I have lots of issues - BIG issues! - about issues. There seem to be more issues around these days than ever before. They are penetrating so many facets of life, that I'm beginning to have issues about where I'm going to find issues next!
Now to my mind, with its aforementioned affection for language and all things linguistic, an issue is associated with something going out, and there are three general areas where the word should be legitimately found. One is medical (as in St Luke 8:43), one is genealogical (as all over Debretts), and the other is in the realms of newspapers and magazines (which go out from the printers to the sales network).
But, almost overnight it seems, issues have become an epidemic. People are having issues about all kinds of things, and in many different ways. I get the impression that virtually anything can have, or become, or be made the subject of an issue: from the new proposals on NHS reform, to trains not running on time, to dog mess on the pavements (which is, of course, an issue, but not in the way the speaker usually means it!)
Issues are appearing in our newspapers, on radio and TV news bulletins, and all over the internet. I even found one the other day in a public toilet in a service station, where there was encouragement that any issues should be brought to the attention of the manager. I mused that any issue I might find in such places would be taken promptly to my GP!
Everywhere I go I encounter more and more issues. I ask myself who has banned problems; what has happened to good old difficulties, why have simple disagreements been outlawed and just which irresponsible discussion forum is to blame for the extermination of the last remaining topics, matters and themes?!
.... or am I merely making an issue out of a molehill?
Thursday 26 May 2011
Wednesday 25 May 2011
Waiting time
In order to offer a prompt service, we (almost) always have drivers 'on hand', i.e. waiting at the office for work. As you can imagine, therefore, waiting forms a significant part of our week, even if it's not every day for all of us. So it seemed a good idea to give some idea of how we fill our idle time.
The occupations fall into two broad categories - social and individual. Some people spend all of their waiting in our crew room or the office, in the company of other drivers, or the staff. Strictly speaking we're not supposed to go into the office unless with specific purpose, but we rarely get turned away if we don't disturb the running of the business, and sometimes our knowledge of the customers' affairs can prove useful.
Whilst together in this way, time can be taken up in many ways: eating and drinking, for example, is a high priority. There is always a variety of newspapers: some will read them avidly, while others simply ogle the pictures of scantily clad girls. My preference - along with one other keen anorak - is to turn to the puzzle page, where we see which of us can demolish the crosswords first. The majority of the drivers - and all of the staff, of course - have their 'own' Premier League football teams, and there is usually vigourous but amicable rivalry between the various loyalties: chafing each other, chewing over recent scores and transfers, or bemoaning the latest management gaffs.
When it comes to individual preferences, some will sit playing with their mobile phones, using the latest appications, sending texts or calls, sometimes to friends or wives, or dealing with personal business. Some who have less time to themselves at home will be catching up with their admin., and I even saw someone the other day mending a rosary! Some drivers will only be seen in the crew room to use toilet or kitchen, and pass the rest of the time in their vans. Notwithstanding that much of their time has to be there anyway, they seem to prefer this; it is 'their space'. There they can smoke, read their own papers, or a novel, or listen to music without interruption. Some have even been known to have laptops or DVD players with them, or a dog for company.
And some people even prefer to sit at home, doing their own thing ... hoping that the phone will ring ......
The occupations fall into two broad categories - social and individual. Some people spend all of their waiting in our crew room or the office, in the company of other drivers, or the staff. Strictly speaking we're not supposed to go into the office unless with specific purpose, but we rarely get turned away if we don't disturb the running of the business, and sometimes our knowledge of the customers' affairs can prove useful.
Whilst together in this way, time can be taken up in many ways: eating and drinking, for example, is a high priority. There is always a variety of newspapers: some will read them avidly, while others simply ogle the pictures of scantily clad girls. My preference - along with one other keen anorak - is to turn to the puzzle page, where we see which of us can demolish the crosswords first. The majority of the drivers - and all of the staff, of course - have their 'own' Premier League football teams, and there is usually vigourous but amicable rivalry between the various loyalties: chafing each other, chewing over recent scores and transfers, or bemoaning the latest management gaffs.
When it comes to individual preferences, some will sit playing with their mobile phones, using the latest appications, sending texts or calls, sometimes to friends or wives, or dealing with personal business. Some who have less time to themselves at home will be catching up with their admin., and I even saw someone the other day mending a rosary! Some drivers will only be seen in the crew room to use toilet or kitchen, and pass the rest of the time in their vans. Notwithstanding that much of their time has to be there anyway, they seem to prefer this; it is 'their space'. There they can smoke, read their own papers, or a novel, or listen to music without interruption. Some have even been known to have laptops or DVD players with them, or a dog for company.
And some people even prefer to sit at home, doing their own thing ... hoping that the phone will ring ......
