a Monday morning that men from last week's evening shift, working normally from 2.0 till 10.0, sometimes with overtime each night until midnight Monday to Thursday, had left off at 10.0 on Friday only to arrived again at 7.0 on the Saturday morning for another five or six hours. I was filled with a mixture of admiration for their stamina, and sheer wonder at their home life. Looking back now, though, I realise that, with small children preventing their wives from taking up paid employment, the extra hours, along with the shift work itself, would have made such a difference to a young family.
In the history of mankind, the weekend has occupied only a tiny place; but for those of us who have enjoyed the privilege of this break from constant work for an employer or at a business, it has become precious. It feels an unalienable right, and I think it does us good from time to time to reflect on what a great benefit it represents in the lives of us all.
Saturday, 29 March 2014
The Only Way is ...
I don't know what it was I did, but something sure made the repeating genie wild! This was "Essex week". More particularly, it was "Essex-along-the-A127 week". Monday's job, to be fair, was interesting. I was sent to Bury St Edmunds, to the depot of a firm we used to do a lot of work for when they had a place in Hatfield (... I don't know whether it's still there or not; I've not been on that road for several years). I collected a heavy duty shackle for use on a building site in Laindon. I like 'triangular' jobs like that: they usually involve taking roads that are less familiar, ones that I call 'circumferential routes' because they go around my home-base, rather than to it or from it.
From that point on, the week seemed to lose all novelty and much of its interest, too. Tuesday's mix brought the most distant job of the week: to Crawley - which says it all! - sandwiched between well-known jobs to Luton and to the pleasant Bedfordshire village of Northill. Wednesday started in 'routine' style too, with an early run to Pinewood Studios. Then came another echo from a couple of years ago, a job for an engineering firm in Hitchin, to deliver to a treatment plant in Southend, and bring back some items already processed.
This job used to be in two parts, delivering to one address, and collecting from another some miles away in Shoeburyness. Now, however, both delivery and collection were at the same, new, address. It took some time to find, because (according to SatNav) all the units on that estate have odd numbers, and I was looking for unit 6. Eventually I gave up, and resorted to the older system of 'ask someone'. I interrupted a chap painting the window frames of one unit, and enquired where I might find no. 6. The man smiled, and gestured with his brush-handle, "It's this one!" His words were a melody to my ear. It seems that the firm has amalgamated its operations here quite recently, since the name outside is still that of the previous occupants, and there were clear signs inside that things were not yet properly organised.
Thursday began with an 8.15 pick-up for Basildon, complemented by a collection from this same new location in Shoeburyness. On this second visit in as many days, the goods weren't ready for me and, as I waited inside, sheltering from the rain, I watched their operation with interest. It's nice to have a few minutes without the pressure of something else that ought to be done instead. As I watched, I thought of the general matter of settling into new surroundings, be it a factory like this, or a change of job, removal to a new home, and so on. One thought led incoherently to the next, and soon I found myself reflecting upon recent international events, and the matter of Russian authorities 'settling in' to their newly re-acquired province of Crimea, wondering just how the after-shocks of that situation will play out.
Friday's major task was a collection for one of our customers in Letchworth, from - you can almost guess where - Southend! On my way home, I diverted to Ponders End to pick up a job for another driver, but even then the week's link with Essex wasn't over, because now the pressure of the month-end was building up, and instead of being consigned to the discharge of my shopping list, and heading gently into the weekend, I was asked to collect a couple of chairs, for delivery in Margaretting, just down the A12 from Chelmsford!
Now, with all the demands of the working week finally discharged, I can report that next week will not, at least, begin in Essex. On my way there for the last time yesterday, I called at a firm in Hertford and collected a van-load of stuff to take to a hospital in Newcastle-upon-Tyne on Monday morning. Meanwhile, I can enjoy the rest of a foreshortened weekend, during which religion and tradition merge in the observation of Mother's Day or, as one of my 'twitter-friends' reminded her followers the other day, 'it's actually called Mothering Sunday, because we celebrate the act of mothering, whoever does it.' Debate aside, this morning I joined with other men of the church in what has become something of a tradition for us, the assembly - amidst coffee and doughnuts - of posies to be presented tomorrow to all the ladies at church, be they mothers or not.
From that point on, the week seemed to lose all novelty and much of its interest, too. Tuesday's mix brought the most distant job of the week: to Crawley - which says it all! - sandwiched between well-known jobs to Luton and to the pleasant Bedfordshire village of Northill. Wednesday started in 'routine' style too, with an early run to Pinewood Studios. Then came another echo from a couple of years ago, a job for an engineering firm in Hitchin, to deliver to a treatment plant in Southend, and bring back some items already processed.
