It's usual, at holiday times, for a list to be issued to all us self-employed types (each of whom is a law unto himself), to declare when we will or will not be available for work over the holiday period. I changed my normal pattern this year. For the last few years, I've gone away for Christmas, declared myself available over the New Year, and then had another week off in January, when I helped in the library of the Society of Genealogy during their 'working week'.
Now, you may or may not realise it, but one of the most hazardous aspects of the untrained working in libraries is the possibility of sprained thumbs as the hands are spread to their widest to lift a span of up to 5" of books at a time. The weight of this width of books along a shelf can be as little as one pound, or as much as three or four, depending upon the size, material and age of the books concerned. The resulting strain on unaccustomed hands of three or four solid days of this work can be quite deleterious, and last year I found my thumbs still aching at midsummer.
Taking this into consideration along with a number of other factors, I decided that this year would be different. I stayed at home for Christmas, and have journeyed away for part of the interval before the New Year. And then, once I've returned to work next week, if I do have time off later in the month it will be because of the seasonal downturn in the delivery business rather than to go to 'working week', much though I have enjoyed the company there in past years. This overall decision was endorsed when I discovered that I had been selected for the privilege of reading the Christmas Gospel for the midnight service. I had no intention of seeking someone with whom to swap!
So, what benefits have accrued as a result of this year's break? First of all, as expected, a week away from the disciplines of work has enabled the body to relax, and I find I'm yawning a lot as a result. The work pattern hasn't been completely cast aside, however, and I still wake up at silly o'clock in the mornings, despite retiring a little later at night. [Yes, I know that may be a cause of extra tiredness and hence yawning, but I'm sticking to my earlier excuse - sorry, explanation!] And then there's the matter of staying for some days in a family home.
As one normally living alone with full control of his time and space, the challenge of sharing these facilities with two others - however welcoming they might be - is one that has to be recognised and overcome. I have made the necessary allowances, and in return have been accorded privileges above the average due to a guest. In so doing, I have observed the details of domestic trivia being lived out around me, and compared these to the short-cuts and half-dones that are my own equivalent arrangements - and I feel enriched.
Now for the reciprocal challenge of going home ..........
Saturday, 31 December 2011
Tuesday, 27 December 2011
Cross-over
Occasionally two strands of life seem to arrive at a crossroads. This month has seen one and offered the prospect of another.
Last Thursday, I was despatched to one of our customers to collect some wine for delivery 'in Woodbridge.' I entered the showroom and caused some confusion as one of the assistants exclaimed, 'Wow! that was quick - we've only just received the e-mail!' The e-mail was from satisfied customers of a holiday firm based next to Woodbridge train station, who wanted to send an alcoholic gift to the organisers of their summer vacation.
While this was being picked and packed, another member of staff approached, confirmed what I was there for, and announced that my goods were all ready, and were even then being brought up from the warehouse. Sure enough, within seconds another box arrived, addressed to 'Thomas Churchyard Close, Melton, Woodbridge.' After the confusion had been cleared up, and confirming phone calls made, I left with both orders, and everyone was happy. The Woodbridge delivery was trouble-free, apart from the unobserved step down into the office (which didn't cause me to drop the booze!), and off I went to nearby Melton.
Now comes the interesting bit. My father's maternal grandmother was Elizabeth Churchyard, descended from a whole clan of Churchyards living in the 18th and 19th centuries in a broad swathe of eastern Suffolk from Wortham to Wickham Market, and I'm confident that this Close to which I now delivered would have been named after some distant relative, even though I don't as yet have a Thomas amongst my records.
When I got there, I discovered that it is a new development of about four executive dwellings at the side of the broad grounds of a large Victorian pile. Knowing what I do, I asked the householder to whom I delivered whether this might be the former asylum. She told me that it was, and so I sneaked a picture on my way out.
My link with this place is in duplicate, for the mother-in-law of the aforesaid Elizabeth Churchyard (and therefore my great-great-grandmother), by name Sarah Thrower, née Battley, was recorded as an inmate there in the 1851 census. In 1861, she appeared re-united with her family, living in Church St, Hoxne, but when I had examined the records of the asylum at Ipswich record office some years ago, I discovered that she was once more admitted there in September 1865, and discharged the following February.
I recently discovered the whereabouts of a great-uncle whom I thought had been completely 'lost'. In a last groping search of the 1871 census, I found him in Colchester barracks - he'd become a soldier! With that lead, and amazing good fortune, I discovered that he'd been discharged from the regiment in 1876 as 'unfit for service', after suffering an accident while on a posting to Ireland. He'd declared that his future place of residence would be Enniskillen and - remarkably - I found him recorded there on the 1901 census with quite a large family!
I made enquiries about where the appropriate records are kept, and now I'm waiting for a delivery next year somewhere in Ireland, from which I can divert with a few spare hours to the General Register Office in Belfast. Hopefully, this will lead to more discoveries, but who knows when?
Last Thursday, I was despatched to one of our customers to collect some wine for delivery 'in Woodbridge.' I entered the showroom and caused some confusion as one of the assistants exclaimed, 'Wow! that was quick - we've only just received the e-mail!' The e-mail was from satisfied customers of a holiday firm based next to Woodbridge train station, who wanted to send an alcoholic gift to the organisers of their summer vacation.
While this was being picked and packed, another member of staff approached, confirmed what I was there for, and announced that my goods were all ready, and were even then being brought up from the warehouse. Sure enough, within seconds another box arrived, addressed to 'Thomas Churchyard Close, Melton, Woodbridge.' After the confusion had been cleared up, and confirming phone calls made, I left with both orders, and everyone was happy. The Woodbridge delivery was trouble-free, apart from the unobserved step down into the office (which didn't cause me to drop the booze!), and off I went to nearby Melton.
Now comes the interesting bit. My father's maternal grandmother was Elizabeth Churchyard, descended from a whole clan of Churchyards living in the 18th and 19th centuries in a broad swathe of eastern Suffolk from Wortham to Wickham Market, and I'm confident that this Close to which I now delivered would have been named after some distant relative, even though I don't as yet have a Thomas amongst my records.
When I got there, I discovered that it is a new development of about four executive dwellings at the side of the broad grounds of a large Victorian pile. Knowing what I do, I asked the householder to whom I delivered whether this might be the former asylum. She told me that it was, and so I sneaked a picture on my way out.
My link with this place is in duplicate, for the mother-in-law of the aforesaid Elizabeth Churchyard (and therefore my great-great-grandmother), by name Sarah Thrower, née Battley, was recorded as an inmate there in the 1851 census. In 1861, she appeared re-united with her family, living in Church St, Hoxne, but when I had examined the records of the asylum at Ipswich record office some years ago, I discovered that she was once more admitted there in September 1865, and discharged the following February.
I recently discovered the whereabouts of a great-uncle whom I thought had been completely 'lost'. In a last groping search of the 1871 census, I found him in Colchester barracks - he'd become a soldier! With that lead, and amazing good fortune, I discovered that he'd been discharged from the regiment in 1876 as 'unfit for service', after suffering an accident while on a posting to Ireland. He'd declared that his future place of residence would be Enniskillen and - remarkably - I found him recorded there on the 1901 census with quite a large family!
I made enquiries about where the appropriate records are kept, and now I'm waiting for a delivery next year somewhere in Ireland, from which I can divert with a few spare hours to the General Register Office in Belfast. Hopefully, this will lead to more discoveries, but who knows when?
Monday, 19 December 2011
Brian's tale
Not all the funnies come from what happens on the road. A couple of years ago, I bought a book about non-league football. It spent the usual spell on the bookshelf ignoring me, and earlier this year it jumped into my hands and said, 'read me' ... well, it happened something like that, anyway. I discovered that it had a section on one of the teams local to me, where Brian, the chap who works in our office, is on the committee. I mentioned this to him, and when I'd finished reading it, I lent the book to him.
It had thereafter dropped below my radar, until this morning when he returned it to me. I asked him if he'd enjoyed it. "Excellent!" he replied, "I've made it into print at last." I then went out on a job. Soon after my return, Brian and I met in the kitchen, and he returned to the matter of the book. I said that so far as I could remember, there was no mention of his name in the feature. He told me that, although he didn't appear by name, he was tickled to read that the writer had bought a winning ticket in the half-time raffle, and had won a box of jelly babies. Brian explained that when the raffle had started many years ago, he'd been asked to provide the jelly babies as one of the prizes, and they caused such amusement that they had not been allowed to disappear from the weekly ritual.
This anecdote seemed to release more pent up thoughts of the social side of football. Brian recalled when the writer of the book had made his visit, and he said, "It's a pity I didn't meet him. There are some strange grounds about, and I'd have given him another story or two to put in it." He then told me of a visit to a distant ground some while ago for a cup match.
"There was an old chap in the top corner of the stand, sitting there with his back turned to the field. I thought he was a tramp, and I wondered what he was doing there. I asked one of the locals, who showed no surprise at all. 'Oh, that'll be old Jim,' he told me, 'I reckon he's doing a couple of pigeons.' I looked a bit closer, and sure enough there he was - with the match in full flow behind him, happily dealing with a couple of birds. He'd got one cooking on a fire beside him, and was happily plucking the other on his knee."
We agreed that it was a good job that it hadn't been taking place in a wooden stand!
It had thereafter dropped below my radar, until this morning when he returned it to me. I asked him if he'd enjoyed it. "Excellent!" he replied, "I've made it into print at last." I then went out on a job. Soon after my return, Brian and I met in the kitchen, and he returned to the matter of the book. I said that so far as I could remember, there was no mention of his name in the feature. He told me that, although he didn't appear by name, he was tickled to read that the writer had bought a winning ticket in the half-time raffle, and had won a box of jelly babies. Brian explained that when the raffle had started many years ago, he'd been asked to provide the jelly babies as one of the prizes, and they caused such amusement that they had not been allowed to disappear from the weekly ritual.
This anecdote seemed to release more pent up thoughts of the social side of football. Brian recalled when the writer of the book had made his visit, and he said, "It's a pity I didn't meet him. There are some strange grounds about, and I'd have given him another story or two to put in it." He then told me of a visit to a distant ground some while ago for a cup match.
"There was an old chap in the top corner of the stand, sitting there with his back turned to the field. I thought he was a tramp, and I wondered what he was doing there. I asked one of the locals, who showed no surprise at all. 'Oh, that'll be old Jim,' he told me, 'I reckon he's doing a couple of pigeons.' I looked a bit closer, and sure enough there he was - with the match in full flow behind him, happily dealing with a couple of birds. He'd got one cooking on a fire beside him, and was happily plucking the other on his knee."
We agreed that it was a good job that it hadn't been taking place in a wooden stand!
Wednesday, 14 December 2011
Back to School
This afternoon I made a delivery in an urban area at around 3.0 pm. As I approached my 'target', I encountered a phenomenon that has become an inescapable part of daily life for thousands (mainly young, mainly women) across the country - the School Run. I felt I was lucky to have an unimpeded course, as I ran the gauntlet of a great variety of vehicles, from humble minis to family saloons, to prestigious four-wheel drives: each presenting a doting parent or grandparent to the school gate, and each ready to receive the addition of an excited junior occupant for the return journey.
How different from my own day, I reflected. School days now are over by 3.0 - sometimes earlier, it seems. My primary school day was from 9.0 till 3.45, and when I progressed to the local Grammar School, my friends and I weren't released until 4.0 pm! At this point there was a mad dash for the buses, while those of us who lived closer to school blocked the roads with dozens of cycles, many badly ridden, or with riders who cared more for teasing their fellows than for the nebulous concept of road safety!
And while we're on the subject, let's give the old clock another twist, and go back to my parents' schooldays, during and just after the First World War. I've no idea just what time lessons finished, but the school day was a long one, especially for some children. There were no cars or buses for them. It was a tiring walk of some miles both morning and evening, and it wasn't their school books or gym kit that they carried, but a crust or two of bread for their lunch. Somehow, though, I don't see them as miserable. There would have been games and shouts as they left the school I have no doubt, just as in later generations, with taunts to each other and the occasional joke at a teacher's expense.
The young crowd would progress along the road, and grow smaller with each passing junction, as a cluster of bodies would leave the main tribe to make for its own community. As the numbers decreased, so the sound would fade too. Cheers and laughter would increasingly give way to talk of the affairs of the neighbourhood, until, as one farm gate after another claimed its brood, the minds of the siblings turned to the doings of their own families, and one would ask another whether they thought a father's field had been ploughed, or a mother's washing dried (matters that could have a dramatic bearing upon the atmosphere in the house that evening!) or the likely state of grandma's cough. And all too soon, the same groups would come forth, merge, and gather the following morning.
There was no anxiety over obesity or lack of exercise - what energy wasn't taken up in getting to and from school each day was soon consumed by chores or boisterous play at evenings and weekends. And parents would be far too busy to even dream of taking and fetching the little darlings. It was taken for granted that new starters would be taken by their older siblings, and if there weren't an older sibling, then there would be a near neighbour to show the way the first few times, and after that they were on their own. Even in my own day, I was encouraged to make an arrangement with a boy down the road to cycle together to the Grammar School on the first day of term. Of course, there weren't so many dangers in those days - of if there were, they weren't so publicised and demonised.
But reverse spectacles were always rose-tinted, and I suspect ever will be!
How different from my own day, I reflected. School days now are over by 3.0 - sometimes earlier, it seems. My primary school day was from 9.0 till 3.45, and when I progressed to the local Grammar School, my friends and I weren't released until 4.0 pm! At this point there was a mad dash for the buses, while those of us who lived closer to school blocked the roads with dozens of cycles, many badly ridden, or with riders who cared more for teasing their fellows than for the nebulous concept of road safety!
And while we're on the subject, let's give the old clock another twist, and go back to my parents' schooldays, during and just after the First World War. I've no idea just what time lessons finished, but the school day was a long one, especially for some children. There were no cars or buses for them. It was a tiring walk of some miles both morning and evening, and it wasn't their school books or gym kit that they carried, but a crust or two of bread for their lunch. Somehow, though, I don't see them as miserable. There would have been games and shouts as they left the school I have no doubt, just as in later generations, with taunts to each other and the occasional joke at a teacher's expense.
The young crowd would progress along the road, and grow smaller with each passing junction, as a cluster of bodies would leave the main tribe to make for its own community. As the numbers decreased, so the sound would fade too. Cheers and laughter would increasingly give way to talk of the affairs of the neighbourhood, until, as one farm gate after another claimed its brood, the minds of the siblings turned to the doings of their own families, and one would ask another whether they thought a father's field had been ploughed, or a mother's washing dried (matters that could have a dramatic bearing upon the atmosphere in the house that evening!) or the likely state of grandma's cough. And all too soon, the same groups would come forth, merge, and gather the following morning.