Saturday 21 May 2011
Dealing with night time
One of the challenges a courier driver has to face from time to time is the 'long job'. On Thursday one of my colleagues was sent to Aberdeen. When Dave arrived in the office at about 10.30 yesterday morning, having driven around 1,000 miles in the previous 24 hours, he commented about sleep. He'd arrived home around 2.0 am, but had still woken up at something like the time for a normal working day.
I've found the same thing on similar occasions. You sleep for four hours or so, and realise that you've not slept enough, but somehow the body rebels, you can't get off again, so you get up, and pick up the daily routines - even though you're well aware that you're not quite up to par. The other week I had the same experience and was blessed with a time of waiting for work during the rest of the morning, and then was sent on a nice easy job in the afternoon. To bed only just before my usual time, I slept well, and was back to normal the next day.
I read somewhere that the body only recovers about a third of the sleep it's missed in one short night, and these experiences certainly seem to bear that out. I wonder - without answer - what might be the best way of coping with the vagaries of sleep's coming and going. I fully recognise that each of us is different in our body's reactions and aptitudes, so I can only comment from my own experiences.
Why is it that, from time to time, one isn't able to stay asleep ... or indeed get to sleep in the first place? I find that - time of the morning apart - my usual problem is temperature. The body seems to have a very narrow tolerance range, and if I'm too hot or too cold, the result is either dozing intermittently before waking up again, or simply not sleeping at all, at which point the very frustration makes things much worse! A few weeks ago I found myself out late at night; the body told me it wasn't safe to continue driving, so I got into the back of the van, together with sleeping bag and blankets, only to find that the night was so cold that this intermittent dozing was all I could manage. Eventually I realised that I was just getting colder and colder, so I abandoned this unproductive cycle, and drove off again, discovering that I had achieved enough rest to be able to drive safely for a couple more hours.
You might ask, why don't I simply leave the engine running on these occasions, and let the heater keep me warm. Firstly, the heat doesn't really penetrate to the back of the van; secondly, while it is possible to sleep in the front, mine is only a small van, and to lay down to sleep, albeit a little crunched up, I need to have the handbrake off, and lay across it, and consequently I have to put the van into gear in order that it shouldn't roll away out of control. I do sleep like this sometimes, but it's not overly comfortable, and the longest I have managed that way is about 40 minutes - a refreshing doze, but not enough to provide for the journey home from the far north or west.
Most important is that we do do something about the situation, and don't keep driving despite being sleepy. We see too often the evidence of those who aren't so disciplined - and the effect on other innocent road users!
I've found the same thing on similar occasions. You sleep for four hours or so, and realise that you've not slept enough, but somehow the body rebels, you can't get off again, so you get up, and pick up the daily routines - even though you're well aware that you're not quite up to par. The other week I had the same experience and was blessed with a time of waiting for work during the rest of the morning, and then was sent on a nice easy job in the afternoon. To bed only just before my usual time, I slept well, and was back to normal the next day.
I read somewhere that the body only recovers about a third of the sleep it's missed in one short night, and these experiences certainly seem to bear that out. I wonder - without answer - what might be the best way of coping with the vagaries of sleep's coming and going. I fully recognise that each of us is different in our body's reactions and aptitudes, so I can only comment from my own experiences.
Why is it that, from time to time, one isn't able to stay asleep ... or indeed get to sleep in the first place? I find that - time of the morning apart - my usual problem is temperature. The body seems to have a very narrow tolerance range, and if I'm too hot or too cold, the result is either dozing intermittently before waking up again, or simply not sleeping at all, at which point the very frustration makes things much worse! A few weeks ago I found myself out late at night; the body told me it wasn't safe to continue driving, so I got into the back of the van, together with sleeping bag and blankets, only to find that the night was so cold that this intermittent dozing was all I could manage. Eventually I realised that I was just getting colder and colder, so I abandoned this unproductive cycle, and drove off again, discovering that I had achieved enough rest to be able to drive safely for a couple more hours.
You might ask, why don't I simply leave the engine running on these occasions, and let the heater keep me warm. Firstly, the heat doesn't really penetrate to the back of the van; secondly, while it is possible to sleep in the front, mine is only a small van, and to lay down to sleep, albeit a little crunched up, I need to have the handbrake off, and lay across it, and consequently I have to put the van into gear in order that it shouldn't roll away out of control. I do sleep like this sometimes, but it's not overly comfortable, and the longest I have managed that way is about 40 minutes - a refreshing doze, but not enough to provide for the journey home from the far north or west.
Most important is that we do do something about the situation, and don't keep driving despite being sleepy. We see too often the evidence of those who aren't so disciplined - and the effect on other innocent road users!
Tuesday 17 May 2011
Neither one thing nor the other!
