Today is Michaelmas Day. Put liturgically, it's the Feast Day of St Michael and All Angels, but here is not the place to go into that. In terms of my own recollections and present experience, it's more particularly Old Michaelmas. That's to distinguish it from New Michaelmas, of course. Although it's known as 'New', the term is actually 260 years old and, to be fair, is probably not in very common use at all today. Some of my readers will have already done the maths, realised that 260 years ago was 1752, and made another quick calculation to find out when New Michaelmas is (... or was.)
For the benefit of those less intuitive, let me put you out of your misery and tell you that it's 11th October. Significantly, that's in twelve days' time, reflecting the fact that, in 1752, the day after 2nd September was 14th September, as Great Britain took a major step in international relations and leapt from the old Julian calendar to join our European neighbours in the Gregorian system that they had been using since Elizabethan times. However, we British are a stubborn race, and heels were dug in to preserve certain aspects of our national heritage from the effects of that change. That's why our tax year ends on 5th April.
Until then, New Year's Day was celebrated on 25th March, liturgically the Feast of the Annunciation - supposedly the day on which the Angel Gabriel visited Mary to tell her that she was going to have a baby, who would be Jesus, the Christ. So, if 25th March was New Year's Day, the year would have ended on 24th: 24th March 1751 - already known for (confusing) clarification as 1751/2 - had been followed by 25th March 1752. However, the British (and stubborn) Government, while re-naming the dates to align with the rest of the world, didn't want to lose out on tax revenue, even for one year, so they tacked those twelve 'lost' days onto the end of the year, making their books up to the 5th April. And if one year ... then all years had to follow suit. And while we were about it, why not declare that for all other purposes the year would henceforward begin at the beginning, on 1st January, right in the middle of winter - which was when most people were celebrating it anyway, since there was little else to do at that time.
So, what was the significance of Michaelmas - whether old or new? Simply, it was half-way between one year-end and the next; being just after the harvest, and thus at the end of the farming year, it was also a convenient point for land to change hands, for rents to be calculated and for workers to move from one boss to another. For financial reasons, workers were often taken on from Michaelmas to the end of harvest. Since entitlement to welfare payments depended on their being in employment for more than a year with the same employer, it was important to be able to declare that you had been in post for 'a year and a day.' Hence there were 'hiring fairs' across the country, where men - and sometimes women, too - would gather, carrying symbols of their trade, and farmers could take their pick of the available talent. Terms would be agreed, and a new year's work begun.
In my own childhood, being the son of a farm worker who, while not directly affected by these affairs, was aware of them through family talk and the culture in which he had grown up, I heard comments and phrases that were part of that culture too. For instance, as today's date was noticed on the daily paper, my father might comment, 'Old Michaelmas today.' Occasionally, if I had been helping him in the garden, and had done well what had been asked of me, he might tell me, 'you'll be kept on.' In other words, going back to those times long past, a good worker would be spared the uncertainty of the hiring fair, and an appreciative employer would promise him in advance the security of another year's engagement.
And what of today? As I wrote the last paragraph, I realised that in some ways the same practice persists in the matter of professional footballers and the transfer market. At the end of the season, a contract might be offered to a good player to keep him with the team for whom he had performed well, rather than risk losing him to another club whose manager had noticed his prowess with admiration and envy. For me, personally, it's also a time of renewal and/or re-engagement, for on 'New Michaelmas' eve' my annual subscription to Find my Past expires, and on the same day the insurance on my van is due for renewal. I've already had the papers, and this year I'm facing an almost 20% premium increase - Ouch!
More news next week, when I've recovered from the £-shock!
Saturday, 29 September 2012
Saturday, 22 September 2012
Is this Normality again?
It's been one of those deceptive weeks when things have seemed quite slow, and yet achievement has been made. After complaining, for example, that the previous Monday had been completely dead, this one was quite full. It began with only an hour or so's wait before I was sent to Bedford with a load of empty cartons from one of our local firms. This is a job I've done before - it's always easier second time and following - so I was ready to misread SatNav's instructions to go to a housing estate on the other side of the road! (Maybe that was one of the errors that TomTom's maps carried over to Apple for their new phone app!)
I'd scarcely got back from that, when I was sent back to Bedford to collect some computer spares for a nationally-known organisation based in Folkestone. While I was on my way with this, came a call to divert into Stevenage to collect some labels for a firm situated by the Thames, not far from the Dartford Crossing. I was just back from Kent in time to change and go ringing. This was as well, for it was an enjoyable practice, with just enough ringers present to make good exercise for all, with one or two to 'stand behind' and guide those still in learning mode.
Tuesday began with a delivery to Northampton with a collection in Wellingborough on the way back, and then came the longest job of the week, collecting in Baldock and then Bishop's Stortford for a delivery in Derbyshire. This was to a lighting firm, and I arrived just after 6.0 pm., by which time it should have been closed for the night, and would have been apart from their waiting for a delivery (other than the one I'd brought), for which a lorry was being delayed in the yard. On the way there I had a call giving me details of a job for Wednesday morning; when I arrived in Royston to collect this, at 8.30am, the office called to ask about my delivery last evening in Derbyshire. They'd just had an e-mail from the idiots (sorry: our esteemed clients) for whom we did the job, saying that they believed the place would be closed - could we please re-schedule delivery for this morning! After setting things to rights, I went in to collect the next job and carry on as normal.
That afternoon found me in Kent again, and provided another late night. Thursday started with a tight run to get a tender to King's Lynn by noon, and ended with deliveries in Peterborough and Soham, and Friday fell into what has of late become the pattern for the last day of the working week, with half-a-dozen fairly local jobs fitted into a long day, setting out at 7.0am, taking me to destinations ranging from Northampton to southern Essex, and ending back home at 9.30pm.