There was no anxiety over obesity or lack of exercise - what energy wasn't taken up in getting to and from school each day was soon consumed by chores or boisterous play at evenings and weekends. And parents would be far too busy to even dream of taking and fetching the little darlings. It was taken for granted that new starters would be taken by their older siblings, and if there weren't an older sibling, then there would be a near neighbour to show the way the first few times, and after that they were on their own. Even in my own day, I was encouraged to make an arrangement with a boy down the road to cycle together to the Grammar School on the first day of term. Of course, there weren't so many dangers in those days - of if there were, they weren't so publicised and demonised.
But reverse spectacles were always rose-tinted, and I suspect ever will be!
Saturday, 10 December 2011
More tea, vicar?
It was the first day of the summer holidays. Dave had a nice new blue ball, and was off to play with his friends. The ball was a big hit, and day after day they played with it all day long. His particular friends were Nick and Angela, and as the days passed they devised quite a complicated game to play with it; others came along too, and great fun was had by all.
Then one day, the others found a new ball. This one was red and white, with lots of bright pictures all over it. It was much more popular with the gang than Dave's old blue one and as they played with it, Nick and Angela and the others thought up new rules to adapt their game and make it even more fun. Everyone else thought these changes were a good idea and happily joined in. Dave didn't like these new ideas and tried to get the others to stick to the original game, but when they told him he ought to loosen up and think modern, he told them they couldn't play with his blue ball, and made a big show of stalking off home with it.
When he got home, he found the vicar had called to take tea with his mother. Pleased to see Dave, the vicar switched on his friendly vicar smile, and asked him how he was getting on with his friends. Quite sure that he'd made the right decisions, Dave told him all about the new game, and how he'd protested by taking his ball back.
Now the vicar was one of those people who are tricky to talk to because they make you think about yourself and what you're up to. On his way there, he'd noticed the fun all the children seemed be having - with the red and white ball - and he asked Dave what he thought he'd gained by walking off on his own. Who did he think he'd be playing with tomorrow?
Dave had lost none of his self-confidence. "Nick, Angie and all the others, of course," he exclaimed, "I'm still one of the gang!"
The vicar smiled gently to himself ... and was there a muttered "I wonder ..." on his breath as he turned away?
Then one day, the others found a new ball. This one was red and white, with lots of bright pictures all over it. It was much more popular with the gang than Dave's old blue one and as they played with it, Nick and Angela and the others thought up new rules to adapt their game and make it even more fun. Everyone else thought these changes were a good idea and happily joined in. Dave didn't like these new ideas and tried to get the others to stick to the original game, but when they told him he ought to loosen up and think modern, he told them they couldn't play with his blue ball, and made a big show of stalking off home with it.
When he got home, he found the vicar had called to take tea with his mother. Pleased to see Dave, the vicar switched on his friendly vicar smile, and asked him how he was getting on with his friends. Quite sure that he'd made the right decisions, Dave told him all about the new game, and how he'd protested by taking his ball back.
Now the vicar was one of those people who are tricky to talk to because they make you think about yourself and what you're up to. On his way there, he'd noticed the fun all the children seemed be having - with the red and white ball - and he asked Dave what he thought he'd gained by walking off on his own. Who did he think he'd be playing with tomorrow?
Dave had lost none of his self-confidence. "Nick, Angie and all the others, of course," he exclaimed, "I'm still one of the gang!"
The vicar smiled gently to himself ... and was there a muttered "I wonder ..." on his breath as he turned away?
Sunday, 20 November 2011
Squashed weekend
You know how, when you splat a fly (if you're quick enough!) it's a sudden death, albeit there's a bit of a mess to clean up; ... that's something like I felt this afternoon. Let me start at the beginning. On Friday evening, I returned from a couple of good jobs at around 6.30, to find the controller on the phone, taking a rather complicated instruction for a job later in the evening. As I listened, and watched what he was writing, I realised that part of the job involved a visit to an electronic engineer to whom I'd delivered many times before, about 30 miles away.
Since I knew at least that part of the job, and because the week had been a little straitened income-wise, I suggested that he get me to do it. He was pleased, because it meant that he wouldn't have the bother of calling someone else out. The upshot was that, by the time I'd met another engineer in the centre of a city some 100 miles away - the second part of the job - and returned home, it was 3.0 am, and well past my bedtime! Since I had no special plans for Saturday, I didn't mind this, and it was wonderful to wake up to wall-to-wall sunshine, instead of pre-dawn mist and fog.
Then this morning after church, I called at the cashpoint before driving the last leg of the short journey home. As I stood there, keying in my PIN, I heard my mobile register an incoming text. It was my voicemail, trying to tell me that I had a message ... only there wasn't one, and no missed call either! Puzzled, I mentally dismissed it as an electronic quirk, came home and thought about lunch. Then the phone rang with a proper call. It was the controller from work. Now, normally I don't work on Sundays as a matter of principle. However, he knows that I don't mind being disturbed if it's only to pick up something for delivery on Monday, and that was the case today.
I was gone only about three-quarters of an hour, and returned with one small box, to deliver about two-and-a-half hours' drive away in the morning. The only thing is that, in order to get there by the required delivery time, I shall have to be up at around 3.30 am. With this hanging over me, as it were, the afternoon has seemed somewhat artificial. I'm not sure how I can better describe it. I haven't been able to settle to any particular task, because I know that I won't have the usual length of Sunday afternoon and evening before me, in which to get to grips with anything.
The weekend was foreshortened at the start, and now with bedtime fast approaching, it will end prematurely as well. It's just one more restriction in the haphazard life of a 24-hour courier, I suppose .... I'm glad I'm not a fly, though!
Since I knew at least that part of the job, and because the week had been a little straitened income-wise, I suggested that he get me to do it. He was pleased, because it meant that he wouldn't have the bother of calling someone else out. The upshot was that, by the time I'd met another engineer in the centre of a city some 100 miles away - the second part of the job - and returned home, it was 3.0 am, and well past my bedtime! Since I had no special plans for Saturday, I didn't mind this, and it was wonderful to wake up to wall-to-wall sunshine, instead of pre-dawn mist and fog.
Then this morning after church, I called at the cashpoint before driving the last leg of the short journey home. As I stood there, keying in my PIN, I heard my mobile register an incoming text. It was my voicemail, trying to tell me that I had a message ... only there wasn't one, and no missed call either! Puzzled, I mentally dismissed it as an electronic quirk, came home and thought about lunch. Then the phone rang with a proper call. It was the controller from work. Now, normally I don't work on Sundays as a matter of principle. However, he knows that I don't mind being disturbed if it's only to pick up something for delivery on Monday, and that was the case today.
I was gone only about three-quarters of an hour, and returned with one small box, to deliver about two-and-a-half hours' drive away in the morning. The only thing is that, in order to get there by the required delivery time, I shall have to be up at around 3.30 am. With this hanging over me, as it were, the afternoon has seemed somewhat artificial. I'm not sure how I can better describe it. I haven't been able to settle to any particular task, because I know that I won't have the usual length of Sunday afternoon and evening before me, in which to get to grips with anything.
The weekend was foreshortened at the start, and now with bedtime fast approaching, it will end prematurely as well. It's just one more restriction in the haphazard life of a 24-hour courier, I suppose .... I'm glad I'm not a fly, though!
Thursday, 17 November 2011
Good ringing - and a bit of photography
Ringing is commonplace ... well, it is for bellringers, at any rate. If you are unfortunate not to like the sound of bells and live next to a church (and why would you?) it's no pleasure, I grant you. But for the rest of us, the nights when it all comes together, and a touch is rung without a slip or a clash, and no one loses their way ... it's sheer bliss - a real privilege to be part of!
And then there's that special occasion, when there's a need for the ringing to be a little out of the ordinary. A special service, perhaps, when we need to get it right because there's an important guest. Or when a prominent resident has an umptieth birthday. On such occasions, we often ring (or attempt to ring) a quarter peal. That's a particular composition including at least 1,250 changes, and it requires about three-quarters of an hour of non-stop ringing. But the sound itself is still commonplace - especially to the untrained ear: ding, dong, ding, dong,
Last Sunday evening, we rang a quarter peal for Remembrance Sunday. Now this was most definitely NOT commonplace. Instead of ding, dong, ding, dong, the bells were half-muffled, and the sound was ding, dong, bing, bong! Since I wasn't actually taking part in the ringing, I decided to go along with my camera and record this unusual occurrence.
The first change rang out with the usual vibrant sound of metal on metal, but the next change sounded the more mellow tone of leather on metal. To achieve this, the clapper of each bell is muted by strapping onto it a leather pad. We have to be careful to get the pads, called 'muffles' fixed to the same side of each clapper, or else some of the dull strokes would be mixed with the 'open' or normal strokes, and vice versa. Of course, the muffles have to be on the correct side of the clappers, so that the first stroke is the open one and the second is the muffled one; and they have to be fastened securely, too. If not, with all the vibration of ringing, they can slip around the clapper, allowing the metal to strike the bell at both strokes, with the muffle hanging uselessly by the side. If this should happen, we all know who to blame - the poor steeplekeeper - although the 'blame' is cast with broad smiles and no rancour, because we all know how difficult this can be in a dimly lit bell-chamber, with a howling and chilling gale whistling around the ears (and elsewhere!)
Muffled, or half-muffled, ringing sometimes marks the funeral of a much respected member of the community, and in some places is part of the New Year celebrations. The old year is rung out with muffled bells, and the new one rung in with the bells open. To achieve this, someone has to scurry rapidly up to the bells to remove the muffles as quickly as possible between the two pieces of ringing. This is not only difficult, as noted above, but is also very dangerous because, with the bells raised into the ringing position, each one is precariously balanced, without restraint.
Such a task might be undertaken by two people together, so that one could lift the clapper and perhaps steady the bell, while the other one attacked the fastenings of the muffle. All the time, both of them would have to be extremely careful not to nudge one of the other bells, and knock if off balance. Quite apart from the effects of the noise when a bell is rung close by (have you read Dorothy L Sayers' excellent book 'The Nine Tailors'?), if one's body happens to be in the path of the moving bell, serious injury is almost certain to ensue, since a piece of moving metal weighing anything up to a tonne is somewhat unforgiving, to say the least! For these reasons, while it may have been common in past ages, this practice is quite rare today, since attention to bells while they are in this position is widely forbidden on health and safety grounds.
When teaching beginners to ring, we always warn of the dangers inherent in the art, and the need to respect the bells and their power. At the same time it is clear to anyone spending time in a ringing chamber just what a lot of fun there is to be had there, as well as healthy exercise for both mind and body.
And then there's that special occasion, when there's a need for the ringing to be a little out of the ordinary. A special service, perhaps, when we need to get it right because there's an important guest. Or when a prominent resident has an umptieth birthday. On such occasions, we often ring (or attempt to ring) a quarter peal. That's a particular composition including at least 1,250 changes, and it requires about three-quarters of an hour of non-stop ringing. But the sound itself is still commonplace - especially to the untrained ear: ding, dong, ding, dong,
Last Sunday evening, we rang a quarter peal for Remembrance Sunday. Now this was most definitely NOT commonplace. Instead of ding, dong, ding, dong, the bells were half-muffled, and the sound was ding, dong, bing, bong! Since I wasn't actually taking part in the ringing, I decided to go along with my camera and record this unusual occurrence.
The first change rang out with the usual vibrant sound of metal on metal, but the next change sounded the more mellow tone of leather on metal. To achieve this, the clapper of each bell is muted by strapping onto it a leather pad. We have to be careful to get the pads, called 'muffles' fixed to the same side of each clapper, or else some of the dull strokes would be mixed with the 'open' or normal strokes, and vice versa. Of course, the muffles have to be on the correct side of the clappers, so that the first stroke is the open one and the second is the muffled one; and they have to be fastened securely, too. If not, with all the vibration of ringing, they can slip around the clapper, allowing the metal to strike the bell at both strokes, with the muffle hanging uselessly by the side. If this should happen, we all know who to blame - the poor steeplekeeper - although the 'blame' is cast with broad smiles and no rancour, because we all know how difficult this can be in a dimly lit bell-chamber, with a howling and chilling gale whistling around the ears (and elsewhere!)
Muffled, or half-muffled, ringing sometimes marks the funeral of a much respected member of the community, and in some places is part of the New Year celebrations. The old year is rung out with muffled bells, and the new one rung in with the bells open. To achieve this, someone has to scurry rapidly up to the bells to remove the muffles as quickly as possible between the two pieces of ringing. This is not only difficult, as noted above, but is also very dangerous because, with the bells raised into the ringing position, each one is precariously balanced, without restraint.
Such a task might be undertaken by two people together, so that one could lift the clapper and perhaps steady the bell, while the other one attacked the fastenings of the muffle. All the time, both of them would have to be extremely careful not to nudge one of the other bells, and knock if off balance. Quite apart from the effects of the noise when a bell is rung close by (have you read Dorothy L Sayers' excellent book 'The Nine Tailors'?), if one's body happens to be in the path of the moving bell, serious injury is almost certain to ensue, since a piece of moving metal weighing anything up to a tonne is somewhat unforgiving, to say the least! For these reasons, while it may have been common in past ages, this practice is quite rare today, since attention to bells while they are in this position is widely forbidden on health and safety grounds.
When teaching beginners to ring, we always warn of the dangers inherent in the art, and the need to respect the bells and their power. At the same time it is clear to anyone spending time in a ringing chamber just what a lot of fun there is to be had there, as well as healthy exercise for both mind and body.
Wednesday, 9 November 2011
What did you do in the War, Daddy?
If I remember it correctly, today's BBC news alleged that there is a body of opinion that says that wearing a poppy is a sign of blind right-wing support of war in Iraq and Afghanistan. Whether that bizarre idea is fact or not, I thought I'd just post a note of why I 'wear my poppy with pride'.
The literal answer to the question above is, 'not a lot.' Being a farm worker, and therefore in a reserved occupation, my father's wartime experience was limited to the Home Guard. While that didn't make me any less proud of him, I did have two uncles who saw active service in the Royal Norfolk Regt. One became an uncle through later marrying my mother's sister. He served in India, and was sent home because of illness. During his convalescence, he learned to embroider, and our homes were decorated with some beautiful examples of his handiwork.
The other was an uncle by birth, being my mother's brother. He was captured at the fall of Singapore in February 1942, and died of malaria on the Burma railway eighteen terrible months later. Some adults find it awkward to speak of death to children, and this was possibly even more the case in former ages. However, I can't recall ever being unaware of his existence and his death. Perhaps - as I have lately come to realise - because my mother was so close to him, she felt it natural to speak of him as I was growing up. She often said that I resembled him - and that, too, I can now confirm as I plough through the photo albums I have inherited.