This job used to be in two parts, delivering to one address, and collecting from another some miles away in Shoeburyness. Now, however, both delivery and collection were at the same, new, address. It took some time to find, because (according to SatNav) all the units on that estate have odd numbers, and I was looking for unit 6. Eventually I gave up, and resorted to the older system of 'ask someone'. I interrupted a chap painting the window frames of one unit, and enquired where I might find no. 6. The man smiled, and gestured with his brush-handle, "It's this one!" His words were a melody to my ear. It seems that the firm has amalgamated its operations here quite recently, since the name outside is still that of the previous occupants, and there were clear signs inside that things were not yet properly organised.
Thursday began with an 8.15 pick-up for Basildon, complemented by a collection from this same new location in Shoeburyness. On this second visit in as many days, the goods weren't ready for me and, as I waited inside, sheltering from the rain, I watched their operation with interest. It's nice to have a few minutes without the pressure of something else that ought to be done instead. As I watched, I thought of the general matter of settling into new surroundings, be it a factory like this, or a change of job, removal to a new home, and so on. One thought led incoherently to the next, and soon I found myself reflecting upon recent international events, and the matter of Russian authorities 'settling in' to their newly re-acquired province of Crimea, wondering just how the after-shocks of that situation will play out.
Friday's major task was a collection for one of our customers in Letchworth, from - you can almost guess where - Southend! On my way home, I diverted to Ponders End to pick up a job for another driver, but even then the week's link with Essex wasn't over, because now the pressure of the month-end was building up, and instead of being consigned to the discharge of my shopping list, and heading gently into the weekend, I was asked to collect a couple of chairs, for delivery in Margaretting, just down the A12 from Chelmsford!
Now, with all the demands of the working week finally discharged, I can report that next week will not, at least, begin in Essex. On my way there for the last time yesterday, I called at a firm in Hertford and collected a van-load of stuff to take to a hospital in Newcastle-upon-Tyne on Monday morning. Meanwhile, I can enjoy the rest of a foreshortened weekend, during which religion and tradition merge in the observation of Mother's Day or, as one of my 'twitter-friends' reminded her followers the other day, 'it's actually called Mothering Sunday, because we celebrate the act of mothering, whoever does it.' Debate aside, this morning I joined with other men of the church in what has become something of a tradition for us, the assembly - amidst coffee and doughnuts - of posies to be presented tomorrow to all the ladies at church, be they mothers or not.
Sunday, 1 September 2013
Dipping and Dodging
One aspect of the life of a courier that appeals to me, as a seasoned 'people-watcher', is the way that I dip into and out of other people's lives. As I do so, I sometimes find myself wondering if a system works. Or put another way, looking back at my own experiences in business and industry, I wonder whether there is actually a system in place to achieve what common sense tells me is essential. I mean, if you receive a delivery of goods, it seems to me two things are critical. Firstly, the goods have to find their way from the person who receives them on behalf of the company to the person who is going to use them; and secondly the individual who will eventually initiate payment for these goods has to be told by some means or other that they have actually been received, and that therefore payment is justified.
Take last Monday for example. I made a delivery to a hospital in Birmingham. The box I took had been used several times for, although it bore a number of labels on it, in varying degrees of wear and obliteration, it didn't carry any indication of the individual or department to whom its present contents were consigned. These details were written on a separate, un-headed sheet that was given to me when I collected it. The gentleman at the receiving point signed my sheet to confirm a successful delivery, and his body language indicated that our business was then at an end. I offered the paper I'd been given, saying, "there isn't a name on it, do you want to note who it's for?" His smiling reply almost sent me reeling. "No need. I know who it's for by the shape of the box!" Knowledge is a wonderful thing, I mused as I drove away, but what if he were to fall beneath the proverbial bus during his lunch-break?
This week I first had a Suffolk day, and then an Essex day, each of which was satisfying, because there were no hold-ups. I could go, deliver and return with no hindrance at all. There was also a glimpse of the seaside, too, as I ended up on Tuesday morning just yards from Lowestoft's seafront. I had gone there to collect some samples for a laboratory in Letchworth. I'd taken a couple of big metal boxes in which to carry them, and my contact carefully - almost gingerly - brought them forth from a locked room: a number of plastic boxes that he handled wearing bright blue safety gloves. Once they were loaded, and the metal containers securely fastened, we carefully lifted these back into my van, and I drove back very steadily, least there should be any spillage of the liquids from the plastic boxes, which reminded me of ice cream tubs or margarine cartons. Upon arrival at our customer, the containers were eagerly removed by two members of staff and, while one signed to acknowledge their receipt, the other was already opening the first container, and then one of the plastic boxes, which he had lifted out with his bare hands. I had to presume that he was aware of the nature of what he was handling, but I found this a distinct contrast to the care and caution of the man who had loaded them just a short time previously. Realising that this was none of my business, just like the 'knowledge-rather-than-documentation' attitude I'd encountered a week earlier, I departed for my next job.