I'd put off until this morning the inevitable call to BT about the broadband problem I've mentioned recently, but by now matters had come to something of a head, and on three occasions yesterday I had discovered that there was now no link to the internet at all, which perhaps added urgency to my actions. The call resulted in extensive tests and investigations, which led eventually to my discovery that there is enough cable to run the broadband hub in the lounge where the computer is, but plugged directly into the main socket in the hall, instead of using an extension cable (probably in excess of ten years old) that had previously served to bridge that gap. Now, at least, I'm back in the situation I was a week ago, and am awaiting another call back from BT to carry on the investigations. To be honest, I wouldn't be too disheartened if it were left as it is at present, since the only thing I'm really missing is the use of iPlayer, and in all honesty there have to be better uses for my time and, if I'm desperate for visual entertainment, there's a shelf of DVDs in the bedroom, some of which have yet to be watched for the first time!
I'd scarcely got back from that, when I was sent back to Bedford to collect some computer spares for a nationally-known organisation based in Folkestone. While I was on my way with this, came a call to divert into Stevenage to collect some labels for a firm situated by the Thames, not far from the Dartford Crossing. I was just back from Kent in time to change and go ringing. This was as well, for it was an enjoyable practice, with just enough ringers present to make good exercise for all, with one or two to 'stand behind' and guide those still in learning mode.
Tuesday began with a delivery to Northampton with a collection in Wellingborough on the way back, and then came the longest job of the week, collecting in Baldock and then Bishop's Stortford for a delivery in Derbyshire. This was to a lighting firm, and I arrived just after 6.0 pm., by which time it should have been closed for the night, and would have been apart from their waiting for a delivery (other than the one I'd brought), for which a lorry was being delayed in the yard. On the way there I had a call giving me details of a job for Wednesday morning; when I arrived in Royston to collect this, at 8.30am, the office called to ask about my delivery last evening in Derbyshire. They'd just had an e-mail from the idiots (sorry: our esteemed clients) for whom we did the job, saying that they believed the place would be closed - could we please re-schedule delivery for this morning! After setting things to rights, I went in to collect the next job and carry on as normal.
That afternoon found me in Kent again, and provided another late night. Thursday started with a tight run to get a tender to King's Lynn by noon, and ended with deliveries in Peterborough and Soham, and Friday fell into what has of late become the pattern for the last day of the working week, with half-a-dozen fairly local jobs fitted into a long day, setting out at 7.0am, taking me to destinations ranging from Northampton to southern Essex, and ending back home at 9.30pm.
I'd put off until this morning the inevitable call to BT about the broadband problem I've mentioned recently, but by now matters had come to something of a head, and on three occasions yesterday I had discovered that there was now no link to the internet at all, which perhaps added urgency to my actions. The call resulted in extensive tests and investigations, which led eventually to my discovery that there is enough cable to run the broadband hub in the lounge where the computer is, but plugged directly into the main socket in the hall, instead of using an extension cable (probably in excess of ten years old) that had previously served to bridge that gap. Now, at least, I'm back in the situation I was a week ago, and am awaiting another call back from BT to carry on the investigations. To be honest, I wouldn't be too disheartened if it were left as it is at present, since the only thing I'm really missing is the use of iPlayer, and in all honesty there have to be better uses for my time and, if I'm desperate for visual entertainment, there's a shelf of DVDs in the bedroom, some of which have yet to be watched for the first time!
Sunday, 16 September 2012
Uncle on the Run!
It's been some while since my last 'confession', i.e. a blog where I've told you what's been going on in the last week. In some ways that's because nothing really spectacular has come my way, in others, it's because my mind (if not my body) has been occupied.
This business of a change to my broadband provider that I described in my last blog, still hasn't come to a proper conclusion. I haven't been able to watch a programme on iPlayer yet, although I have managed to catch about a dozen minute-or-two snatches of a one-hour programme in between trying one strategy after another to resolve the underlying problem. While this problem has been going on at home, and soaking up much more of my time at the desk than usual, I've found that my mind wanders back to it while I'm driving, too. I usually switch off the radio or mp3-player in the last mile or so before reaching a destination, so I can fully focus on the job in hand. The other day I was several miles into the return journey before I realised that I hadn't switched the radio on again, and by then I'd missed what was an interesting programme!
As I said, not a lot of interest has happened workwise, so keen 'courier-observers' will not have missed much. In fact, Monday last week was totally empty, apart from a 4.30pm call advising me that, 'Today has been a bit dead ...,' (I knew that already), '... but can you be in West Bromwich at this address ... for 9.0 tomorrow morning.' If only there were a little more notice of empty days, one could prepare for them. I suppose it'll be the same for death ... one day.
One thing that has been something of a triumph this week relates to my family history. I can't remember whether I have told you, dear reader, about my great-uncle George. He was last heard of in his native village in Suffolk at the age of 7, when he was recorded in the 1861 census. Last heard of, that is, until last summer when I had what I had determined would be my last shot at locating him in the next census ten years later. Miracle of miracles, there he was in Colchester Barracks, a private soldier in the 27th Regiment of Foot (which later became the 1st Battalion, the Royal Inniskilling Fusiliers.)
It was then the work of but a few minutes to discover that he'd been discharged from the regiment in March 1876, following an accident with a target, and gave his future dwelling place as Enniskillen, Co. Fermanagh. Subsequent research revealed that he had married a local girl there at Christmas, and was listed in the 1901 census still living in Enniskillen with his wife and nine children. I learned of the marriage of his two eldest daughters and the death of his wife during the next ten years, one daughter living with her family in Belfast, the other in Dartford, Kent. Of George and the rest of the family there was no sign. He'd disappeared - again!