Then, early during my family history investigations, I came across a first cousin who died while serving in the RAF. It was only in the last few years, however, that I discovered the circumstances of his death. He was with an Operational Training Unit in Derbyshire, and volunteered to be included in a flight of four Albemarles who were transferred to a base in Berkshire to be part of the Allied Expeditionary Air Force in action in conjunction with the D-Day landings. A group of 147 planes, a mixture of C-47 Skytrains, Dakotas, Albemarles and Halifaxes, took off on the night of 5th June 1944 to tow gliders across the channel. One Albemarle was among those that didn't return to base - no. P-1442, whose crew included my cousin.
So, it is with great personal pride that I wear my poppy each year, in memory - a memory that I have never been able to know personally, of course - of
Pte. Charles W J Sturgeon, 4th Bn, Royal Norfolk Regt. and
Sgt. Wilfred T Francis, 42 OTU, RAF
RIP
The literal answer to the question above is, 'not a lot.' Being a farm worker, and therefore in a reserved occupation, my father's wartime experience was limited to the Home Guard. While that didn't make me any less proud of him, I did have two uncles who saw active service in the Royal Norfolk Regt. One became an uncle through later marrying my mother's sister. He served in India, and was sent home because of illness. During his convalescence, he learned to embroider, and our homes were decorated with some beautiful examples of his handiwork.
The other was an uncle by birth, being my mother's brother. He was captured at the fall of Singapore in February 1942, and died of malaria on the Burma railway eighteen terrible months later. Some adults find it awkward to speak of death to children, and this was possibly even more the case in former ages. However, I can't recall ever being unaware of his existence and his death. Perhaps - as I have lately come to realise - because my mother was so close to him, she felt it natural to speak of him as I was growing up. She often said that I resembled him - and that, too, I can now confirm as I plough through the photo albums I have inherited.
Then, early during my family history investigations, I came across a first cousin who died while serving in the RAF. It was only in the last few years, however, that I discovered the circumstances of his death. He was with an Operational Training Unit in Derbyshire, and volunteered to be included in a flight of four Albemarles who were transferred to a base in Berkshire to be part of the Allied Expeditionary Air Force in action in conjunction with the D-Day landings. A group of 147 planes, a mixture of C-47 Skytrains, Dakotas, Albemarles and Halifaxes, took off on the night of 5th June 1944 to tow gliders across the channel. One Albemarle was among those that didn't return to base - no. P-1442, whose crew included my cousin.
So, it is with great personal pride that I wear my poppy each year, in memory - a memory that I have never been able to know personally, of course - of
Pte. Charles W J Sturgeon, 4th Bn, Royal Norfolk Regt. and
Sgt. Wilfred T Francis, 42 OTU, RAF
RIP
Wednesday, 2 November 2011
To do or not to do!
It won't really matter if some items fall off the bottom of the to-do list; others stand at the opposite end of the scale of importance, and must be done by certain deadlines. And yet others spread themselves at leisure along that broad swathe in between: any old time will do, so long as they get done eventually. I confess that I'm a bit of a timing snob. If something has to be done by a specific date - like submitting a tax return - I tend to jump on it as soon as it's possible to do it, and get it done out of the way. I've just submitted my VAT Return for the quarter ending 31st October, notwithstanding that, because I do it on line the deadline for it isn't until 7th December. As soon as I had all the figures to hand, it just had to be done! And just in case I should forget (I've never forgotten in the nine years I've been registered!), the reminder e-mail had been sitting in my inbox for the last couple of weeks since it arrived, and has now been gleefully deleted.
As well as being punctual to extremes, I'm also lazy, and well aware of it - and the two don't make happy bedfellows. For the most part, when it comes to domestic chores - for which there are no deadlines - the only person their execution or otherwise affects is me. The landlord's agent comes to inspect the flat every quarter and, to be fair, so long as I don't vandalise the place, break windows, wrench doors from their hinges, etc., I don't think she's really bothered. Nevertheless, the fact of her regular visit usually sends me on a guilt trip as I think of all the housework I haven't done, and the weekend next before the promised visitation sees me in a whirl of frantic activity which I'm sure is less than efficient, and could be totally avoided if only I were a bit more organised in that department.
Last week brought a pinprick of a reminder of things not being done when they should have been. I say pinprick because the effect was merely that my earnings were about £10 less than ought to have been the case, although through no fault of my own. What really annoyed me, however, was the underlying cause of this loss. I shall explain. In common with most self-employed courier drivers, I get paid only for the jobs that I do. It won't surprise my readers to learn that the value of each job is determined by the distance travelled, i.e. from base to pick-up to delivery. The advantage of working under contract to an agency is that both the procurement of work and the security of payment are handled by them - as also is that most delicate of all commercial flowers, Customer Relations.
Imagine for a moment that you are a regular customer, sending goods on a weekly basis to a single destination. You could be forgiven for making some complaint if one week you were charged £40, the next £45, and the next £38, and so on. Unless you had been advised of some specific change in pricing policy, you would expect the same job to cost the same amount week in, week out. To ensure the smooth running of the business, when our jobs are charged to the customers each one is checked to see whether it has been done before, and if so, then it is charged at the same price. The importance will therefore be appreciated that, when a new job is undertaken, it is priced correctly.
Twice last week I was sent on a particular job that I hadn't done before. I was sent nominally to a large market town in the adjacent county, but when I collected the goods, I discovered that they were consigned to a village some ten miles further on - nearer, in fact, to the next market town than to the one designated. Accordingly, when I returned to the office, I pointed this matter out, thinking that the price would require adjustment. It is often the case that customers will just name the postal town as a guide to the area where the goods are going when they book a job, rather than the specific destination. For planning purposes this is sufficient. Most drivers recognise that, if the job takes them far from where they were originally told, it's in their interest, as well as that of the firm, to let the office staff know. On this occasion I was told that, although it had only now fallen to me, this job has been done daily for several weeks, and no one had advised this discrepancy before! Now, of course, a precedent has been established, and since this is one of our major customers, whose feathers are not to be ruffled, no price adjustment will be made.
My complaint had been overheard by other drivers. There is now widespread disquiet, and some reluctance on the part of many to accept that job, now it's generally realised that it will be underpaid. And all because the first driver to do the job - whoever he may have been - didn't highlight the error when it could have been put right!
As well as being punctual to extremes, I'm also lazy, and well aware of it - and the two don't make happy bedfellows. For the most part, when it comes to domestic chores - for which there are no deadlines - the only person their execution or otherwise affects is me. The landlord's agent comes to inspect the flat every quarter and, to be fair, so long as I don't vandalise the place, break windows, wrench doors from their hinges, etc., I don't think she's really bothered. Nevertheless, the fact of her regular visit usually sends me on a guilt trip as I think of all the housework I haven't done, and the weekend next before the promised visitation sees me in a whirl of frantic activity which I'm sure is less than efficient, and could be totally avoided if only I were a bit more organised in that department.
Last week brought a pinprick of a reminder of things not being done when they should have been. I say pinprick because the effect was merely that my earnings were about £10 less than ought to have been the case, although through no fault of my own. What really annoyed me, however, was the underlying cause of this loss. I shall explain. In common with most self-employed courier drivers, I get paid only for the jobs that I do. It won't surprise my readers to learn that the value of each job is determined by the distance travelled, i.e. from base to pick-up to delivery. The advantage of working under contract to an agency is that both the procurement of work and the security of payment are handled by them - as also is that most delicate of all commercial flowers, Customer Relations.
Imagine for a moment that you are a regular customer, sending goods on a weekly basis to a single destination. You could be forgiven for making some complaint if one week you were charged £40, the next £45, and the next £38, and so on. Unless you had been advised of some specific change in pricing policy, you would expect the same job to cost the same amount week in, week out. To ensure the smooth running of the business, when our jobs are charged to the customers each one is checked to see whether it has been done before, and if so, then it is charged at the same price. The importance will therefore be appreciated that, when a new job is undertaken, it is priced correctly.
Twice last week I was sent on a particular job that I hadn't done before. I was sent nominally to a large market town in the adjacent county, but when I collected the goods, I discovered that they were consigned to a village some ten miles further on - nearer, in fact, to the next market town than to the one designated. Accordingly, when I returned to the office, I pointed this matter out, thinking that the price would require adjustment. It is often the case that customers will just name the postal town as a guide to the area where the goods are going when they book a job, rather than the specific destination. For planning purposes this is sufficient. Most drivers recognise that, if the job takes them far from where they were originally told, it's in their interest, as well as that of the firm, to let the office staff know. On this occasion I was told that, although it had only now fallen to me, this job has been done daily for several weeks, and no one had advised this discrepancy before! Now, of course, a precedent has been established, and since this is one of our major customers, whose feathers are not to be ruffled, no price adjustment will be made.
My complaint had been overheard by other drivers. There is now widespread disquiet, and some reluctance on the part of many to accept that job, now it's generally realised that it will be underpaid. And all because the first driver to do the job - whoever he may have been - didn't highlight the error when it could have been put right!
Friday, 14 October 2011
Whatever next?
Two incidents in my almost ten-year courier career came to mind today as I mused upon the day's news. On the only occasion, a couple of years ago, that I took someone with me when I made a collection of a customer's goods, we both understood without it ever being spoken, that that person would be quite willing to stay in the front of the van while I did my business. Then, after only a minimal delay, we continued our bank holiday sightseeing journey.
One of my former colleagues one day made the fatal mistake of passing a parcel to an acquaintance for him to deliver on my friend's behalf. This faux pas was discovered when the parcel never got delivered! As a result, the man is no longer one of my fellow-drivers. Because we are self-employed, he couldn't be dismissed, but he was told in no uncertain terms that there would be no more work for him, so it would be pointless for him ever to show his face in our office again!
I think it was on Wednesday afternoon that I muttered to myself, after hearing the latest news bulletin, 'he'll be gone by the weekend.' It gives me no feeling of elation to be proved right - just a kind of bitter sadness. By all accounts, our former Defence Minister was doing a very good job, and professionally he'll be a hard act to follow. But what kind of mind does a man have when he can't see clearly where it is incorrect for his friend to be found, and on what trips his friend should not accompany him? And as for all those who were interviewed this afternoon, and were apparently unable to see any more clearly than he whether what he had done was wrong or not ... are they just as blind? Or are they scared of being on record as being decisive, but 'getting it wrong'?
And then there is this business about letters being put in public litter bins. Mr Letwin 'wanted to make sure they didn't weigh him down'. What a ridiculous comment. Surely the best way to ensure that outcome would be to have left them in his office! In days gone by, when in a former life I worked in an office, and occasionally had to deal with correspondence, I would either jot a draft reply by hand and attach it to the original for the typist to deal with, or if dictating, I would leave the original correspondence with the tape for reference when the reply was being typed.
Now, I know technology has moved on since then, so my meagre experience in this field can count for little, but such advances are surely in directions which would mean that it is more, rather than less difficult to deal with correspondence while walking in the park? At least, I should have thought it unlikely to be able to do so with a degree of completeness that would enable one to dispose so permanently of the original documents! So again, I have to ask, 'what kind of mind does a man have to act in such a way?'
After the seemingly interminable revelations of the expenses scandal, when to my disciplined mind it seems totally impossible not to realise what is an expense of one's business, and what isn't, I thought I'd heard it all. Now I'm wondering whether all political candidates, in advance of ever standing for election, should be forced to take the eleven-plus exam (or modern equivalent) to prove that they have the necessary common sense and understanding that we hitherto took for granted in our leaders!
Words - apart from the above paragraphs - fail me!
One of my former colleagues one day made the fatal mistake of passing a parcel to an acquaintance for him to deliver on my friend's behalf. This faux pas was discovered when the parcel never got delivered! As a result, the man is no longer one of my fellow-drivers. Because we are self-employed, he couldn't be dismissed, but he was told in no uncertain terms that there would be no more work for him, so it would be pointless for him ever to show his face in our office again!
I think it was on Wednesday afternoon that I muttered to myself, after hearing the latest news bulletin, 'he'll be gone by the weekend.' It gives me no feeling of elation to be proved right - just a kind of bitter sadness. By all accounts, our former Defence Minister was doing a very good job, and professionally he'll be a hard act to follow. But what kind of mind does a man have when he can't see clearly where it is incorrect for his friend to be found, and on what trips his friend should not accompany him? And as for all those who were interviewed this afternoon, and were apparently unable to see any more clearly than he whether what he had done was wrong or not ... are they just as blind? Or are they scared of being on record as being decisive, but 'getting it wrong'?
And then there is this business about letters being put in public litter bins. Mr Letwin 'wanted to make sure they didn't weigh him down'. What a ridiculous comment. Surely the best way to ensure that outcome would be to have left them in his office! In days gone by, when in a former life I worked in an office, and occasionally had to deal with correspondence, I would either jot a draft reply by hand and attach it to the original for the typist to deal with, or if dictating, I would leave the original correspondence with the tape for reference when the reply was being typed.
Now, I know technology has moved on since then, so my meagre experience in this field can count for little, but such advances are surely in directions which would mean that it is more, rather than less difficult to deal with correspondence while walking in the park? At least, I should have thought it unlikely to be able to do so with a degree of completeness that would enable one to dispose so permanently of the original documents! So again, I have to ask, 'what kind of mind does a man have to act in such a way?'
After the seemingly interminable revelations of the expenses scandal, when to my disciplined mind it seems totally impossible not to realise what is an expense of one's business, and what isn't, I thought I'd heard it all. Now I'm wondering whether all political candidates, in advance of ever standing for election, should be forced to take the eleven-plus exam (or modern equivalent) to prove that they have the necessary common sense and understanding that we hitherto took for granted in our leaders!
Words - apart from the above paragraphs - fail me!
Wednesday, 12 October 2011
Was yesterday a waste of time?
I do like to keep on top of things - it seriously irks me if circumstances beyond my control prevent me from doing so. Just recently that is just what has happened. A few Saturdays now have been clogged up by one thing after another, the precise details of which would require intensive research in my diary, and don't belong here anyway. Suffice it to say that one or two matters of mechanical importance have been neglected.
Last week I realised that my van was due for yet another service - it's every 20,000 miles, but in this business such intervals come round with monotonous frequency - so I booked it in at my usual garage for attention yesterday morning. I used to take a book with me, and sit and read or chat to the proprietor until the job was done, but now I tend to walk home and attack some task there, repeating the exercise to collect the van later on. This time there were one or two other jobs that needed attention, in addition to the usual oil change and replacement of various filters here and there, so I said that, if I'd heard nothing to the contrary, I would go back at around 2.30.
Returning home, I settled down to a morning poring over some old family photos, trying yet again to puzzle out to whom some of the 'unknown' faces from eighty years ago might have belonged. I became engrossed, and before long it was time for a bowl of soup, before fulfilling my promise to get back to the garage. They had phoned me soon after I'd left them to observe that certain bits of the steering were either worn or broken, so would need replacement - oh, and at least one tyre would have to be changed, too. I told them to do all except replace the tyre: I would deal with that elsewhere. On my way back to them, I had a call to say that the work was done, so the only further delay was the time for me to pay the bill.