The next day, I found myself driving down a lane completely shrouded by trees, and narrow enough to need passing places every few hundred yards. About three miles after leaving a 'normal' road, I turned into a farmyard that had now been converted into a trading estate, to make my delivery of labels. There were over a dozen units, built inside (or carved out of, depending on your point of view) a number of long, low buildings accessed by wide concrete roadways. Piles of boxes, and pallets of more boxes, stood around as if just delivered, and in the warm summer sunshine a gentle breeze was blowing a thin layer of dust over everything. It wasn't exactly unpleasant, but I had a distinct feeling that I wouldn't like to be working on any kind of permanent basis in such an isolated and untidy location.
By complete contrast, on Thursday I was sent to an establishment to which, in a past life, I'd often addressed communications. I'd never dreamed of one day visiting Companies House in Crown Way, Cardiff. Whenever I'm called to go to south Wales on a job that isn't so desperately urgent that an extra half hour or so is critical, I prefer to avoid the M4. For one thing, it's such a long and boring road, and for another, there is the ever-increasing cost of the toll at the Severn crossing. Normally, the journey time is only a little longer, and cost of the fuel to cover the additional distance is far less than the toll fee. On this occasion, I did question my wisdom when I found myself sitting in a queue of traffic on the A40 waiting to turn off for the Monmouthshire Show. At last I could find cool, if brief, freedom from the sun in the Gibraltar Tunnel, and the rest of the journey proceeded unhindered.
The return journey wasn't free from hold-up either. I had noted that there were no northbound queues at Monmouth, but SatNav had indicated that there were significant delays on the A46 near Leamington; not wanting to use the M6, for fear of further delay in traffic, I opted for a slower but shorter and at least constantly moving route through Birmingham. Indications that the tunnels around the city centre were closed prompted further diversion, and then a wrong turning led me to the M6 I'd sought to avoid, but when I reached the M1 I felt I home sweet home would not be long now. Wrong! An accident near Northampton held me up yet again, before I could finally declare the day closed.
Friday was more like a normal end-of-month story, with a collection from Rushden for an engineering firm in Sandy, and then a little run over to Luton, before I finally reached the head of the list, and was despatched to an address in Hoddesdon to collect a couple of cases for a stand at the NEC. I'd been warned that there would be no one there when I arrived, so I nearly took the longer and less likely to be congested route via the A10 and A14. SatNav prevailed, though, but nearly went out of the window when I found myself in yet another motorway queue halfway up the M1! When I arrived, I felt a little conspicuous pushing two bulky cases under the protective screen erected and fastened around the display area, but a reassuring smile from a security guard who had watched the complete procedure, offered me welcome relief. It would have rounded the week off rather badly to find myself accused, however innocently, of planting explosive devices in a public place!
Yesterday, having dipped into and out of many different lives in the course of an average week, I indulged in a bit of 'third party' dipping. One of the many football teams whose fortunes I follow is Walsham le Willows, who play with my native Diss Town in the premier division of the East Anglian League. A couple of weeks ago they played in the extra-preliminary round of the FA Cup, and were beaten by Tower Hamlets from the Essex Senior League. Had they won, they would have visited Southern League's Harlow Town in the next round, and I'd planned to go to nearby Harlow to watch them there. I decided to stick to my plan, and watched the match anyway. Rather than feeling the satisfaction of revenge, however, my sympathy for underdogs came to the fore, and I was rather sorry to see Tower Hamlets beaten 3-0 in a game that I felt was closer than the score line implied.
Take last Monday for example. I made a delivery to a hospital in Birmingham. The box I took had been used several times for, although it bore a number of labels on it, in varying degrees of wear and obliteration, it didn't carry any indication of the individual or department to whom its present contents were consigned. These details were written on a separate, un-headed sheet that was given to me when I collected it. The gentleman at the receiving point signed my sheet to confirm a successful delivery, and his body language indicated that our business was then at an end. I offered the paper I'd been given, saying, "there isn't a name on it, do you want to note who it's for?" His smiling reply almost sent me reeling. "No need. I know who it's for by the shape of the box!" Knowledge is a wonderful thing, I mused as I drove away, but what if he were to fall beneath the proverbial bus during his lunch-break?