Last weekend I discovered that the Irish civil registration indexes up to 1958 are now available on familysearch, the website of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints (Mormons), whose beliefs have led to their becoming one of the major sources worldwide of family history information. I spent much of my otherwise 'dead' Monday seeing what I could find about George and his family, and in particular discovered that two more of his daughters had married before records for what became Northern Ireland disappeared in 1922. Unfortunately, the records that were available to search didn't give the name of their respective husbands.
The reply to an e-mail to the General Record Office of Northern Ireland was less than helpful, indicating that I would need to actually visit GRONI if I wanted to learn more with minimal expenditure (which the cost of getting there would outweigh at the outset!) Back to the internet and, more in hope than expectation, I posted an enquiry on a mailing list I'd joined last autumn for this very purpose
This business of a change to my broadband provider that I described in my last blog, still hasn't come to a proper conclusion. I haven't been able to watch a programme on iPlayer yet, although I have managed to catch about a dozen minute-or-two snatches of a one-hour programme in between trying one strategy after another to resolve the underlying problem. While this problem has been going on at home, and soaking up much more of my time at the desk than usual, I've found that my mind wanders back to it while I'm driving, too. I usually switch off the radio or mp3-player in the last mile or so before reaching a destination, so I can fully focus on the job in hand. The other day I was several miles into the return journey before I realised that I hadn't switched the radio on again, and by then I'd missed what was an interesting programme!
As I said, not a lot of interest has happened workwise, so keen 'courier-observers' will not have missed much. In fact, Monday last week was totally empty, apart from a 4.30pm call advising me that, 'Today has been a bit dead ...,' (I knew that already), '... but can you be in West Bromwich at this address ... for 9.0 tomorrow morning.' If only there were a little more notice of empty days, one could prepare for them. I suppose it'll be the same for death ... one day.
One thing that has been something of a triumph this week relates to my family history. I can't remember whether I have told you, dear reader, about my great-uncle George. He was last heard of in his native village in Suffolk at the age of 7, when he was recorded in the 1861 census. Last heard of, that is, until last summer when I had what I had determined would be my last shot at locating him in the next census ten years later. Miracle of miracles, there he was in Colchester Barracks, a private soldier in the 27th Regiment of Foot (which later became the 1st Battalion, the Royal Inniskilling Fusiliers.)
It was then the work of but a few minutes to discover that he'd been discharged from the regiment in March 1876, following an accident with a target, and gave his future dwelling place as Enniskillen, Co. Fermanagh. Subsequent research revealed that he had married a local girl there at Christmas, and was listed in the 1901 census still living in Enniskillen with his wife and nine children. I learned of the marriage of his two eldest daughters and the death of his wife during the next ten years, one daughter living with her family in Belfast, the other in Dartford, Kent. Of George and the rest of the family there was no sign. He'd disappeared - again!
Last weekend I discovered that the Irish civil registration indexes up to 1958 are now available on familysearch, the website of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints (Mormons), whose beliefs have led to their becoming one of the major sources worldwide of family history information. I spent much of my otherwise 'dead' Monday seeing what I could find about George and his family, and in particular discovered that two more of his daughters had married before records for what became Northern Ireland disappeared in 1922. Unfortunately, the records that were available to search didn't give the name of their respective husbands.
The reply to an e-mail to the General Record Office of Northern Ireland was less than helpful, indicating that I would need to actually visit GRONI if I wanted to learn more with minimal expenditure (which the cost of getting there would outweigh at the outset!) Back to the internet and, more in hope than expectation, I posted an enquiry on a mailing list I'd joined last autumn for this very purpose
Thursday, 6 September 2012
Well, doctor, it's like this ...
Have you ever had one of those aches - like a sprain, I suppose - that come from a definite cause, and give you great discomfort at the drop of a hat (or brick!)? For what seems ages you struggle to cope with it, do things differently, or avoid tackling certain things altogether. You moan and groan, wishing that whatever it was that caused it hadn't been done, that you had been more careful, and so on. Then, just as you forget to moan, you suddenly realise that the pain is gone, that life is back to normal, and gradually you no longer recall just how incapacitated you were when the problem was at its peak.
The last fortnight has been a bit like that for me. But I didn't drop anything on my feet, or bend over too much and strain my back. No, it's not been a physical problem at all, but I have certainly done my share of moaning, cursing and muttering ... and it's not all over yet, although it is getting better.
It all stemmed from a phone call I had whilst driving along a few weeks ago. It was from someone at Orange, putting to me what seemed at the time an attractive offer for a new contract to combine my broadband service with my telephone landline. He went through all the points, the terms and the benefits, as I drove round the M25, and said he'd send me an e-mail with all the details. It occurred to me that he hadn't asked for my e-mail address, so I asked him if he had this. Yes, he said, and referred to one that was many years out of date. I spelled out for him my present e-mail, and he quoted it back to me character by character. I began to relax, thinking of all the money I was about to save.
A couple of weeks passed. I received the letter I'd been advised would arrive from BT saying, in effect, 'sorry to see you go', and I pushed it to the back of my desk thinking I ought to file it somewhere 'one day.' Then as I left for work one morning, it happened to catch my eye and I quickly read through it again. 'If you wish to change your mind,' it said, 'let us know before 4.0 pm on ...' and I read that day's date. Suddenly I realised that I'd not seen that e-mail from Orange. I had no point of contact with them; I had no idea whether the changeover that they had spoken of was in hand or not, and within hours my BT line would be discontinued. PANIC! Fortunately I was only going on a short job, and as soon as I got back I called the number in the BT letter.