Even the quarter-mile drive along the road was sufficient for me to appreciate how bad things had become. It now drove smoothly, without that anticipated 'hiccup' at each unevenness in the road surface. I turned with some confidence into the tyre depot. "I've just had the van serviced," I announced, "and attention was drawn to one tyre that is said to be illegal, and another that is unevenly worn; so would you please examine them, replace if necessary, and check the alignment."
The great benefit of going to this particular establishment for my tyres is that they operate an insurance policy, that covers everything above normal wear and tear, and has proved very beneficial to me in the past. It's a nice comfortable place (I know that we customers have to pay for that, but ...), and it is my habit to pop along there on a Saturday morning every few weeks to have the alignment checked. If there's nothing wrong, it's free, and it places the van regularly under professional scrutiny as well as giving me the confidence that tyre wear is kept to the minimum. Yesterday's situation was, in my opinion, the penalty of neglecting these regular checks. In addition to doing what I had asked, the operative also made one or two constructive suggestions, such as varying my usual tyre pressures in an attempt to prevent excessive wear to the new tyres he was fitting. I was very grateful for this care, and shall make a point of going back in a couple of weeks or so (2,000-3,000 miles) to see whether the change is proving beneficial.
Workwise, yesterday was a write-off. By the time I got to our depot, there was little over an hour to go before the office closed, and work was being given out for today. Today, I did two jobs, which added up to just over 300 miles, and they went like a dream. I hadn't realised just how much that lumping and bumping had been a subconscious strain. Now I have to re-direct my attention to keeping the speed down to an economic - not to say legal - level!
Last week I realised that my van was due for yet another service - it's every 20,000 miles, but in this business such intervals come round with monotonous frequency - so I booked it in at my usual garage for attention yesterday morning. I used to take a book with me, and sit and read or chat to the proprietor until the job was done, but now I tend to walk home and attack some task there, repeating the exercise to collect the van later on. This time there were one or two other jobs that needed attention, in addition to the usual oil change and replacement of various filters here and there, so I said that, if I'd heard nothing to the contrary, I would go back at around 2.30.
Returning home, I settled down to a morning poring over some old family photos, trying yet again to puzzle out to whom some of the 'unknown' faces from eighty years ago might have belonged. I became engrossed, and before long it was time for a bowl of soup, before fulfilling my promise to get back to the garage. They had phoned me soon after I'd left them to observe that certain bits of the steering were either worn or broken, so would need replacement - oh, and at least one tyre would have to be changed, too. I told them to do all except replace the tyre: I would deal with that elsewhere. On my way back to them, I had a call to say that the work was done, so the only further delay was the time for me to pay the bill.
Even the quarter-mile drive along the road was sufficient for me to appreciate how bad things had become. It now drove smoothly, without that anticipated 'hiccup' at each unevenness in the road surface. I turned with some confidence into the tyre depot. "I've just had the van serviced," I announced, "and attention was drawn to one tyre that is said to be illegal, and another that is unevenly worn; so would you please examine them, replace if necessary, and check the alignment."
The great benefit of going to this particular establishment for my tyres is that they operate an insurance policy, that covers everything above normal wear and tear, and has proved very beneficial to me in the past. It's a nice comfortable place (I know that we customers have to pay for that, but ...), and it is my habit to pop along there on a Saturday morning every few weeks to have the alignment checked. If there's nothing wrong, it's free, and it places the van regularly under professional scrutiny as well as giving me the confidence that tyre wear is kept to the minimum. Yesterday's situation was, in my opinion, the penalty of neglecting these regular checks. In addition to doing what I had asked, the operative also made one or two constructive suggestions, such as varying my usual tyre pressures in an attempt to prevent excessive wear to the new tyres he was fitting. I was very grateful for this care, and shall make a point of going back in a couple of weeks or so (2,000-3,000 miles) to see whether the change is proving beneficial.
Workwise, yesterday was a write-off. By the time I got to our depot, there was little over an hour to go before the office closed, and work was being given out for today. Today, I did two jobs, which added up to just over 300 miles, and they went like a dream. I hadn't realised just how much that lumping and bumping had been a subconscious strain. Now I have to re-direct my attention to keeping the speed down to an economic - not to say legal - level!
Wednesday, 21 September 2011
Not all negative!
I hadn't really intended on posting a blog this evening. I just looked in to see what a couple of other people had written, if anything. One is just back to University after an exciting year away, and seems still to be finding things a bit disorienting following her return home; and the other has a cold, but is cheerful, and concerned about an allegedly innocent prisoner in the US who faces execution later today. It all seems so 'real' compared to the way I'm feeling just now, and in the guilt of that comparison I decided to put finger to keyboard myself.
This driving life is driving me mad at the moment (excuse the pun!) Last Friday I was up at 2.0 am, in order to make a delivery almost at the far end of the country (that's England, not UK!) by 7.30, and then did other work once I'd returned, a total working day of over 16 hours, with a few domestic matters to attend do afterwards. The knock-on effect of this - despite a relaxing Saturday, the focus of which was watching a football match played at the end of a pleasant journey by public transport, during the course of which I encountered a variety of interesting people - was that I still felt a little dazed on Sunday morning as I told friends at church about it all.
Yesterday fell into something of the same mould, subject only to a few hours' delay. I left home at around 5.0 am for two deliveries in the Peak District, and then after an acceptable local 'errand' in the afternoon, I found myself saying 'yes' to the offer of another job in the evening, collecting from a fairly local hospital, and delivering to a private house near Lincoln. After an essential, accident-preventing, body-chilling snooze in a lay-by, I finally got home at 1.20 am. Then - despite switching off the alarm clock, shutting the bedroom door and silencing the phone - I was up in time to be at work by just after 8.0 this morning! So ... convince me if you can that body clocks are as wonderful as people make out!
I know I'm my own worst enemy. I'd rather be on the road, adventuring, meeting people and 'doing things' than sitting at my desk completing tasks that have lain half-done for weeks ... and in one case several years! And when it comes to housework - I almost awarded myself a medal when last I caught myself wielding a duster in anger!
Today I had a relaxing day. Two nice easy deliveries in the morning, after which I took time out to make a phone call on behalf of a friend who is on holiday, and had left me a couple of bits of business - important to both of us - that needed resolving before she gets back. Soon it was time to attack a couple of those local jobs that fill the cracks of every day, and then I collected something to deliver (at a civilised hour) tomorrow morning, and was home a little earlier than normal.
Even so, I haven't been able to settle to anything. I've let the evening slip through my fingers as I flitted from one thing to another, passing over some things that are essential by the end of the week, and others of which I've forgotten the detail that I was going to look up, and now as bedtime approaches I'm feeling confused, unfulfilled, wasteful and dissatisfied.
But even as I write this, I tell myself, there are good aspects to life: I've signed the lease on my flat for another year; the landlord hasn't increased the rent; I finished today's crossword; and I didn't get a flea in my ear when I made a grovelling phone call to the surgery to apologise for missing an appointment last week. As I asked to make a new one - and promised to keep it this time - the receptionist said calmly, "don't worry - these things happen." So I'm happy to offer a silent, "yes, they do," and slope off to bed.
This driving life is driving me mad at the moment (excuse the pun!) Last Friday I was up at 2.0 am, in order to make a delivery almost at the far end of the country (that's England, not UK!) by 7.30, and then did other work once I'd returned, a total working day of over 16 hours, with a few domestic matters to attend do afterwards. The knock-on effect of this - despite a relaxing Saturday, the focus of which was watching a football match played at the end of a pleasant journey by public transport, during the course of which I encountered a variety of interesting people - was that I still felt a little dazed on Sunday morning as I told friends at church about it all.
Yesterday fell into something of the same mould, subject only to a few hours' delay. I left home at around 5.0 am for two deliveries in the Peak District, and then after an acceptable local 'errand' in the afternoon, I found myself saying 'yes' to the offer of another job in the evening, collecting from a fairly local hospital, and delivering to a private house near Lincoln. After an essential, accident-preventing, body-chilling snooze in a lay-by, I finally got home at 1.20 am. Then - despite switching off the alarm clock, shutting the bedroom door and silencing the phone - I was up in time to be at work by just after 8.0 this morning! So ... convince me if you can that body clocks are as wonderful as people make out!
I know I'm my own worst enemy. I'd rather be on the road, adventuring, meeting people and 'doing things' than sitting at my desk completing tasks that have lain half-done for weeks ... and in one case several years! And when it comes to housework - I almost awarded myself a medal when last I caught myself wielding a duster in anger!
Today I had a relaxing day. Two nice easy deliveries in the morning, after which I took time out to make a phone call on behalf of a friend who is on holiday, and had left me a couple of bits of business - important to both of us - that needed resolving before she gets back. Soon it was time to attack a couple of those local jobs that fill the cracks of every day, and then I collected something to deliver (at a civilised hour) tomorrow morning, and was home a little earlier than normal.
Even so, I haven't been able to settle to anything. I've let the evening slip through my fingers as I flitted from one thing to another, passing over some things that are essential by the end of the week, and others of which I've forgotten the detail that I was going to look up, and now as bedtime approaches I'm feeling confused, unfulfilled, wasteful and dissatisfied.
But even as I write this, I tell myself, there are good aspects to life: I've signed the lease on my flat for another year; the landlord hasn't increased the rent; I finished today's crossword; and I didn't get a flea in my ear when I made a grovelling phone call to the surgery to apologise for missing an appointment last week. As I asked to make a new one - and promised to keep it this time - the receptionist said calmly, "don't worry - these things happen." So I'm happy to offer a silent, "yes, they do," and slope off to bed.
Sunday, 4 September 2011
Cindrella Road
The other day I drove along the A5; not all of it by any means, but the bit I most often use, between Rugby and the M6. It occurred to me that making this journey is, to some extent, making a journey into the past.
The A5 begins in the centre of London, crossing the North Circular Road by an impressive flyover with great determination, as if it's really going Somewhere! It makes its way up through Edgware and past Colindale, and then as it struggles to cross the M1 near Elstree ... hey! where did it go? For reasons best known to minds greater than mine, the A5 evaporates there, and reappears almost twenty miles further on, near Redbourn. It's as if the motorway has swallowed it between junctions 4 and 9. In between there is the enigmatic A5183 that escorts you through St Albans, threatening as it does so to chuck you onto another 'artificial' road, the A1081 (which bears a similar relationship to the A6 - but that's another story!)
As it passes through the splendour of Milton Keynes, the A5 becomes a majestic dual carriageway, with proper sliproads on and off, up to roundabouts and down again; the only thing that's missing - some would say a good miss - is the traffic. After the final roundabout, just past Stony Stratford, the road enters a peaceful stretch through the pretty towns and villages of Northamptonshire, flanked by stone houses, as it seems to rise gently to the hilly spine of our land. This is where it is most familiar to me, for by taking only a short diversion from the motorway I can get a welcome meal at a truckstop. Just south of Towcester is Jack's Hill Cafe, which appears to be a favourite haunt of motorcyclists, although I rarely see any there.
Further on, sandwiched, as it were, between junctions 18 and 20 (although easily accessible from 19 via the village of Catthorpe that has given its name to this busy interchange) of the M1, is the popular Rugby Truckstop, managed by a firm called Nightowl. Then comes a long stretch with delightful vistas as it follows the gradients of the land up and down, sometimes one carriageway, sometimes two, but always reflecting its Roman origins by maintaining as far as it can a perfectly straight course. After Hinckley and Atherstone we find ourselves in contention with the M6 Toll, the brand new motorway opened a few years ago, that took over part of the A5's route, and provided in exchange a length of magnificent dual carriageway that is up to virtually motorway standard - true luxury!
Between this 'new' bit of the A5 and the M6 at junction 12 lies the section of the road that prompted this blog. It is part of the original road, comparatively narrow, dead straight as often as not, and most of the buildings by the side of it are not only old, but showing their age. Many of the various hostelries amongst them are closed and boarded up, unable to pay their way in the present depressed economy. Despite the boardings, they often show signs of an attractive character, which makes me even more sad that they are now inactive.
Beyond the M6, this marvelous road is no longer shown as a trunk road on the current road atlas, which to me makes it even more enticing as it heads towards Wales, and eventually Anglesey and the ferry terminal for Dublin. Yes, it does take an hour or more longer than the 'recognised' route round the coast through Conwy but, travelled in daylight, the scenery and the towns and villages on the way render the extra time well-spent.
Given the difficulty which my SatNav seems to experience in keeping track of me when I use the A5, I wondered to what extent this technological advance is responsible for taking traffic away from these now defunct businesses along its route. A colleague explained that SatNav's first step in formulating a route is to determine 'key points' between source and target, and then to fill in the gaps between these key points. If these key points are on the motorways, as seems likely, there's little wonder that traffic on such roads as the A5 is at a low ebb, and their commerce has suffered.
All the more room for nostalgia!
The A5 begins in the centre of London, crossing the North Circular Road by an impressive flyover with great determination, as if it's really going Somewhere! It makes its way up through Edgware and past Colindale, and then as it struggles to cross the M1 near Elstree ... hey! where did it go? For reasons best known to minds greater than mine, the A5 evaporates there, and reappears almost twenty miles further on, near Redbourn. It's as if the motorway has swallowed it between junctions 4 and 9. In between there is the enigmatic A5183 that escorts you through St Albans, threatening as it does so to chuck you onto another 'artificial' road, the A1081 (which bears a similar relationship to the A6 - but that's another story!)
As it passes through the splendour of Milton Keynes, the A5 becomes a majestic dual carriageway, with proper sliproads on and off, up to roundabouts and down again; the only thing that's missing - some would say a good miss - is the traffic. After the final roundabout, just past Stony Stratford, the road enters a peaceful stretch through the pretty towns and villages of Northamptonshire, flanked by stone houses, as it seems to rise gently to the hilly spine of our land. This is where it is most familiar to me, for by taking only a short diversion from the motorway I can get a welcome meal at a truckstop. Just south of Towcester is Jack's Hill Cafe, which appears to be a favourite haunt of motorcyclists, although I rarely see any there.
Further on, sandwiched, as it were, between junctions 18 and 20 (although easily accessible from 19 via the village of Catthorpe that has given its name to this busy interchange) of the M1, is the popular Rugby Truckstop, managed by a firm called Nightowl. Then comes a long stretch with delightful vistas as it follows the gradients of the land up and down, sometimes one carriageway, sometimes two, but always reflecting its Roman origins by maintaining as far as it can a perfectly straight course. After Hinckley and Atherstone we find ourselves in contention with the M6 Toll, the brand new motorway opened a few years ago, that took over part of the A5's route, and provided in exchange a length of magnificent dual carriageway that is up to virtually motorway standard - true luxury!