This week I first had a Suffolk day, and then an Essex day, each of which was satisfying, because there were no hold-ups. I could go, deliver and return with no hindrance at all. There was also a glimpse of the seaside, too, as I ended up on Tuesday morning just yards from Lowestoft's seafront. I had gone there to collect some samples for a laboratory in Letchworth. I'd taken a couple of big metal boxes in which to carry them, and my contact carefully - almost gingerly - brought them forth from a locked room: a number of plastic boxes that he handled wearing bright blue safety gloves. Once they were loaded, and the metal containers securely fastened, we carefully lifted these back into my van, and I drove back very steadily, least there should be any spillage of the liquids from the plastic boxes, which reminded me of ice cream tubs or margarine cartons. Upon arrival at our customer, the containers were eagerly removed by two members of staff and, while one signed to acknowledge their receipt, the other was already opening the first container, and then one of the plastic boxes, which he had lifted out with his bare hands. I had to presume that he was aware of the nature of what he was handling, but I found this a distinct contrast to the care and caution of the man who had loaded them just a short time previously. Realising that this was none of my business, just like the 'knowledge-rather-than-documentation' attitude I'd encountered a week earlier, I departed for my next job.
The next day, I found myself driving down a lane completely shrouded by trees, and narrow enough to need passing places every few hundred yards. About three miles after leaving a 'normal' road, I turned into a farmyard that had now been converted into a trading estate, to make my delivery of labels. There were over a dozen units, built inside (or carved out of, depending on your point of view) a number of long, low buildings accessed by wide concrete roadways. Piles of boxes, and pallets of more boxes, stood around as if just delivered, and in the warm summer sunshine a gentle breeze was blowing a thin layer of dust over everything. It wasn't exactly unpleasant, but I had a distinct feeling that I wouldn't like to be working on any kind of permanent basis in such an isolated and untidy location.
By complete contrast, on Thursday I was sent to an establishment to which, in a past life, I'd often addressed communications. I'd never dreamed of one day visiting Companies House in Crown Way, Cardiff. Whenever I'm called to go to south Wales on a job that isn't so desperately urgent that an extra half hour or so is critical, I prefer to avoid the M4. For one thing, it's such a long and boring road, and for another, there is the ever-increasing cost of the toll at the Severn crossing. Normally, the journey time is only a little longer, and cost of the fuel to cover the additional distance is far less than the toll fee. On this occasion, I did question my wisdom when I found myself sitting in a queue of traffic on the A40 waiting to turn off for the Monmouthshire Show. At last I could find cool, if brief, freedom from the sun in the Gibraltar Tunnel, and the rest of the journey proceeded unhindered.
The return journey wasn't free from hold-up either. I had noted that there were no northbound queues at Monmouth, but SatNav had indicated that there were significant delays on the A46 near Leamington; not wanting to use the M6, for fear of further delay in traffic, I opted for a slower but shorter and at least constantly moving route through Birmingham. Indications that the tunnels around the city centre were closed prompted further diversion, and then a wrong turning led me to the M6 I'd sought to avoid, but when I reached the M1 I felt I home sweet home would not be long now. Wrong! An accident near Northampton held me up yet again, before I could finally declare the day closed.
Friday was more like a normal end-of-month story, with a collection from Rushden for an engineering firm in Sandy, and then a little run over to Luton, before I finally reached the head of the list, and was despatched to an address in Hoddesdon to collect a couple of cases for a stand at the NEC. I'd been warned that there would be no one there when I arrived, so I nearly took the longer and less likely to be congested route via the A10 and A14. SatNav prevailed, though, but nearly went out of the window when I found myself in yet another motorway queue halfway up the M1! When I arrived, I felt a little conspicuous pushing two bulky cases under the protective screen erected and fastened around the display area, but a reassuring smile from a security guard who had watched the complete procedure, offered me welcome relief. It would have rounded the week off rather badly to find myself accused, however innocently, of planting explosive devices in a public place!
Yesterday, having dipped into and out of many different lives in the course of an average week, I indulged in a bit of 'third party' dipping. One of the many football teams whose fortunes I follow is Walsham le Willows, who play with my native Diss Town in the premier division of the East Anglian League. A couple of weeks ago they played in the extra-preliminary round of the FA Cup, and were beaten by Tower Hamlets from the Essex Senior League. Had they won, they would have visited Southern League's Harlow Town in the next round, and I'd planned to go to nearby Harlow to watch them there. I decided to stick to my plan, and watched the match anyway. Rather than feeling the satisfaction of revenge, however, my sympathy for underdogs came to the fore, and I was rather sorry to see Tower Hamlets beaten 3-0 in a game that I felt was closer than the score line implied.