The lady on the other end couldn't have been more understanding. Within seconds, the threat to my landline was averted, and I was back to the status quo ante. Once this was secure, she picked up on my explanation of what had gone before and, quite naturally, asked if I had thought about bringing my broadband to BT instead. She then outlined a package that was as beneficial as that offered by Orange and, when I decided to accept it, told me that all I'd have to do would be to get a migration code from Orange. When I told her I had no contact number for them, she gave me the number, and even managed to put me through!
After a couple of calls to Orange, involving countless explanations and transfers, I learned that they wouldn't be able to give me the code over the phone, but would post it to me. Apparently their contract was in operation, they were on the brink of sending me the equipment, and as a result there would now be a cancellation charge - was I sure I wanted to make this move? They offered no explanation why I had received neither any written confirmation nor the promised e-mail. I felt it important to stand on a point of principle and against bad practice, and told them yes, I would proceed with BT. A few days later, I received the code in the post, but not before another call came from Orange, telling me the code was on its way, repeating the threat of a cancellation charge, and giving me one final opportunity to change my mind. It's too late, I told them, and noted when it arrived that the migration code hadn't actually been posted until the day after that call!
Immediately, I called BT and explained that I now had the necessary code and was ready to proceed on the terms they had outlined. I was told that there was now an even better deal available, involving six months' free broadband. There followed a succession of letters and e-mails from BT that couldn't but underline to me the wisdom and confidence of choosing to consolidate my position with them. And at the end of these, at the beginning of last week, the box arrived - early on the appointed day - containing the new broadband hub. Installation was straightforward, following the instructions provided, and I felt cock-o'-the-walk.
Then began my 'sprain', the sting in the tail of the whole exercise. All the literature had indicated that for about ten days following installation, I would notice that the internet speed would be 'slow and erratic, sometimes even stopping'. True on all counts. It reminded me of many years ago when I had a dial-up modem that played a familiar tune as it dialled into the provider. Sometimes it seemed to forget I was there, until I jiggled the cursor on the screen. Now, though, there is nothing I can do but wait. Social media sites have been slow to load; my bank connection has been timed out before I've completed the log-in process, and You-tube and i-player have presented me with black screens for minutes on end, and 'reception' has been jerky to standstill in quality when it does begin. Downloading a podcast has been an absolute nightmare - with the 'time remaining' for a 60-minute programme varying from twenty minutes to several days, and changing wildly every few seconds! I've lost count of the times I've given up, closed the internet window and got on with something else.
In the last couple of days, however, I've noticed a distinct improvement in most of the services and websites that I use regularly. Response times are nowhere near as quick as they used to be, but I have to admit that, equally, they are by no means as tortoise-like as they were at the beginning of last week. Most things are usable again, and for that I'm so grateful that I'm telling you all about it!
The last fortnight has been a bit like that for me. But I didn't drop anything on my feet, or bend over too much and strain my back. No, it's not been a physical problem at all, but I have certainly done my share of moaning, cursing and muttering ... and it's not all over yet, although it is getting better.
It all stemmed from a phone call I had whilst driving along a few weeks ago. It was from someone at Orange, putting to me what seemed at the time an attractive offer for a new contract to combine my broadband service with my telephone landline. He went through all the points, the terms and the benefits, as I drove round the M25, and said he'd send me an e-mail with all the details. It occurred to me that he hadn't asked for my e-mail address, so I asked him if he had this. Yes, he said, and referred to one that was many years out of date. I spelled out for him my present e-mail, and he quoted it back to me character by character. I began to relax, thinking of all the money I was about to save.
A couple of weeks passed. I received the letter I'd been advised would arrive from BT saying, in effect, 'sorry to see you go', and I pushed it to the back of my desk thinking I ought to file it somewhere 'one day.' Then as I left for work one morning, it happened to catch my eye and I quickly read through it again. 'If you wish to change your mind,' it said, 'let us know before 4.0 pm on ...' and I read that day's date. Suddenly I realised that I'd not seen that e-mail from Orange. I had no point of contact with them; I had no idea whether the changeover that they had spoken of was in hand or not, and within hours my BT line would be discontinued. PANIC! Fortunately I was only going on a short job, and as soon as I got back I called the number in the BT letter.
The lady on the other end couldn't have been more understanding. Within seconds, the threat to my landline was averted, and I was back to the status quo ante. Once this was secure, she picked up on my explanation of what had gone before and, quite naturally, asked if I had thought about bringing my broadband to BT instead. She then outlined a package that was as beneficial as that offered by Orange and, when I decided to accept it, told me that all I'd have to do would be to get a migration code from Orange. When I told her I had no contact number for them, she gave me the number, and even managed to put me through!
After a couple of calls to Orange, involving countless explanations and transfers, I learned that they wouldn't be able to give me the code over the phone, but would post it to me. Apparently their contract was in operation, they were on the brink of sending me the equipment, and as a result there would now be a cancellation charge - was I sure I wanted to make this move? They offered no explanation why I had received neither any written confirmation nor the promised e-mail. I felt it important to stand on a point of principle and against bad practice, and told them yes, I would proceed with BT. A few days later, I received the code in the post, but not before another call came from Orange, telling me the code was on its way, repeating the threat of a cancellation charge, and giving me one final opportunity to change my mind. It's too late, I told them, and noted when it arrived that the migration code hadn't actually been posted until the day after that call!
Immediately, I called BT and explained that I now had the necessary code and was ready to proceed on the terms they had outlined. I was told that there was now an even better deal available, involving six months' free broadband. There followed a succession of letters and e-mails from BT that couldn't but underline to me the wisdom and confidence of choosing to consolidate my position with them. And at the end of these, at the beginning of last week, the box arrived - early on the appointed day - containing the new broadband hub. Installation was straightforward, following the instructions provided, and I felt cock-o'-the-walk.