Between this 'new' bit of the A5 and the M6 at junction 12 lies the section of the road that prompted this blog. It is part of the original road, comparatively narrow, dead straight as often as not, and most of the buildings by the side of it are not only old, but showing their age. Many of the various hostelries amongst them are closed and boarded up, unable to pay their way in the present depressed economy. Despite the boardings, they often show signs of an attractive character, which makes me even more sad that they are now inactive.
Beyond the M6, this marvelous road is no longer shown as a trunk road on the current road atlas, which to me makes it even more enticing as it heads towards Wales, and eventually Anglesey and the ferry terminal for Dublin. Yes, it does take an hour or more longer than the 'recognised' route round the coast through Conwy but, travelled in daylight, the scenery and the towns and villages on the way render the extra time well-spent.
Given the difficulty which my SatNav seems to experience in keeping track of me when I use the A5, I wondered to what extent this technological advance is responsible for taking traffic away from these now defunct businesses along its route. A colleague explained that SatNav's first step in formulating a route is to determine 'key points' between source and target, and then to fill in the gaps between these key points. If these key points are on the motorways, as seems likely, there's little wonder that traffic on such roads as the A5 is at a low ebb, and their commerce has suffered.
All the more room for nostalgia!
Sunday, 14 August 2011
The worm turns
I thought I'd treat myself to an afternoon out today. I went to a nearby nature reserve, armed with camera and binoculars, to see what it had to offer. I didn't find much birdlife, but I did explore an ancient quarry (the safe bits anyway), and I'm sure I derived great physical benefit from the nature trail which went up and down some fairly steep slopes.
The final bit passed over an empty stretch of meadowland, which reminded me of a particular swathe of Norfolk farmland that had been left out of use for a while. It was nice to be in the countryside with no pressing purpose, just to wander freely in the quiet and solitude. And perhaps the best bit about it was that the decision to go wasn't even on the table until about fifteen minutes before I left home!
When I first moved to this part of the country, I used to spend most of my Sunday afternoons exploring the nearby villages, and seeing which pubs did the best roast dinners! I find that, now I've taken up this 'second career' driving all week, my usual aim on Sundays is to get home quickly from church and spend the rest of the day in front of the computer (I don't have a TV), and if I do go out for lunch, it's to the nearest pub and straight back again. The end result is that a sort of monochrome blanket descends over all weekends: they all fall into the same pattern, and less satisfaction is the result.
Now, I realise that there has to be a certain structure to life, and I for one would be lost without it, but I'm beginning to realise that there can be a bit too much of it sometimes. A few years ago I developed the habit of working most Saturdays, and a lot of formerly regular interests got squeezed out of life. I feel it's time to try to nudge the pendulum of life in the opposite direction. In those days, if I wasn't going to work on Saturday, I felt constrained to explain why. This week, when I was asked, I considered, said 'no,' and was about to add 'I'm ringing bells for a wedding in the afternoon,' when I thought, 'but what business is it of yours?' and said nothing.
Although we are self-employed, I for one am in the habit of doing what I'm told five days a week; it makes for a good working relationship (see recent 'rough-smooth' blog). But the sixth one is mine!
When I first moved to this part of the country, I used to spend most of my Sunday afternoons exploring the nearby villages, and seeing which pubs did the best roast dinners! I find that, now I've taken up this 'second career' driving all week, my usual aim on Sundays is to get home quickly from church and spend the rest of the day in front of the computer (I don't have a TV), and if I do go out for lunch, it's to the nearest pub and straight back again. The end result is that a sort of monochrome blanket descends over all weekends: they all fall into the same pattern, and less satisfaction is the result.
Now, I realise that there has to be a certain structure to life, and I for one would be lost without it, but I'm beginning to realise that there can be a bit too much of it sometimes. A few years ago I developed the habit of working most Saturdays, and a lot of formerly regular interests got squeezed out of life. I feel it's time to try to nudge the pendulum of life in the opposite direction. In those days, if I wasn't going to work on Saturday, I felt constrained to explain why. This week, when I was asked, I considered, said 'no,' and was about to add 'I'm ringing bells for a wedding in the afternoon,' when I thought, 'but what business is it of yours?' and said nothing.
Although we are self-employed, I for one am in the habit of doing what I'm told five days a week; it makes for a good working relationship (see recent 'rough-smooth' blog). But the sixth one is mine!
Friday, 12 August 2011
The rough with the smooth
There are good weeks - there are occasionally excellent weeks! - but from time to awfully frequent time there are also bad weeks. You know the sort of thing ... when someone jokes in the silence, "Come on, - it's time to turn the phone back on now." ... when there are so many people stuffed into a small space that there's nowhere to swing a newspaper, and don't even think of getting up to go to the loo or make a drink, because the seat won't be awaiting your return!
This week has been one such week. By Thursday night I'd managed a tally worth something less than two and a half days' income. If you take off known expenses and fuel, there would not be enough left over to pay the rent on my flat, let alone find a crust to eat (if one were daft enough to think of a week in total isolation like that, that is!) It's on days like this that crew-room chat expresses dissatisfaction of some kind. Sometimes it will be between drivers, alleging some underhand practice that has secured a perceived advantage over others. On other occasions, like this week, the general undercurrent is 'anti-establishment'.
Some of us have been assigned jobs on a particular contract whose terms involve the return of packaging and rubbish after delivery, and require that this be taken back to the customer whence it came. The price agreed for the contract is intended to include this additional work. Because it is more than is done as part of a normal job, some drivers are looking for some clearly additional payment for it and, as an act of defiance, they have started leaving the rubbish outside our office. When a notice was posted up threatening that they wouldn't get paid for the job unless this aspect is completed as well, some of these recusants simply said that they would refuse these jobs in future.
Since we are all self-employed, that is always our prerogative. However, it does beg the question of to what extent their services will be used if they are not going to do all is entailed in any particular job. I found myself engaged in endless discussion with one of these, who simply could not see (or would not!) that the price for each job is fixed, and that we either do or don't do each job - as required by the customer - for the price accorded to it. The fact that in the vast majority of cases we simply accept what we hear as an instruction, doesn't detract from its contractual status as offer and acceptance of that job on those terms. He could only see the situation as 'them' getting something for nothing from 'us'.
Today, by contrast to those foregoing, presented me with a different rough and smooth. It was a full day from beginning to end. But it started with a pair of jobs that it was impossible to fulfil properly alongside each other, because both were for 9.0 collection and 12 noon delivery. Unavoidably, I was early to collect one and late for the other, and then late to fulfil that one as well. And then, on the way home, came a third job that involved difficulty in locating the pick-up point, hidden deep within the uninspiring brick buildings of a former airfield, problems in first assembling and then loading the goods, and then equal trouble in finding the delivery point. This was partly because there was no company name outside, and partly because, though the name of the building was prominent on the front of the building, it was quite small, and the wall was some distance from the road, on the far side of the car park.
Individually, each of these snags would simply be grist to the mill of daily life, but coming together like this, it's almost as if things are conspiring against me. I'm just glad that the weekend has arrived, with the chance to rest and recover a little before the next chapter of 'Life on Four Wheels'.
This week has been one such week. By Thursday night I'd managed a tally worth something less than two and a half days' income. If you take off known expenses and fuel, there would not be enough left over to pay the rent on my flat, let alone find a crust to eat (if one were daft enough to think of a week in total isolation like that, that is!) It's on days like this that crew-room chat expresses dissatisfaction of some kind. Sometimes it will be between drivers, alleging some underhand practice that has secured a perceived advantage over others. On other occasions, like this week, the general undercurrent is 'anti-establishment'.
Some of us have been assigned jobs on a particular contract whose terms involve the return of packaging and rubbish after delivery, and require that this be taken back to the customer whence it came. The price agreed for the contract is intended to include this additional work. Because it is more than is done as part of a normal job, some drivers are looking for some clearly additional payment for it and, as an act of defiance, they have started leaving the rubbish outside our office. When a notice was posted up threatening that they wouldn't get paid for the job unless this aspect is completed as well, some of these recusants simply said that they would refuse these jobs in future.
Since we are all self-employed, that is always our prerogative. However, it does beg the question of to what extent their services will be used if they are not going to do all is entailed in any particular job. I found myself engaged in endless discussion with one of these, who simply could not see (or would not!) that the price for each job is fixed, and that we either do or don't do each job - as required by the customer - for the price accorded to it. The fact that in the vast majority of cases we simply accept what we hear as an instruction, doesn't detract from its contractual status as offer and acceptance of that job on those terms. He could only see the situation as 'them' getting something for nothing from 'us'.
Today, by contrast to those foregoing, presented me with a different rough and smooth. It was a full day from beginning to end. But it started with a pair of jobs that it was impossible to fulfil properly alongside each other, because both were for 9.0 collection and 12 noon delivery. Unavoidably, I was early to collect one and late for the other, and then late to fulfil that one as well. And then, on the way home, came a third job that involved difficulty in locating the pick-up point, hidden deep within the uninspiring brick buildings of a former airfield, problems in first assembling and then loading the goods, and then equal trouble in finding the delivery point. This was partly because there was no company name outside, and partly because, though the name of the building was prominent on the front of the building, it was quite small, and the wall was some distance from the road, on the far side of the car park.
Individually, each of these snags would simply be grist to the mill of daily life, but coming together like this, it's almost as if things are conspiring against me. I'm just glad that the weekend has arrived, with the chance to rest and recover a little before the next chapter of 'Life on Four Wheels'.
Wednesday, 3 August 2011
Language
Yesterday was a day of language. Not the foul sort that sometimes escapes when things go wrong - just the way people speak.
First, there was a conversation with one of my fellow drivers. For some while now, he's had the notion to emigrate to Thailand, where he sees the possibility of making a living for himself by teaching Thais to speak English. When he first announced this to us, there was some teasing about his own command of the language, but he took this in good part. Yesterday, out of nowhere, he entered into deep discussion with me of how he's getting to grips with the technicalities of English, so that he will one day be able to explain it to others from a position of understanding.
Then there was a phone-in on the radio about the new requirement for people moving to this country to have a command of written and spoken English before they come. Many points of view were expressed, such as how possible it is to learn English in their own land, or whether this might be easier once one was here, and surrounded by the language. Some disquiet was also expressed about the way that people from the EU face lower demands than others. There is also the fact that some people are quite content to live and work in 'their own' community, without bothering to learn English at all - which is all right until something goes wrong, such as losing their job, serious illness, and so on. It was a very thought-provoking programme.
And in the afternoon, as I went off to another job, I flicked the switch to see what the radio might have for me, and I discovered a feature about a Mancunian who had devoted himself to learning Welsh. He has translated classical Welsh poetry, as well as writing his own, and is now sufficiently competent that he can perform live translation of committee meetings, rendering one sentence into English at the same time as he's listening to the next one in Welsh. And on top of all that, he's taking part in the Eisteddfod!
I found myself overwhelmed on a hot day, and was glad to retreat to the (English) newspaper, and the (English) crossword!
First, there was a conversation with one of my fellow drivers. For some while now, he's had the notion to emigrate to Thailand, where he sees the possibility of making a living for himself by teaching Thais to speak English. When he first announced this to us, there was some teasing about his own command of the language, but he took this in good part. Yesterday, out of nowhere, he entered into deep discussion with me of how he's getting to grips with the technicalities of English, so that he will one day be able to explain it to others from a position of understanding.
Then there was a phone-in on the radio about the new requirement for people moving to this country to have a command of written and spoken English before they come. Many points of view were expressed, such as how possible it is to learn English in their own land, or whether this might be easier once one was here, and surrounded by the language. Some disquiet was also expressed about the way that people from the EU face lower demands than others. There is also the fact that some people are quite content to live and work in 'their own' community, without bothering to learn English at all - which is all right until something goes wrong, such as losing their job, serious illness, and so on. It was a very thought-provoking programme.
And in the afternoon, as I went off to another job, I flicked the switch to see what the radio might have for me, and I discovered a feature about a Mancunian who had devoted himself to learning Welsh. He has translated classical Welsh poetry, as well as writing his own, and is now sufficiently competent that he can perform live translation of committee meetings, rendering one sentence into English at the same time as he's listening to the next one in Welsh. And on top of all that, he's taking part in the Eisteddfod!
I found myself overwhelmed on a hot day, and was glad to retreat to the (English) newspaper, and the (English) crossword!
Friday, 29 July 2011
Triumph at last!
I'm feeling cock-a-hoop this weekend. Right has come out on top; the potential scammer has been outdone. I'm just wondering ... "why? Why? WHY?"
It all began back in March, as I was driving along one of our less well-maintained trunk roads. The road noise made it difficult to hear every last word of an incoming phone call, which I had thought to be from my usual mobile phone agent, offering me a new android phone with all the latest bells and whistles, subject only to taking out a 24-month contract. It was the sort of offer that I've had a number of times over the last few years, and since the terms sounded favourable, I said, 'Yes please, send me the paperwork.' It wasn't until the next day's post arrived that I realised that this had been a cold call from another firm who had somehow got my details.
The terms were indeed good and, since I wasn't completely satisfied with the upgraded handset I got last summer, I decided to go ahead with this new deal. The offer included the option of transferring my old number to the new contract, and an undertaking to fund the early termination fee charged by my former provider. When I rang Vodafone to get the code for the transfer, I was warned that this funding offer was to be treated with suspicion. To this man's experienced ear, when the cost of the phone I was being offered was matched against the payments I would be making over the 24 months of the contract, there would be little if any money left over to refund the fee he was about to charge me for terminating the old contract - well in excess of £300! It sounded as if the firm was offering something it wouldn't be able to afford: an offer that was indeed too good to be true!
The new phone came and I got used to it. I paid Vodafone their charge, sent off a copy of the invoice as required, and waited for the refund. The weeks passed, and the refund didn't come. I protested, complained, and was given all kinds of plausible but unreliable excuses. Finally, three months after the new contract had been signed, I issued a final ultimatum, and when this put neither a cheque into my hands nor money into my bank, I took action using Money Claims on Line (the internet version of the Small Claims Court.) It cost me a £35 fee to do so, and I anticipated either losing this as well, or at least having a long hassle to get anything at all back. I decided that it would be worth it for the satisfaction of claiming fulfilment of an offer that I had had in writing, and which looked genuine, and to prove that at least one of their victims was prepared to stand up for himself.
When I came back from my holiday, the cheque was on my doormat, inclusive of the fee, and a nominal amount of interest from the date it was originally due. I banked it with some haste - almost fearing that it might evaporate before I could do so! I have since received from the Court a Full Admission from the defendant, asking me to confirm to them my acceptance of the payment made. After checking with the bank that the deadline has now passed, beyond which the cheque can no longer 'bounce', I shall tonight respond to the Court, and enter the amount recovered into my accounts.