Monday, 2 May 2011
A Bank Holiday of pleasure
Just think - you've gone off for a nice afternoon's fishing, but ... corks! there ain't half a strong breeze coming off the water ... and you're more than a mite chilly. What do you do? Of course, call the wife, get her to organise a courier to bring you a nice bagful of woolly socks, sweaters and stuff. What other remedy could there be? Well, that's what one chap thought this afternoon, and guess who the courier was that got called in to do the deed?!
I've never been amazed at the jobs we couriers get - not since the day I collected some live baby tortoises, along with their 'passports', and was asked to check the passport numbers against the numbers written on the tortoise shells ... but that's another story, for another time. There's a lot of pleasure attached to the courier life.
After warming up the fisherman this afternoon, I had an hour to kill before going to pick up my next job (nothing out of the ordinary about that one, so I'll not mention it), and I parked at a motorway service station, got some coffee and sat listening to the radio, 'people-watching'. The thought crossed my mind just how selfish some people are, parking in disabled bays with no obvious need to use them, let alone official disabled badges on show. A sort of campaign half-formed in my mind, of producing lots of leaflets to have at the ready in my van for just such an occasion, to pop under the windscreen wipers of offending vehicles - just to remind them what such spaces are for.
Just then there emerged from the service building someone who forced me to reconsider the black-and-white ideas I'd had about badges and justification. Certainly the vehicle towards which this old lady made her way had no disabled badge, but clearly the use of a disabled bay was justified, for she was clearly blind. She was accompanied by a very caring younger lady - possibly her daughter - and had a guide dog, a beautiful golden labrador (or was it a retriever: I never could tell the difference!). I watched, fascinated, as the dog led the old lady to the side of the car, and waited obediently until the other woman had helped her inside. Then the dog came round to the back of the car and waited for the young woman to open the rear hatch. As she did so, I noticed inside a furry blanket and a woolly toy, characteristic of a dog-friendly environment. The dog made no move towards either. The young lady slowly removed the dog's harness, tossed it into the car, and had the dog sit on the ground, behind the vehicle.
After uttering a word or two, akin to a sergeant-major dismissing a squad of troops on a parade ground, the woman stood aside, and what a transformation came over that canine! A quick leap and not only was it playfully inside the car, but it had also grabbed the toy and was waving it around for a quick game of tug - just like any other 'doggy teenager'.
I'm not sure there is any wise moral to this tale, save to say that it's always worth keeping an eye open ready to spot something warm and amusing, and to beware of making ill-informed judgements.
I've never been amazed at the jobs we couriers get - not since the day I collected some live baby tortoises, along with their 'passports', and was asked to check the passport numbers against the numbers written on the tortoise shells ... but that's another story, for another time. There's a lot of pleasure attached to the courier life.
After warming up the fisherman this afternoon, I had an hour to kill before going to pick up my next job (nothing out of the ordinary about that one, so I'll not mention it), and I parked at a motorway service station, got some coffee and sat listening to the radio, 'people-watching'. The thought crossed my mind just how selfish some people are, parking in disabled bays with no obvious need to use them, let alone official disabled badges on show. A sort of campaign half-formed in my mind, of producing lots of leaflets to have at the ready in my van for just such an occasion, to pop under the windscreen wipers of offending vehicles - just to remind them what such spaces are for.
Just then there emerged from the service building someone who forced me to reconsider the black-and-white ideas I'd had about badges and justification. Certainly the vehicle towards which this old lady made her way had no disabled badge, but clearly the use of a disabled bay was justified, for she was clearly blind. She was accompanied by a very caring younger lady - possibly her daughter - and had a guide dog, a beautiful golden labrador (or was it a retriever: I never could tell the difference!). I watched, fascinated, as the dog led the old lady to the side of the car, and waited obediently until the other woman had helped her inside. Then the dog came round to the back of the car and waited for the young woman to open the rear hatch. As she did so, I noticed inside a furry blanket and a woolly toy, characteristic of a dog-friendly environment. The dog made no move towards either. The young lady slowly removed the dog's harness, tossed it into the car, and had the dog sit on the ground, behind the vehicle.
After uttering a word or two, akin to a sergeant-major dismissing a squad of troops on a parade ground, the woman stood aside, and what a transformation came over that canine! A quick leap and not only was it playfully inside the car, but it had also grabbed the toy and was waving it around for a quick game of tug - just like any other 'doggy teenager'.
I'm not sure there is any wise moral to this tale, save to say that it's always worth keeping an eye open ready to spot something warm and amusing, and to beware of making ill-informed judgements.
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