Then began my 'sprain', the sting in the tail of the whole exercise. All the literature had indicated that for about ten days following installation, I would notice that the internet speed would be 'slow and erratic, sometimes even stopping'. True on all counts. It reminded me of many years ago when I had a dial-up modem that played a familiar tune as it dialled into the provider. Sometimes it seemed to forget I was there, until I jiggled the cursor on the screen. Now, though, there is nothing I can do but wait. Social media sites have been slow to load; my bank connection has been timed out before I've completed the log-in process, and You-tube and i-player have presented me with black screens for minutes on end, and 'reception' has been jerky to standstill in quality when it does begin. Downloading a podcast has been an absolute nightmare - with the 'time remaining' for a 60-minute programme varying from twenty minutes to several days, and changing wildly every few seconds! I've lost count of the times I've given up, closed the internet window and got on with something else.
In the last couple of days, however, I've noticed a distinct improvement in most of the services and websites that I use regularly. Response times are nowhere near as quick as they used to be, but I have to admit that, equally, they are by no means as tortoise-like as they were at the beginning of last week. Most things are usable again, and for that I'm so grateful that I'm telling you all about it!
Saturday, 25 August 2012
Coming and Going
What a busy fortnight it's been. Work, a holiday, more work. It seems so straightforward; and yet, two weeks ago with the holiday in prospect, I had no idea what I would be reporting to my readers now. I had been planning this holiday for several weeks. A few years ago I had sold my camper-van because I didn't feel I could justify owning a second vehicle that I only used a couple of weeks in a year. But the idea of a 'home on wheels' hasn't properly left me, and every so often I wish that I had another one.
So, a few weeks ago, I decided to make myself a rudimentary 'bed' that I could assemble in the back of the van I use for work, using some scrap wood from our old office partitions and an unwanted pallet. I followed up an offer of money-off tokens for tourist attractions, and last Thursday, with all I felt I needed for a long weekend, and a detailed plan of campaign, I set off.
It couldn't have been simpler: go, see, do, and in amongst it eat and sleep. The first day went swimmingly. Stoke Bruerne canal museum in the morning, and Althorp, the stately home of the Spencer family, ancestors of Princess Diana, in the afternoon. That night, on my way to Friday morning's planned venue, the Black Country Living Museum in Dudley, I parked in a lay-by to sleep on my make-shift bed. It was quite exciting. Although not by far the first time I'd slept in a lay-by, it was the first time in these circumstances. I had been afraid that I should be cold. Far from it; I was too hot to sleep. And the traffic! I'd clearly not chosen a good place, for the noise and vibration from passing lorries didn't seem to let up all night.
That was really the point when the whole plan began to unravel. Being used to a pattern of 'drive there, deliver, drive home', I hadn't made due allowance in my plan for the time it would take me to do justice to the place I was visiting. This was apparent when I got to Dudley and discovered that, far from the conventional museum-in-a-building that I had expected, here were acres of houses, shops,
streets, in fact a whole village to see, peopled by knowledgeable guides in costume of a past era who explained the sort of lives our ancestors had lived. There was a coal mine to be investigated, and then to round off the experience a canal trip into the tunnels that had originally been dug to exploit the rich limestone deposits of the area.
My plan for the afternoon simply evaporated; even more so when I considered that my intended visit to the town of Ironbridge would itself have demanded a whole day, rather than the mere afternoon I'd allocated. As I lay down to rest that night - quieter than the night before, I admit - I had no clear idea how to proceed the following morning. Sleep was no easier, however, and when I got up I found that the bedclothes were distinctly damp. On inspection I also discovered the van walls to be running with condensation. I quickly realised what I ought to have anticipated. This van, with its solid bulkhead, has no ventilation to the goods area, unlike previous vans in which I have slept to meet the demands of long-distance jobs - vans with mesh bulkheads and a free exchange of air throughout. The unhealthy prospect of more sleepless nights in damp bedclothes, and the effect of this on driving safety, combined with the new uncertainty of my programme, led me to reconsider my plans entirely.
After a Saturday of discovery, enjoyable in itself, which included a visit to the preserved Battlefield Railway, I made my way home. The next day was spent recovering, and I relaxed on the Monday at home with my family history records, before returning to work as arranged on Tuesday. I had thought that, starting from scratch, it would be a long wait for work, but the first pleasant surprise came at 10.30, when I was asked to collect nearby for Cardiff! A trouble-free journey there and back, preceded a fairly full Wednesday, and I was glad to be heading home by about 4.30, when a phone call brought the second pleasant surprise of the week. In ten years on the road, there have been the occasional jobs to Ireland, and two years ago (almost to the day) I spent a delightful Saturday returning by road and ferry from a beautiful village in Holland called Goudriaan; but this was the first time that I'd been asked to take a consignment by air!
Naturally I said 'yes', and the next few hours were spent in frantic planning and preparation, as a result of which I carried a component valued at little more than £5, for the repair of a luxury yacht in Copenhagen. I met the engineers at the airport, made the delivery, and then had the rest of the day to amuse myself before getting the same flight back as they did, after installing the item I'd brought for them.
When I discovered the distance and cost of getting into the city, I decided to stay in and around the airport. However, this was far from boring. In the morning I walked up to the motorway that leads over a toll-bridge into Sweden and took some pictures, and when it was raining in the afternoon I was content to sit reading or people-watching in the terminal building. Apart from the prices, which seemed considerably higher than at home, the other thing that struck me was the fact that all the signs were bi-lingual, with the second language being English! Presumably the similarity between Danish and the other nearby languages renders signs using these unnecessary.