It's good to know that the system works. I just wonder how many other people were offered the same good deal; how many other people accepted it, and haven't had their refund; and with the Vodafone man's wise analysis still ringing in my ears, I'm wondering how indeed the company managed to finance the scheme if they all decided to follow the same path as I did.
It all began back in March, as I was driving along one of our less well-maintained trunk roads. The road noise made it difficult to hear every last word of an incoming phone call, which I had thought to be from my usual mobile phone agent, offering me a new android phone with all the latest bells and whistles, subject only to taking out a 24-month contract. It was the sort of offer that I've had a number of times over the last few years, and since the terms sounded favourable, I said, 'Yes please, send me the paperwork.' It wasn't until the next day's post arrived that I realised that this had been a cold call from another firm who had somehow got my details.
The terms were indeed good and, since I wasn't completely satisfied with the upgraded handset I got last summer, I decided to go ahead with this new deal. The offer included the option of transferring my old number to the new contract, and an undertaking to fund the early termination fee charged by my former provider. When I rang Vodafone to get the code for the transfer, I was warned that this funding offer was to be treated with suspicion. To this man's experienced ear, when the cost of the phone I was being offered was matched against the payments I would be making over the 24 months of the contract, there would be little if any money left over to refund the fee he was about to charge me for terminating the old contract - well in excess of £300! It sounded as if the firm was offering something it wouldn't be able to afford: an offer that was indeed too good to be true!
The new phone came and I got used to it. I paid Vodafone their charge, sent off a copy of the invoice as required, and waited for the refund. The weeks passed, and the refund didn't come. I protested, complained, and was given all kinds of plausible but unreliable excuses. Finally, three months after the new contract had been signed, I issued a final ultimatum, and when this put neither a cheque into my hands nor money into my bank, I took action using Money Claims on Line (the internet version of the Small Claims Court.) It cost me a £35 fee to do so, and I anticipated either losing this as well, or at least having a long hassle to get anything at all back. I decided that it would be worth it for the satisfaction of claiming fulfilment of an offer that I had had in writing, and which looked genuine, and to prove that at least one of their victims was prepared to stand up for himself.
When I came back from my holiday, the cheque was on my doormat, inclusive of the fee, and a nominal amount of interest from the date it was originally due. I banked it with some haste - almost fearing that it might evaporate before I could do so! I have since received from the Court a Full Admission from the defendant, asking me to confirm to them my acceptance of the payment made. After checking with the bank that the deadline has now passed, beyond which the cheque can no longer 'bounce', I shall tonight respond to the Court, and enter the amount recovered into my accounts.
It's good to know that the system works. I just wonder how many other people were offered the same good deal; how many other people accepted it, and haven't had their refund; and with the Vodafone man's wise analysis still ringing in my ears, I'm wondering how indeed the company managed to finance the scheme if they all decided to follow the same path as I did.
Monday, 25 July 2011
All at sea now!
The holiday finished about a week ago, though it doesn't seem that way. I was back inside my own front door by 7.55 pm last Tuesday and, after a little frantic activity, most of what had accompanied me was either put away, looking for a home, waiting for a wash, or at least out of sight ... and mind, until the weekend!
By 8.0 the next morning, I'd been to the office, signed on for work, and collected my invoice for the week I'd worked before the holiday. Home again then, for a good sort out of the desk, so I could feel somewhere close to organised. It was as well that I did, for within a few hours work proper had started, with the second job offering something out of the ordinary. I was asked to collect 'a piece of art' from the local gallery to take it to one of the schools in the town. 'Art' to my unimaginative mind is a picture, and from the professional point of view, preferably rolled and wrapped; at worst in a large and awkward frame. This was awkward all right - it was a sculptured metal tree, about three feet tall, with spikes sticking out in all directions! How do you carry something like that?
Compensation came only minutes afterwards, when I was offered a job for delivery the next morning in Belfast. This was heavy, and - as was made clear to me when I collected it - quite expensive, but at least it was regular in shape, quite stable on its base, and didn't fight back when I strapped it securely in position in the van! As usual, the only problem with a trip to Belfast is sleep.
After a normal day, to arrive at the ferry port at midnight is tiring in the first place. Then when you get on the ferry, a 2.0 am breakfast is (just about) acceptable, but experience has told me it doesn't help you to overcome the difficulties of sharing a cabin with a noisily snoring trucker. We have to share ... I asked! The only alternative is to pay £50 for a solo cabin for yourself, which seems a trifle excessive when the shared berth is included in the ticket price. So I snooze if I can in the truckers' lounge.
I prefer to go via Dublin, because you do at least get the break of the ferry crossing to split up the long drive. It means that I can drive in daylight up the Irish M1, fill up with cheaper diesel (141.9 cents a litre instead of 139.9 pence - if you do the maths you'll find it saves about 5%), and be comparatively fresh appearing in Belfast at 8.30 am. The alternative is to drive all the way up to Stranraer, make the shorter crossing and arrive in the wee small hours, with nothing to do until businesses open ... no thanks!
I don't really mind coming home via Stranraer, because the time is my own, and allowing for the time I'd take to get back to Dublin, my eventual return home would differ but little. The killer is that awful road from Stranraer to the motorway - 100 miles of single carriageway, interrupted presently by roadworks, as well as the almost inevitable stop for a sleep in the back of the van. And by the time I get home late on the day of delivery, it's almost certain that I shall have stopped again - often I find at Wetherby, and maybe even further on as well. At least I pride myself - so far! - on not having fallen asleep at the wheel. But if I had, I might well not be writing this!
Friday was a bit more relaxing - nothing more demanding than Hastings ... and Friday's M25 queues!
By 8.0 the next morning, I'd been to the office, signed on for work, and collected my invoice for the week I'd worked before the holiday. Home again then, for a good sort out of the desk, so I could feel somewhere close to organised. It was as well that I did, for within a few hours work proper had started, with the second job offering something out of the ordinary. I was asked to collect 'a piece of art' from the local gallery to take it to one of the schools in the town. 'Art' to my unimaginative mind is a picture, and from the professional point of view, preferably rolled and wrapped; at worst in a large and awkward frame. This was awkward all right - it was a sculptured metal tree, about three feet tall, with spikes sticking out in all directions! How do you carry something like that?
Compensation came only minutes afterwards, when I was offered a job for delivery the next morning in Belfast. This was heavy, and - as was made clear to me when I collected it - quite expensive, but at least it was regular in shape, quite stable on its base, and didn't fight back when I strapped it securely in position in the van! As usual, the only problem with a trip to Belfast is sleep.
After a normal day, to arrive at the ferry port at midnight is tiring in the first place. Then when you get on the ferry, a 2.0 am breakfast is (just about) acceptable, but experience has told me it doesn't help you to overcome the difficulties of sharing a cabin with a noisily snoring trucker. We have to share ... I asked! The only alternative is to pay £50 for a solo cabin for yourself, which seems a trifle excessive when the shared berth is included in the ticket price. So I snooze if I can in the truckers' lounge.
I prefer to go via Dublin, because you do at least get the break of the ferry crossing to split up the long drive. It means that I can drive in daylight up the Irish M1, fill up with cheaper diesel (141.9 cents a litre instead of 139.9 pence - if you do the maths you'll find it saves about 5%), and be comparatively fresh appearing in Belfast at 8.30 am. The alternative is to drive all the way up to Stranraer, make the shorter crossing and arrive in the wee small hours, with nothing to do until businesses open ... no thanks!
I don't really mind coming home via Stranraer, because the time is my own, and allowing for the time I'd take to get back to Dublin, my eventual return home would differ but little. The killer is that awful road from Stranraer to the motorway - 100 miles of single carriageway, interrupted presently by roadworks, as well as the almost inevitable stop for a sleep in the back of the van. And by the time I get home late on the day of delivery, it's almost certain that I shall have stopped again - often I find at Wetherby, and maybe even further on as well. At least I pride myself - so far! - on not having fallen asleep at the wheel. But if I had, I might well not be writing this!
Friday was a bit more relaxing - nothing more demanding than Hastings ... and Friday's M25 queues!
Sunday, 17 July 2011
Almost over now
Well, the holiday is almost over, and it's time to draw things to a conclusion. Although I'm not actually going home until Tuesday evening, I've already started packing: somehow it won't seem such a wrench that way. Not knowing what the weather would be like, I came prepared for both sightseeing and sitting indoors, so there are a number of items that I know by now I'll not be needing ... and there's that big heap of books to find a home for ...
On Friday, I decided to bring forward my planned visit to "twisted spire" country. It was as well I did, for yesterday most of the day was wet, and not a good day for visiting anywhere. Chesterfield in the sunshine was delightful, and not only did I wander around the many market stalls, and in and out of charity shops galore, but also look around the magnificent parish church with 'that' spire. There are, apparently, many theories about why it is twisted, from a lack of the right superstructure, to the use of unseasoned wood. No one, so far as I have heard, has suggested correcting it, however. Let's face it, that would surely be a retrograde step from the fame viewpoint. I know that I'd heard of it long before I ever knew where the town was, let alone got to see it!
Saturday wasn't quite a write-off, because the railway theme that seems to have invaded the whole holiday surfaced again. My route home from getting some cheap diesel for the van took me past a convenient vantage point for a picture of Bennerley Viaduct. This is one of only three surviving examples of this particular engineering construction, and is the subject of a preservation order. Not so the railway for which it was built, which has long since disappeared, leaving it deserted and almost derelict in the middle of nowhere.
And this afternoon was a time of shower-dodging too, as I paid a visit to the one-time home of Lord Byron, Newstead Abbey. This is a pleasant combination of extensive gardens, monastic ruin and stately home, and also incorporates a neat cafe that isn't over-expensive either. Admission to the house, which has been greatly improved and extended since Byron's day, is by taking part in a guided tour. There are three tours each Sunday afternoon and one of the first announcements to be made to those joining was that any photographs may be taken at will. Did I need any further encouragement?
All too soon the adventure will have come to an end, the demands of a normal courier life will reclaim me, and those pictures will be my only memory of a most enjoyable time.
On Friday, I decided to bring forward my planned visit to "twisted spire" country. It was as well I did, for yesterday most of the day was wet, and not a good day for visiting anywhere. Chesterfield in the sunshine was delightful, and not only did I wander around the many market stalls, and in and out of charity shops galore, but also look around the magnificent parish church with 'that' spire. There are, apparently, many theories about why it is twisted, from a lack of the right superstructure, to the use of unseasoned wood. No one, so far as I have heard, has suggested correcting it, however. Let's face it, that would surely be a retrograde step from the fame viewpoint. I know that I'd heard of it long before I ever knew where the town was, let alone got to see it!
And this afternoon was a time of shower-dodging too, as I paid a visit to the one-time home of Lord Byron, Newstead Abbey. This is a pleasant combination of extensive gardens, monastic ruin and stately home, and also incorporates a neat cafe that isn't over-expensive either. Admission to the house, which has been greatly improved and extended since Byron's day, is by taking part in a guided tour. There are three tours each Sunday afternoon and one of the first announcements to be made to those joining was that any photographs may be taken at will. Did I need any further encouragement?All too soon the adventure will have come to an end, the demands of a normal courier life will reclaim me, and those pictures will be my only memory of a most enjoyable time.
Thursday, 14 July 2011
Costa del Engineering
It's time for another holiday bulletin. On Monday I took a proper excursion - a bus trip to market day at Bakewell. Rather like the once-a-week buses of my own childhood, bringing villagers in to the markets, this afforded only a short while actually in the town, taking almost as long to get there and back again. In the modern day, however, the distances covered are much greater. The market was heaving, with stalls of every kind and countless stalls and shops offering a wide variety to eat and drink, including of course the 'original' Bakewell Tart - from at least two competing outlets!
I had time to visit the parish church, which has an immense south transept, but no matching one on the northern side. I was taken by the use to which this has been put. Completely partitioned off - probably noiseproof - it now forms a large schoolroom.
After a day's rest on Tuesday, leading up to a football match in the evening, yesterday found me back on the railway trail, with a visit to the Great Central Railway at Loughborough. One of the outlying stations was 'set' to wartime, the era of 'make do and mend', 'digging for victory' (with vegetables replacing flowers beside the platform!) and so on. The boards carried suitable public information posters, luggage was piled up in those big brown suitcases, and all the windows carried cross-tapes to minimise damage from flying glass in the event of a bombing raid - it was all very convincing!
The main station contained the refreshment room, and the inevitable book- and gift-shop, but also - even worse from the point of view of my holiday budget - there was an 'Emporium' of railway and steam nostalgia, to soak up yet more hard-earned pounds!
Today's expedition to find the Notts. section of the GCR was less fruitful, for not only is it less developed than the Loughborough prservation, it wasn't open to the public today. Instead I was thrilled to find the Ruddington Framework Knitting Museum. If you've read Margaret Dickinson's book 'Tangled Threads', you can imagine what this place is like. For me, it brought her descriptions vividly to life. A demonstration of one frame-knitter at one-sixth speed gave a good indication of how deafening a score of them must have been all running full-bore in a small room for fouteen or sixteen hours a day! The courtyard, with its workshops, privies, and four knitters' cottages - and even the erstwhile Methodist Chapel across the road - was saved from demolition in the late sixties by a group of villagers who wanted to preserve something of their own heritage. This yard, at its peak would have accommodated about 35-40 machines; in 1881 the whole village recorded around 400 people involved in the industry, at least half of whom were Framework Knitters, other associated occupations being given as seamers, hosiers, frame makers and so on.
And the holiday isn't over yet. What else will I discover?
I had time to visit the parish church, which has an immense south transept, but no matching one on the northern side. I was taken by the use to which this has been put. Completely partitioned off - probably noiseproof - it now forms a large schoolroom.
After a day's rest on Tuesday, leading up to a football match in the evening, yesterday found me back on the railway trail, with a visit to the Great Central Railway at Loughborough. One of the outlying stations was 'set' to wartime, the era of 'make do and mend', 'digging for victory' (with vegetables replacing flowers beside the platform!) and so on. The boards carried suitable public information posters, luggage was piled up in those big brown suitcases, and all the windows carried cross-tapes to minimise damage from flying glass in the event of a bombing raid - it was all very convincing!The main station contained the refreshment room, and the inevitable book- and gift-shop, but also - even worse from the point of view of my holiday budget - there was an 'Emporium' of railway and steam nostalgia, to soak up yet more hard-earned pounds!