After that excitement, the routine job yesterday of taking five cases of Coca Cola to a hotel in Norwich seemed quite mundane. Life is good, but now it's back to normal again!
 |
| Ready to go ... |
It couldn't have been simpler: go, see, do, and in amongst it eat and sleep. The first day went swimmingly. Stoke Bruerne canal museum in the morning, and Althorp, the stately home of the Spencer family, ancestors of Princess Diana, in the afternoon. That night, on my way to Friday morning's planned venue, the Black Country Living Museum in Dudley, I parked in a lay-by to sleep on my make-shift bed. It was quite exciting. Although not by far the first time I'd slept in a lay-by, it was the first time in these circumstances. I had been afraid that I should be cold. Far from it; I was too hot to sleep. And the traffic! I'd clearly not chosen a good place, for the noise and vibration from passing lorries didn't seem to let up all night.
 |
| "... and if you couldn't afford a doctor?" |
My plan for the afternoon simply evaporated; even more so when I considered that my intended visit to the town of Ironbridge would itself have demanded a whole day, rather than the mere afternoon I'd allocated. As I lay down to rest that night - quieter than the night before, I admit - I had no clear idea how to proceed the following morning. Sleep was no easier, however, and when I got up I found that the bedclothes were distinctly damp. On inspection I also discovered the van walls to be running with condensation. I quickly realised what I ought to have anticipated. This van, with its solid bulkhead, has no ventilation to the goods area, unlike previous vans in which I have slept to meet the demands of long-distance jobs - vans with mesh bulkheads and a free exchange of air throughout. The unhealthy prospect of more sleepless nights in damp bedclothes, and the effect of this on driving safety, combined with the new uncertainty of my programme, led me to reconsider my plans entirely.
After a Saturday of discovery, enjoyable in itself, which included a visit to the preserved Battlefield Railway, I made my way home. The next day was spent recovering, and I relaxed on the Monday at home with my family history records, before returning to work as arranged on Tuesday. I had thought that, starting from scratch, it would be a long wait for work, but the first pleasant surprise came at 10.30, when I was asked to collect nearby for Cardiff! A trouble-free journey there and back, preceded a fairly full Wednesday, and I was glad to be heading home by about 4.30, when a phone call brought the second pleasant surprise of the week. In ten years on the road, there have been the occasional jobs to Ireland, and two years ago (almost to the day) I spent a delightful Saturday returning by road and ferry from a beautiful village in Holland called Goudriaan; but this was the first time that I'd been asked to take a consignment by air!
Naturally I said 'yes', and the next few hours were spent in frantic planning and preparation, as a result of which I carried a component valued at little more than £5, for the repair of a luxury yacht in Copenhagen. I met the engineers at the airport, made the delivery, and then had the rest of the day to amuse myself before getting the same flight back as they did, after installing the item I'd brought for them.
 |
| Yes, that is Sweden in the haze! |
After that excitement, the routine job yesterday of taking five cases of Coca Cola to a hotel in Norwich seemed quite mundane. Life is good, but now it's back to normal again!
Sunday, 12 August 2012
Torpedoed amidships
It's a bit melodramatic, I grant you, but that's how I was feeling yesterday lunchtime. After yet another back-heavy week, I'd fallen into bed Friday night, upon my return from it's last demands, full of tiredness and good weekend intentions. But that's the ending; let me go back and start in the middle.
The first decent job of the week came on Friday morning, when I took four computer servers down to an industrial estate just outside Newport - that's neither of the two in Scotland nor of the two in Ireland, nor any of the many in England; and not just Newport, Wales, of which there are two (according to my atlas, at any rate.) No, it's the one with the half-decent football team, in Gwent. To avoid the dreaded toll at Pay-to-get-into-Wales-by-the-water (goodness knows what that might be in Welsh!) I chose the long way round, which is actually only 17 miles further but takes about three-quarters of an hour more.
Having picked up the goods in Letchworth just after 7.0 am, I was there about 11.30, and back to the depot by 3.0, thinking that the week had probably come to a natural end by that point. In expectation of this, I had gone armed with my shopping list, reckoning that this could be executed on the way home, and the weekend's duties would be well under way by the time I left to watch Biggleswade United play in the FA Cup's extra-preliminary round. Instead, I was detailed to collect a job for Monday morning, and then take two consignments of booze to west Norfolk. After fish and chips eaten watching the waves from a seat on the seafront at Hunstanton, I returned home as aforementioned. (Sorry it was too misty by 8.0pm to get you a decent seaside picture.)
When I got up, I found that my phone wasn't working. The battery was flat, which wasn't surprising really, because (I then recalled) I hadn't charged it on Thursday evening, and had been listening to a lot on the mp3 player. So I left it plugged in and went off to the shops. By the time I returned, the washing was finished, and I was emptying the machine when suddenly I wondered whether the phone were charged. It was one of those moments when you have no real reason to expect something, but there is a prompt to discover it all the same.
The phone sprang into life at my touch and told me it was about 80% charged, and I was about to put it down again, when I noticed that there was a text message. This was to tell me that I had a voice mail. It was from the weekend controller, and when I rang him back he offered me a choice - would I like to deliver the goods I'd collected for Monday, NOW; or would I like him to arrange for someone else to collect them from me and take them instead. Reluctant to turn work away like that, what else could I do but say 'yes'? So, instead of fulfilling my plans and watching a football match in Bedfordshire, I found myself battling with the not insubstantial traffic on the M25 to visit the ground of Brighton and Hove Albion, where there was no match, to deliver to a gang of folks working on the structure of their sparkling new stadium at Valley Way.
By now, with work done, and another night slept away, I've calmed down. But it does just show how easily well-made plans can go awry. This morning I successfully carried out another well-honed plan, as I led the intercessions (the prayers of the people) at the church service. After all that's been going on, I felt moved to include a prayer for the families of all those who had appeared in the news this week because they had been killed, whether soldiers in Afghanistan, three brothers and their friend in a head-on collision in Ireland the other night, or a little girl murdered in south London ... and I'm sure those present could think of many other examples.
How small my little upheaval seems in contrast to these lives ... torpedoed amidships!
The first decent job of the week came on Friday morning, when I took four computer servers down to an industrial estate just outside Newport - that's neither of the two in Scotland nor of the two in Ireland, nor any of the many in England; and not just Newport, Wales, of which there are two (according to my atlas, at any rate.) No, it's the one with the half-decent football team, in Gwent. To avoid the dreaded toll at Pay-to-get-into-Wales-by-the-water (goodness knows what that might be in Welsh!) I chose the long way round, which is actually only 17 miles further but takes about three-quarters of an hour more.
Having picked up the goods in Letchworth just after 7.0 am, I was there about 11.30, and back to the depot by 3.0, thinking that the week had probably come to a natural end by that point. In expectation of this, I had gone armed with my shopping list, reckoning that this could be executed on the way home, and the weekend's duties would be well under way by the time I left to watch Biggleswade United play in the FA Cup's extra-preliminary round. Instead, I was detailed to collect a job for Monday morning, and then take two consignments of booze to west Norfolk. After fish and chips eaten watching the waves from a seat on the seafront at Hunstanton, I returned home as aforementioned. (Sorry it was too misty by 8.0pm to get you a decent seaside picture.)
When I got up, I found that my phone wasn't working. The battery was flat, which wasn't surprising really, because (I then recalled) I hadn't charged it on Thursday evening, and had been listening to a lot on the mp3 player. So I left it plugged in and went off to the shops. By the time I returned, the washing was finished, and I was emptying the machine when suddenly I wondered whether the phone were charged. It was one of those moments when you have no real reason to expect something, but there is a prompt to discover it all the same.
The phone sprang into life at my touch and told me it was about 80% charged, and I was about to put it down again, when I noticed that there was a text message. This was to tell me that I had a voice mail. It was from the weekend controller, and when I rang him back he offered me a choice - would I like to deliver the goods I'd collected for Monday, NOW; or would I like him to arrange for someone else to collect them from me and take them instead. Reluctant to turn work away like that, what else could I do but say 'yes'? So, instead of fulfilling my plans and watching a football match in Bedfordshire, I found myself battling with the not insubstantial traffic on the M25 to visit the ground of Brighton and Hove Albion, where there was no match, to deliver to a gang of folks working on the structure of their sparkling new stadium at Valley Way.
By now, with work done, and another night slept away, I've calmed down. But it does just show how easily well-made plans can go awry. This morning I successfully carried out another well-honed plan, as I led the intercessions (the prayers of the people) at the church service. After all that's been going on, I felt moved to include a prayer for the families of all those who had appeared in the news this week because they had been killed, whether soldiers in Afghanistan, three brothers and their friend in a head-on collision in Ireland the other night, or a little girl murdered in south London ... and I'm sure those present could think of many other examples.
How small my little upheaval seems in contrast to these lives ... torpedoed amidships!
Sunday, 5 August 2012
Wotta Week!
About Thursday lunchtime I was wondering what I would write about this week. According to my standard measure of the week's activity (aka likely income), I'd achieved less than three days, and it was already half way through day four. I was feeling fed-up, and to crown it all I'd just done a local 'filler', delivering to Biggleswade about eight miles up the road, had got back home and within minutes was asked to return to Biggleswade to collect something for another customer. What was that 'law' about falling bread always landing butter-side down? As to possible blog content, I felt there had been little activity, let alone anything spectacular, or even note-worthy.
The one job on Monday took me to the near end of Kent, and three on Tuesday represented an 'East Anglian tour': Cambridge, Woodbridge and Norwich. OK, that was productive in itself, but hardly exciting. And then Wednesday had taken me to Bristol. The M4 is always a boring road, but it's fast, and you can't play the 'interesting' card when things have to get there in a decent time. I did come back the shorter way across country, however, and this time I didn't listen to SatNav's prompting about a 'faster route', having learnt the hard way that this really means 'let me get you back onto the motorway'!
Thursday afternoon did little to relieve my despondency when I was sent to Gravesend. I remember muttering, 'three tunnels there, four tunnels back, and you have to pay for the privilege!' On the way home, I was called to arrange a 7.30 collection the following morning ... just to Cambridge. An hour or so later I was almost home, by which time the night controller had taken over. He called to ask if I would be able to take some medical equipment to Durham University Hospital that evening. I pointed out the complication of this early local I'd been given for the following morning and, sensing the obvious balance of finding someone else for a long run that evening, or finding someone to do a local job in the morning, he said, "leave it with me for a few minutes."
I had heard nothing by the time my own alternative routes diverged, so I decided to try forcing his hand, and headed for the office rather than home. I was almost there when he rang me to say he'd found someone else to take on the local job, so I pressed on, collected the goods and, at around 6.30 pm, set course for Durham. I stopped for fuel and a snack and was there by about 11.0 only to find one last hurdle to cross. When I located the main entrance, I found a notice saying that between 10pm and 6am access to the hospital was via A&E. Just a few yards further on, though not easily seen at night, I found the ambulance bay, and took my parcels into triage reception. Here the staff couldn't have been more helpful. I was quickly directed to the operating theatre and, remembering my embarrassment the other week at Aintree (which I wrote about at the time), I rang the bell and waited. Within minutes, I had made the delivery and was on my way south again, making plans for somewhere suitable to stop for a snooze.