Today's expedition to find the Notts. section of the GCR was less fruitful, for not only is it less developed than the Loughborough prservation, it wasn't open to the public today. Instead I was thrilled to find the Ruddington Framework Knitting Museum. If you've read Margaret Dickinson's book 'Tangled Threads', you can imagine what this place is like. For me, it brought her descriptions vividly to life. A demonstration of one frame-knitter at one-sixth speed gave a good indication of how deafening a score of them must have been all running full-bore in a small room for fouteen or sixteen hours a day! The courtyard, with its workshops, privies, and four knitters' cottages - and even the erstwhile Methodist Chapel across the road - was saved from demolition in the late sixties by a group of villagers who wanted to preserve something of their own heritage. This yard, at its peak would have accommodated about 35-40 machines; in 1881 the whole village recorded around 400 people involved in the industry, at least half of whom were Framework Knitters, other associated occupations being given as seamers, hosiers, frame makers and so on.And the holiday isn't over yet. What else will I discover?
Sunday, 10 July 2011
Holiday Frolics
Work has been abandoned for a couple of weeks, and on Thursday I journeyed to a small town outside Nottingham. Approached from the north-west, much of the town is hidden by the rolling meadows, but towering above it is the solid, square, blackened tower of the parish church, rebuilt, I believe, after a fire in the mid-nineteenth century. This morning I had great pleasure in ringing before the morning service on their famous ring of eight bells - arguably the finest ring in the shire!
This afternoon I stumbled upon an enthusiasts' 'gold mine'. I
visited an attraction called "Midland Railway - Butterley". Strangely, the entrance and car park are some miles from the main features, so after establishing my entitlement to a concessionary admission ticket, I boarded a diesel unit to ride to the
end of the line, near to the former junction with the main line that still runs between Nottingham and Sheffield, and then back to Swanwick Junction.
Here there was not only the anticipated collection of steam engines, both in steam and being repaired, carriages and wagons, but also a wide variety of other transport antiquities: veteran cars and classic coaches too. And to crown it all, a tin chapel that had been transported from its original home, re-erected and established as a permanent part of the site. Unfortunately I couldn't examine it properly, because it was fulfilling its present function as a meeting room for one of the societies taking part in today's activities.
I spent a while browsing in the many museums and workshops,
all of which seemed to house stalls selling appropriate books and magazines. These events always make
me feel an outsider from the clearly dedicated, and inwardly-focused community
whose lives seem to be completely devoted to these interests. I did find one book that didn't evoke these feelings of inadequacy, but before I could be tempted further, the rain started. I headed for the shelter of the station buildings but by good fortune just made it to a steam train that was standing in the
station, on the point of departure for Butterley.
Here I simply had to linger - innocently - in yet another gift shop, before I considered that the rain had eased sufficiently for a comfortable dash to the car park where it had all begun.
But the first adventure I want to tell you about took place yesterday evening. It was fascinating, although for me it didn't live quite up to its published description. It took place at a ridiculously early 7.0pm, and was advertised as the Ghost Walk. A bus from my lodging and a brisk walk took me swiftly to Ye Olde
Salutation Inn in the centre of Nottingham. I entered, and stood awkwardly in the bar, but my discomfort was allayed somewhat by a sign welcoming folks to wait and not feel obliged to buy a drink.
Soon a peculiarly dressed
chap arrived, whom I correctly guessed to be our guide, and at 7.0 he made a
bold announcement in the bar. We gathered outside and followed the eerie sound of his flute to the
neighbouring graveyard for an introductory talk. The evening wasn’t particularly spectral, and
as we walked to Castlegate, the Olde Trip to Jerusalem, the Robin Hood statue
in front of the castle gate, and finally to the caves beneath the Salutation,
he told a succession of yarns that had some supernatural or potentially scary
aspect. Whether the tales were actually
true, I wouldn’t like to say, but at least one was based on facts I’d read
elsewhere.
 |
| Gary - the Storyteller |
This afternoon I stumbled upon an enthusiasts' 'gold mine'. I
visited an attraction called "Midland Railway - Butterley". Strangely, the entrance and car park are some miles from the main features, so after establishing my entitlement to a concessionary admission ticket, I boarded a diesel unit to ride to the
end of the line, near to the former junction with the main line that still runs between Nottingham and Sheffield, and then back to Swanwick Junction.
Here there was not only the anticipated collection of steam engines, both in steam and being repaired, carriages and wagons, but also a wide variety of other transport antiquities: veteran cars and classic coaches too. And to crown it all, a tin chapel that had been transported from its original home, re-erected and established as a permanent part of the site. Unfortunately I couldn't examine it properly, because it was fulfilling its present function as a meeting room for one of the societies taking part in today's activities.
I spent a while browsing in the many museums and workshops,
all of which seemed to house stalls selling appropriate books and magazines. These events always make
me feel an outsider from the clearly dedicated, and inwardly-focused community
whose lives seem to be completely devoted to these interests. I did find one book that didn't evoke these feelings of inadequacy, but before I could be tempted further, the rain started. I headed for the shelter of the station buildings but by good fortune just made it to a steam train that was standing in the
station, on the point of departure for Butterley.Here I simply had to linger - innocently - in yet another gift shop, before I considered that the rain had eased sufficiently for a comfortable dash to the car park where it had all begun.
Wednesday, 6 July 2011
Strange week
This is really a strange week, the sort that comes around only a few times in a year. It's been all beginnings and endings, and virtually no middle. On Monday I had my van serviced, and spent all the morning and most of the afternoon at home, catching up on all sorts of admin that hadn't been attended to lately. Once the van was finished I got to the office too late to do any actual work, so the week proper didn't begin until Tuesday.
Tuesday itself was a good day, despite having what felt like a long wait in the middle (although it was actually only about three hours) I had an early pick-up for my first job, and then after that wait, a longer job with a late finish, but after getting a meal on the way home, I was still home a little after 9.0pm, so had no real need to complain.
As a result, this morning I had what we call a standing start: in other words I turned up at the office and added my name to the many others who had already booked in for work. I did a local job in the morning, and a couple of not-much-more-than-local jobs in the afternoon. It was a less than full day, and I was home quite early, but for once I didn't worry, because this was the end of the working week for me - tomorrow I'm off on my holidays! That's meant that this evening has been a time of tidying up loose ends, closing things down, and packing. I'm glad I'm going in the van because, in addition to a suitcase, I have two other bags and three boxes of sundry 'stuff'. I never was one to travel light; when I go away even the tiniest kitchen sink has to look out for itself!
I have a business appointment a few miles down the road in the morning, but once I get back from that I shall feel the freedom of the open road; I can load all my clutter into the van, pop it through the car wash, and be on my way. There may well be a blog while I'm away though ... and it could be illustrated - that would be yet another beginning!
Tuesday itself was a good day, despite having what felt like a long wait in the middle (although it was actually only about three hours) I had an early pick-up for my first job, and then after that wait, a longer job with a late finish, but after getting a meal on the way home, I was still home a little after 9.0pm, so had no real need to complain.
As a result, this morning I had what we call a standing start: in other words I turned up at the office and added my name to the many others who had already booked in for work. I did a local job in the morning, and a couple of not-much-more-than-local jobs in the afternoon. It was a less than full day, and I was home quite early, but for once I didn't worry, because this was the end of the working week for me - tomorrow I'm off on my holidays! That's meant that this evening has been a time of tidying up loose ends, closing things down, and packing. I'm glad I'm going in the van because, in addition to a suitcase, I have two other bags and three boxes of sundry 'stuff'. I never was one to travel light; when I go away even the tiniest kitchen sink has to look out for itself!
I have a business appointment a few miles down the road in the morning, but once I get back from that I shall feel the freedom of the open road; I can load all my clutter into the van, pop it through the car wash, and be on my way. There may well be a blog while I'm away though ... and it could be illustrated - that would be yet another beginning!
Monday, 4 July 2011
Busy weekend
I keep a note of all my private mileage, so that I can account for the fuel correctly in my records. Although some weekends this is a fairly high number, it might reflect perhaps attendance at a meeting some way away, or a visit to friends or relatives. It can indicate a relaxing time. On other occasions the number can be quite low, and be equally misleading, for it can disguise a busy weekend, like the one that's just over.
I got home late on Friday evening, so Saturday began rather lethargically. I went to the shops, and sorted out my admin at home. Then, after lunch, with the washing whirring away in the machine, I trundled off to the Striking Competition (see former blog "Down Time" to learn what this is) which was followed by a magnificent repast while we waited for the results. Although there were only five teams taking part, we knew from the outset that we wouldn't be good enough to win, and we estimated that we'd come fourth. Our guess was a good one. We beat one other team, but felt encouraged by the fact that several other towers in the district hadn't put a team into the contest, which was a fair indicator that, if they had, they wouldn't have been able to better us. So we considered ourselves in reality fourth out of perhaps 15 or 20!
Then yesterday, of course, I was out early to go ringing as usual at 8.40am, albeit only for about twenty minutes. Home again, I had an unusual enthusiasm for housework, and got the vacuum cleaner out for some action before it was time to go to church. On the way I called in to a local shop to buy the newspaper, although I have to admit that up to now it lays unopened on the table. The service appeared to be badly attended in comparison to normal, but this was because a number of regulars had gone to the Cathedral to support our new curate at his ordination. This reminded me that later in the day there would be a 'lunch and tea party' to welcome him to the parish, and afford an opportunity to put a face to the name.
I came home to finish the housework and have a quick lunch before preparing my usual 'diary' e-mail, in which I summarise the week's events for three close family members who (I believe) like to keep track of my comings and goings. At any rate, the exercise provides me with a chance to reflect on what has been done, the people met and experiences shared, and 'put the week to bed', so to speak. Then it was out again to 'meet the curate', and after consuming yet another plate of food - which could scarcely be justified - I enjoyed a few minutes' quiet chat with a friend who, like me, will shortly be going on holiday. I envied him the prospect of a family camping week, but not some of the other trials he's going through at present.
And this morning comes the quiet after the storm. A much quieter Monday than usual, for my van has gone to be serviced, and I can sit at home and catch up on other things while I wait for that phone call ...
I got home late on Friday evening, so Saturday began rather lethargically. I went to the shops, and sorted out my admin at home. Then, after lunch, with the washing whirring away in the machine, I trundled off to the Striking Competition (see former blog "Down Time" to learn what this is) which was followed by a magnificent repast while we waited for the results. Although there were only five teams taking part, we knew from the outset that we wouldn't be good enough to win, and we estimated that we'd come fourth. Our guess was a good one. We beat one other team, but felt encouraged by the fact that several other towers in the district hadn't put a team into the contest, which was a fair indicator that, if they had, they wouldn't have been able to better us. So we considered ourselves in reality fourth out of perhaps 15 or 20!
Then yesterday, of course, I was out early to go ringing as usual at 8.40am, albeit only for about twenty minutes. Home again, I had an unusual enthusiasm for housework, and got the vacuum cleaner out for some action before it was time to go to church. On the way I called in to a local shop to buy the newspaper, although I have to admit that up to now it lays unopened on the table. The service appeared to be badly attended in comparison to normal, but this was because a number of regulars had gone to the Cathedral to support our new curate at his ordination. This reminded me that later in the day there would be a 'lunch and tea party' to welcome him to the parish, and afford an opportunity to put a face to the name.
I came home to finish the housework and have a quick lunch before preparing my usual 'diary' e-mail, in which I summarise the week's events for three close family members who (I believe) like to keep track of my comings and goings. At any rate, the exercise provides me with a chance to reflect on what has been done, the people met and experiences shared, and 'put the week to bed', so to speak. Then it was out again to 'meet the curate', and after consuming yet another plate of food - which could scarcely be justified - I enjoyed a few minutes' quiet chat with a friend who, like me, will shortly be going on holiday. I envied him the prospect of a family camping week, but not some of the other trials he's going through at present.
And this morning comes the quiet after the storm. A much quieter Monday than usual, for my van has gone to be serviced, and I can sit at home and catch up on other things while I wait for that phone call ...
Tuesday, 28 June 2011
Little things mean a lot!
Yesterday was a hot day. So was Sunday, but at least I could sit in my lounge with the windows open. Yesterday was a hot working day! After my arrival at the office, I found I faced quite a long wait until I was likely to be sent out on a job, so I tried to keep cool by sitting inside, reading a book, or attacking a newspaper crossword. Drinking lots of water seemed a good idea as well. Around 11.30, I was despatched with a parcel for an Italian café on a retail park in Ellesmere Port.
As I drove down the road from the office, I felt desperately hot. I knew that this was partly because there is nowhere there to park our vans in shade, so it had been sitting in the full sun for over three hours. Although I knew that this extreme heat was only temporary, and that it would ease as I drove along with the windows ajar and the fan on, I still wasn't satisfied, so - despite the adverse effect on being able to hear my radio - I switched on the 'emergency cooling apparatus': a cheap clip-on fan that I'd bought long ago in a supermarket.
This fan has been clipped to the shelf above the passenger door since I've had this van, and ever since the rotating mechanism ceased operating after only a few weeks that first summer, it has been skillfully trained on my head and neck. As I switched it on yesterday, its refreshing cool blast was most welcome. But then it stopped, and my comfort level plummeted.
After I'd gone a few miles, I realised that my SatNav was still working from its internal battery instead of from the feed from the van. I pulled over when it was convenient, to find out why. Now, when I bought this van, I had promptly installed a four-way adaptor for the cigar-lighter (Thinks: no-one smokes cigars in vans - thank goodness - so why should it have such a ridiculous name?) socket. Many people have since commented about the range of switches and the cables that wander across my dashboard from this, and to be fair, they do look much more impressive than they ought. The four sockets were used for i) the reversing sensors (another self-fitted accessory upon the van's acquisition), ii) the SatNav, iii) the charger for the mobile phone's hands-free device, clipped on the passenger sun-visor, and iv) that fan.
I decided that the unusual fact that I had had all four of these items switched on at once had been just too much for the adaptor unit, so I unplugged this, plugged SatNav in directly, and proceded to my delivery, thinking that I should have to get a new fuse this morning. Consequently, first thing today, I went in search of the appropriate fuse and found some at a well-known motor spares chain with an orange-and-black livery. (Why should I advertise Halfords?) I quickly replaced the offending item, and then by way of a test I tried the fan once more. It worked ... but for a couple of seconds only, and when I disassembled the plug again, I found the new fuse neatly blown! What a good job I had had to buy a pack of three; at least there was thus a reserve supply. Another replacement was fitted, and this time I didn't try the fan again! When I got back to the office, I carefully removed it, unthreaded its wiring, and awarded it pride of place in the official rubbish skip. After two years, and having cost me only £9.99, I felt it owed me nothing, and certainly wasn't worth attempting to get it fixed.
Today was cooler, but after surviving yesterday's heat without it, I don't think I shall hurry to replace that fan - the fuss over the fuses was quite enough, thank you!
As I drove down the road from the office, I felt desperately hot. I knew that this was partly because there is nowhere there to park our vans in shade, so it had been sitting in the full sun for over three hours. Although I knew that this extreme heat was only temporary, and that it would ease as I drove along with the windows ajar and the fan on, I still wasn't satisfied, so - despite the adverse effect on being able to hear my radio - I switched on the 'emergency cooling apparatus': a cheap clip-on fan that I'd bought long ago in a supermarket.