After a cooked breakfast near Peterborough, I headed home for a refreshing bath. Although I'd had only three and a half hours' sleep, I find I can't sleep once the new day has begun, so rang in for work, hoping for nothing too demanding. Before too long, I was sent down to Kent again, this time to Tonbridge, where a couple of engineers were waiting beside their hole-in-the-road for some items that had been missed from the equipment they were there to install. Feeling that the week had come to its natural end, I phoned in when I got home, and when asked if I wanted to do anything else, I said no, but would they put me onto Monday's list. I began the usual weekend chores and thought of an early night. Then the boss rang to ask if I'd like an early collection in Stevenage yesterday morning (i.e. Saturday) going to Bradford. I decided it was worth the inconvenience, told him I could make that, and promptly compiled my shopping list.
I'd got as far as settling into the van ready to go to the supermarket when the phone went again. 'What now?' I wondered. "If you go to <such-and-such> in Baldock," he said, "they'll give you something to deliver in Melbourne on your way tomorrow." I went, and they did. It was only a tiny box, for a place I'd been to before, which is always pleasing. I visited a different supermarket from the one I'd planned, and returned to complete my foreshortened evening.
Apart from turning out to be a village near Huddersfield instead of Bradford, the second delivery yesterday was hassle free. I stopped for a meal in Barnsley on the way back, and the timing proved perfect for me to fulfil my original plan for yesterday afternoon, to mark the first day of the new football season by watching Ely City play Kirkley & Pakefield in the premier division of the Eastern Counties League. In the ten ECL matches played yesterday, there were three home wins, one away win, and no less than six draws, of which this was one. Nevertheless, it was an exciting game with four goals, and I found myself asking at one point, 'does life get any better than this?' I had just had an enjoyable drive, listening to the test match commentary, after eating a filling meal, was now sitting in the sun watching live football ... and would be paid for the overall experience!
What a contrast from the start of the week to its end. These lopsided weeks seem to have become the norm, and it occurs to me that nothing seems evenly spread, whether it's work through the week, wealth across the world, or gold medals in the Olympic Games.
So ... am I right to be thinking how I'll spend another flat Monday tomorrow?
The one job on Monday took me to the near end of Kent, and three on Tuesday represented an 'East Anglian tour': Cambridge, Woodbridge and Norwich. OK, that was productive in itself, but hardly exciting. And then Wednesday had taken me to Bristol. The M4 is always a boring road, but it's fast, and you can't play the 'interesting' card when things have to get there in a decent time. I did come back the shorter way across country, however, and this time I didn't listen to SatNav's prompting about a 'faster route', having learnt the hard way that this really means 'let me get you back onto the motorway'!
Thursday afternoon did little to relieve my despondency when I was sent to Gravesend. I remember muttering, 'three tunnels there, four tunnels back, and you have to pay for the privilege!' On the way home, I was called to arrange a 7.30 collection the following morning ... just to Cambridge. An hour or so later I was almost home, by which time the night controller had taken over. He called to ask if I would be able to take some medical equipment to Durham University Hospital that evening. I pointed out the complication of this early local I'd been given for the following morning and, sensing the obvious balance of finding someone else for a long run that evening, or finding someone to do a local job in the morning, he said, "leave it with me for a few minutes."
I had heard nothing by the time my own alternative routes diverged, so I decided to try forcing his hand, and headed for the office rather than home. I was almost there when he rang me to say he'd found someone else to take on the local job, so I pressed on, collected the goods and, at around 6.30 pm, set course for Durham. I stopped for fuel and a snack and was there by about 11.0 only to find one last hurdle to cross. When I located the main entrance, I found a notice saying that between 10pm and 6am access to the hospital was via A&E. Just a few yards further on, though not easily seen at night, I found the ambulance bay, and took my parcels into triage reception. Here the staff couldn't have been more helpful. I was quickly directed to the operating theatre and, remembering my embarrassment the other week at Aintree (which I wrote about at the time), I rang the bell and waited. Within minutes, I had made the delivery and was on my way south again, making plans for somewhere suitable to stop for a snooze.
After a cooked breakfast near Peterborough, I headed home for a refreshing bath. Although I'd had only three and a half hours' sleep, I find I can't sleep once the new day has begun, so rang in for work, hoping for nothing too demanding. Before too long, I was sent down to Kent again, this time to Tonbridge, where a couple of engineers were waiting beside their hole-in-the-road for some items that had been missed from the equipment they were there to install. Feeling that the week had come to its natural end, I phoned in when I got home, and when asked if I wanted to do anything else, I said no, but would they put me onto Monday's list. I began the usual weekend chores and thought of an early night. Then the boss rang to ask if I'd like an early collection in Stevenage yesterday morning (i.e. Saturday) going to Bradford. I decided it was worth the inconvenience, told him I could make that, and promptly compiled my shopping list.
I'd got as far as settling into the van ready to go to the supermarket when the phone went again. 'What now?' I wondered. "If you go to <such-and-such> in Baldock," he said, "they'll give you something to deliver in Melbourne on your way tomorrow." I went, and they did. It was only a tiny box, for a place I'd been to before, which is always pleasing. I visited a different supermarket from the one I'd planned, and returned to complete my foreshortened evening.
 |
| Unwin Sports Ground - home of Ely City |
What a contrast from the start of the week to its end. These lopsided weeks seem to have become the norm, and it occurs to me that nothing seems evenly spread, whether it's work through the week, wealth across the world, or gold medals in the Olympic Games.
So ... am I right to be thinking how I'll spend another flat Monday tomorrow?
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