This fan has been clipped to the shelf above the passenger door since I've had this van, and ever since the rotating mechanism ceased operating after only a few weeks that first summer, it has been skillfully trained on my head and neck. As I switched it on yesterday, its refreshing cool blast was most welcome. But then it stopped, and my comfort level plummeted.
After I'd gone a few miles, I realised that my SatNav was still working from its internal battery instead of from the feed from the van. I pulled over when it was convenient, to find out why. Now, when I bought this van, I had promptly installed a four-way adaptor for the cigar-lighter (Thinks: no-one smokes cigars in vans - thank goodness - so why should it have such a ridiculous name?) socket. Many people have since commented about the range of switches and the cables that wander across my dashboard from this, and to be fair, they do look much more impressive than they ought. The four sockets were used for i) the reversing sensors (another self-fitted accessory upon the van's acquisition), ii) the SatNav, iii) the charger for the mobile phone's hands-free device, clipped on the passenger sun-visor, and iv) that fan.
I decided that the unusual fact that I had had all four of these items switched on at once had been just too much for the adaptor unit, so I unplugged this, plugged SatNav in directly, and proceded to my delivery, thinking that I should have to get a new fuse this morning. Consequently, first thing today, I went in search of the appropriate fuse and found some at a well-known motor spares chain with an orange-and-black livery. (Why should I advertise Halfords?) I quickly replaced the offending item, and then by way of a test I tried the fan once more. It worked ... but for a couple of seconds only, and when I disassembled the plug again, I found the new fuse neatly blown! What a good job I had had to buy a pack of three; at least there was thus a reserve supply. Another replacement was fitted, and this time I didn't try the fan again! When I got back to the office, I carefully removed it, unthreaded its wiring, and awarded it pride of place in the official rubbish skip. After two years, and having cost me only £9.99, I felt it owed me nothing, and certainly wasn't worth attempting to get it fixed.
Today was cooler, but after surviving yesterday's heat without it, I don't think I shall hurry to replace that fan - the fuss over the fuses was quite enough, thank you!
Saturday, 25 June 2011
It's a long way ...
Yesterday I went to Camborne. I first knew of the trip was at about 5.0 the previous afternoon. I had time only for some essential admin, a little research, a snack and about five hours' sleep before I was on the road. During the journey I was very glad of the company of my mp3 player and radio. The mp3 facility is a facet of my mobile phone, so I don't run it constantly to avoid running down the battery and denying myself the use of the phone.
I tend to favour Radio 4, and the regular news updates through the day - beginning at 5.30am - told and retold of the conviction of Levi Bellfield for the murder of Milly Dowler, and the unfolding unrest caused by the treatment of the Dowlers in the witness box, and the subsequent dismissal of the case against Bellfield in respect of the attempted abduction of Rachel Cowles. Only so much of this repetition can be endured, and it was soon time to hit the off-button.
In the silence I reflected on the views expressed and reported in this case. Obviously I sympathised with the Dowlers that they'd had to undergo the pain and embarrassment of their home life being revealed to all and sundry amid their lingering bereavement over Milly's death. My thoughts turned to what lay behind all this. Naturally I realise my inability to imagine fully their situation but, subject to this, I marvelled that in the nine years since these events the family seemed not to have moved on emotionally from their initial grief and loss.
Then there was the disappointment of Miss Cowles, at not having received justice in respect of the case that had had to be dismissed because of certain matters that had been made public after Bellfield's conviction on the murder charge. I could understand the legal nuances of this decision, but my main reaction was to this lady's quest for justice. What is justice? How does it relate to revenge? If justice is more closely allied to the determination of blame and thence to punishment, then surely (I contend), in her mind at least, blame was already determined, so what about punishment?
And this led my wondering further, to a fundamental point not touched on by anyone else I've listened to. It was reported that Bellfield is already serving a life sentence for other crimes. Unlike many life sentences, which result in the criminal being released after ten, fifteen or twenty years, or whatever term the judge has recommended, this was said to be 'all of life', so he was already committed to spending the remainder of his life in prison. Since death sentences were abandoned many years ago, what further punishment could possibly inflicted upon him ... torture?
Amazingly, I found myself on the brink of dismissing the whole concept of prisoners' rights. Of course there was the need to draw these cases to a close, to ensure that 'it was Bellfield what dunnit!' and that there was no possibility of a real offender escaping unprosecuted. But, I asked myself, - given the impossibility of imposing any further sentence upon him - could this closure not have been achieved in a manner a lot less flamboyant and costly, and the associated pain, indignity and frustration completely avoided?
With my thoughts totally unresolved, and the radio on once more, I headed for home ....
I tend to favour Radio 4, and the regular news updates through the day - beginning at 5.30am - told and retold of the conviction of Levi Bellfield for the murder of Milly Dowler, and the unfolding unrest caused by the treatment of the Dowlers in the witness box, and the subsequent dismissal of the case against Bellfield in respect of the attempted abduction of Rachel Cowles. Only so much of this repetition can be endured, and it was soon time to hit the off-button.
In the silence I reflected on the views expressed and reported in this case. Obviously I sympathised with the Dowlers that they'd had to undergo the pain and embarrassment of their home life being revealed to all and sundry amid their lingering bereavement over Milly's death. My thoughts turned to what lay behind all this. Naturally I realise my inability to imagine fully their situation but, subject to this, I marvelled that in the nine years since these events the family seemed not to have moved on emotionally from their initial grief and loss.
Then there was the disappointment of Miss Cowles, at not having received justice in respect of the case that had had to be dismissed because of certain matters that had been made public after Bellfield's conviction on the murder charge. I could understand the legal nuances of this decision, but my main reaction was to this lady's quest for justice. What is justice? How does it relate to revenge? If justice is more closely allied to the determination of blame and thence to punishment, then surely (I contend), in her mind at least, blame was already determined, so what about punishment?
And this led my wondering further, to a fundamental point not touched on by anyone else I've listened to. It was reported that Bellfield is already serving a life sentence for other crimes. Unlike many life sentences, which result in the criminal being released after ten, fifteen or twenty years, or whatever term the judge has recommended, this was said to be 'all of life', so he was already committed to spending the remainder of his life in prison. Since death sentences were abandoned many years ago, what further punishment could possibly inflicted upon him ... torture?
Amazingly, I found myself on the brink of dismissing the whole concept of prisoners' rights. Of course there was the need to draw these cases to a close, to ensure that 'it was Bellfield what dunnit!' and that there was no possibility of a real offender escaping unprosecuted. But, I asked myself, - given the impossibility of imposing any further sentence upon him - could this closure not have been achieved in a manner a lot less flamboyant and costly, and the associated pain, indignity and frustration completely avoided?
With my thoughts totally unresolved, and the radio on once more, I headed for home ....
Sunday, 19 June 2011
Down Time
"You're a 24/7 courier - don't you ever get time off?" Well, let me correct the presumption implied in that question. I work for a 24/7 firm; that doesn't mean that the individual drivers work 24/7 ... that would be simply unsafe! No, the phones are manned around the clock by a team of controllers, and outside of 'normal' office hours a variety of drivers make themselves available - according to their own individual situations and circumstances - for whatever work comes in.
As for me - I tend to be available from waking to bedtime five days a week, and the occasional Saturday when I have nothing else written in my diary (which seems to mean less frequently these days than when I started, full of enthusiasm!) As a matter of principle, I don't work on Sundays, with a couple of exceptional categories, which are i) to collect a job locally for delivery somewhere on Monday morning, and ii) in case of medical emergency.
So the question remains, 'what do I do with my spare time?' I guess that's almost - but not quite - the same as 'what are my hobbies?' One thing I'm looking forward to at the moment is an event that takes place in a couple of weeks' time. This is the annual gathering to determine the winners of the Eddie Buck Trophy. It's what we bellringers call a 'Striking Competition.' That's not a process of hitting each other, but a test of each team's ability to ring the same bells with an even space between the dings and the dongs. It's (usually) a nice relaxing afternoon in a sunny churchyard, catching up with old acquaintances not seen since last year, or enjoying the company of the friends I see every week.
And then there's the tea! While we wait for the judges to tot up the marks and compile their report on our various performances, what else is there to do but munch and sip? A ringers' tea has to be seen to be believed. There are usually far more sandwiches, with a variety of fillings, than would supply more picnics than would fill a summer, and an equally plentiful provision of (fattening) cakes, too! And alongside these is an endless supply of tea by the gallon although, since I don't drink tea, I make a nuisance of myself and request coffee. Once we have all been refreshed, comes the official meeting of the local Ringing Association, highlight of which is the judges' report, and the all-important results.
My team is not normally lucky enough to be among the winning trio. Once we did come third - but we didn't broadcast the fact that there were only three teams taking part that year! Our tower captain has been going round with a clipboard collecting the names of those who are willing to take part. He only needs six, but it's amazing how many are going on holiday, feel they aren't good enough, or are simply unwilling to subject themselves to the ignomy of being beaten (which is virtually certain, since some teams are so good as to win, or nearly so, year after year.)
Win or lose, work will soon come round again!
As for me - I tend to be available from waking to bedtime five days a week, and the occasional Saturday when I have nothing else written in my diary (which seems to mean less frequently these days than when I started, full of enthusiasm!) As a matter of principle, I don't work on Sundays, with a couple of exceptional categories, which are i) to collect a job locally for delivery somewhere on Monday morning, and ii) in case of medical emergency.
So the question remains, 'what do I do with my spare time?' I guess that's almost - but not quite - the same as 'what are my hobbies?' One thing I'm looking forward to at the moment is an event that takes place in a couple of weeks' time. This is the annual gathering to determine the winners of the Eddie Buck Trophy. It's what we bellringers call a 'Striking Competition.' That's not a process of hitting each other, but a test of each team's ability to ring the same bells with an even space between the dings and the dongs. It's (usually) a nice relaxing afternoon in a sunny churchyard, catching up with old acquaintances not seen since last year, or enjoying the company of the friends I see every week.
And then there's the tea! While we wait for the judges to tot up the marks and compile their report on our various performances, what else is there to do but munch and sip? A ringers' tea has to be seen to be believed. There are usually far more sandwiches, with a variety of fillings, than would supply more picnics than would fill a summer, and an equally plentiful provision of (fattening) cakes, too! And alongside these is an endless supply of tea by the gallon although, since I don't drink tea, I make a nuisance of myself and request coffee. Once we have all been refreshed, comes the official meeting of the local Ringing Association, highlight of which is the judges' report, and the all-important results.
My team is not normally lucky enough to be among the winning trio. Once we did come third - but we didn't broadcast the fact that there were only three teams taking part that year! Our tower captain has been going round with a clipboard collecting the names of those who are willing to take part. He only needs six, but it's amazing how many are going on holiday, feel they aren't good enough, or are simply unwilling to subject themselves to the ignomy of being beaten (which is virtually certain, since some teams are so good as to win, or nearly so, year after year.)
Win or lose, work will soon come round again!
Thursday, 16 June 2011
Pear-shaped
The courier life isn't 100% enjoyment. I have to admit that, while for the most part I do find it most pleasant, there are times when I could do with things turning out differently. Take this week, for example. It started off well, with a job to Manchester on Monday, and I enjoyed a nice chat with the trucker who shared my table for a meal on my way back. Tuesday started off quietly, but that wasn't uncommon, and early in the afternoon I set off with jobs for Northampton and Mansfield.
It was just on 6.0pm when disaster struck. I was just leaving a motorway service area when the van made it quite clear it wasn't going anywhere. My clutch pedal was firmly on the floor and not shifting. First of all, I called the office to get another driver on the way to me to complete the delivery, and then called out the breakdown service. Their care was faultless. I was told they would be with me within 45 mins to an hour - the recovery vehicle arrived before half an hour had elapsed, and by the time his arrival had been guaranteed, my van was loaded up and we were already on our way to his depot.
By the time my colleague had turned up and we had transferred the boxes I was to have delivered to his van, arrangements had been made to bring me home, and I was into bed by 11.0, having left the van with my maintenance garage, whom I visited when they opened yesterday morning to explain what was going on. They too pulled out all the stops to help me, knowing that while the van is off the road I earn nothing. By 4.30 pm, the problem had been identified - a broken clutch pedal - the part obtained, and replacement carried out. Several pounds worse off, I was back in the office, waiting for more work.
This morning, loaded with jobs for Milton Keynes and Carlisle, I had set off on my journey when my agonies were revived - the engine management light came on! It was a hard choice to make. Do I ignore it and press on to recover some of my losses, or abort and return to base? I took the wise course, and once more saw my work fed into someone else's vehicle. I then returned to the garage, where the wonders of computer technology indicated no definite answer. Certainly nothing serious was shown to be amiss, and the presumed explanation was a switch possibly adjusted differently from how it had been before the pedal replacement.
This afternoon has at least produced some work that I was able to execute hitch-free, and now I'm loaded again, this time for an early morning journey to Worcester, in the hope of keeping the time lost to the minimum for the remainder of the week.
It just goes to show that life on the road isn't always plain sailing (or driving!)
It was just on 6.0pm when disaster struck. I was just leaving a motorway service area when the van made it quite clear it wasn't going anywhere. My clutch pedal was firmly on the floor and not shifting. First of all, I called the office to get another driver on the way to me to complete the delivery, and then called out the breakdown service. Their care was faultless. I was told they would be with me within 45 mins to an hour - the recovery vehicle arrived before half an hour had elapsed, and by the time his arrival had been guaranteed, my van was loaded up and we were already on our way to his depot.
By the time my colleague had turned up and we had transferred the boxes I was to have delivered to his van, arrangements had been made to bring me home, and I was into bed by 11.0, having left the van with my maintenance garage, whom I visited when they opened yesterday morning to explain what was going on. They too pulled out all the stops to help me, knowing that while the van is off the road I earn nothing. By 4.30 pm, the problem had been identified - a broken clutch pedal - the part obtained, and replacement carried out. Several pounds worse off, I was back in the office, waiting for more work.
This morning, loaded with jobs for Milton Keynes and Carlisle, I had set off on my journey when my agonies were revived - the engine management light came on! It was a hard choice to make. Do I ignore it and press on to recover some of my losses, or abort and return to base? I took the wise course, and once more saw my work fed into someone else's vehicle. I then returned to the garage, where the wonders of computer technology indicated no definite answer. Certainly nothing serious was shown to be amiss, and the presumed explanation was a switch possibly adjusted differently from how it had been before the pedal replacement.
This afternoon has at least produced some work that I was able to execute hitch-free, and now I'm loaded again, this time for an early morning journey to Worcester, in the hope of keeping the time lost to the minimum for the remainder of the week.
It just goes to show that life on the road isn't always plain sailing (or driving!)
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