I wrote the other week about being fascinated by languages. Of course, I need look no further than home, for our broad English vocabulary is largely a product of two languages having merged in the middle ages. That's why we have two words for a lot of things - one from a Saxon root, the other from Latin - and down the years these have grown their own distinct nuances of meaning. I thought of this last week when I heard reports of the tragic killing of Jennifer Mills-Westley in Tenerife. In its news bulletins Radio 4 said she had been 'beheaded'; Radio 5-Live went for the more genteel 'decapitated'. The two words mean the same thing but, even in writing this, I comment that one is more genteel than the other - why should this be? Simply that one is from the Saxon, which we consider to be direct, ruthlessly to the point, and sometimes downright rude, while the other is from Latin, and has acquired all the opposite attributes.
The classic example of this distinction is seen in the words we use for meat. While the animal is still alive it is called by a word of Saxon origin (cow, pig, sheep), but once butchered it becomes food, and is accorded 'Latin status' (beef, pork, mutton). In the twelfth century, we might imagine, the animals were looked after by Saxon peasants on the farm, while the meat would grace the table of the Norman nobles, who would describe it in their own language.
Now, I come from generations of country folk, who were either small farmers or farm labourers, but could I see myself looking after animals? Certainly not. I wouldn't have the first idea of either what needs doing, nor how to do it - let alone feel comfortable trying! My life moved from town council house and grammar school to a succession of office jobs, until a career change nine years ago led me into the world of transport. In a way, I suppose, I - and many others of my generation - have crossed that social divide.
And it would be wrong, I suggest, to consider that such a divide no longer exists in the 21st century. I've already said how uncomfortable I would feel on a farm; I think I can say the same for working in a factory or warehouse - especially as in my new life I see these situations 'through the doorway', as it were. But, on my side of the divide, I'm well aware of many places and situations where I would feel equally out of place - boardrooms, business meetings, society parties and the like.
No, far from having disappeared, the divide has itself divided. As progress has encouraged migration from village into town, and from city to suburb, so the distinction between cottage and mansion has allowed the ingress of a middle ground, where one finds town houses, executive dwellings and so on. What was once a black and white life has now become a prosperous confusion of may shades of grey. We no longer know whether we are wealthy or rich!
The classic example of this distinction is seen in the words we use for meat. While the animal is still alive it is called by a word of Saxon origin (cow, pig, sheep), but once butchered it becomes food, and is accorded 'Latin status' (beef, pork, mutton). In the twelfth century, we might imagine, the animals were looked after by Saxon peasants on the farm, while the meat would grace the table of the Norman nobles, who would describe it in their own language.
Now, I come from generations of country folk, who were either small farmers or farm labourers, but could I see myself looking after animals? Certainly not. I wouldn't have the first idea of either what needs doing, nor how to do it - let alone feel comfortable trying! My life moved from town council house and grammar school to a succession of office jobs, until a career change nine years ago led me into the world of transport. In a way, I suppose, I - and many others of my generation - have crossed that social divide.
And it would be wrong, I suggest, to consider that such a divide no longer exists in the 21st century. I've already said how uncomfortable I would feel on a farm; I think I can say the same for working in a factory or warehouse - especially as in my new life I see these situations 'through the doorway', as it were. But, on my side of the divide, I'm well aware of many places and situations where I would feel equally out of place - boardrooms, business meetings, society parties and the like.
No, far from having disappeared, the divide has itself divided. As progress has encouraged migration from village into town, and from city to suburb, so the distinction between cottage and mansion has allowed the ingress of a middle ground, where one finds town houses, executive dwellings and so on. What was once a black and white life has now become a prosperous confusion of may shades of grey. We no longer know whether we are wealthy or rich!
Friday 13 May 2011
The Nose has it
It wasn’t at all unusual. The other afternoon I took a few sips of refreshing water as I drove home after a job. Its flavour was just as water ever tastes, but this time as I put the bottle to my lips my nose detected a somewhat unpleasant odour. Either the neck of the bottle or the cap was distinctly tainted with stale dishcloth. Yeukk!
Thus reminded that the sense of smell is the most powerful, and most able to evoke memories, I spent the next few miles in silent, and for the most part happy, recollection of significant smells of the past. One of the earliest I remembered was that of fir resin, as exuded by a ‘real’ Christmas tree, and as I considered those early Christmasses in the home of my grandparents, where the family gathered regularly each year, I remembered too a time only a few years back when I had sought out a seasonal wreath, simply to fill my tiny flat with the ‘right’ smell for Christmas.
The other key thing about memory is, of course, that those things longest ago are those we remember most vividly. I’ve never got to the bottom of why this should be. In my smell-induced reverie, I brought forth a few more from childhood. One was the smell of freshly baked bread. The route from my home through the town to school was past the local bakery; nowadays such places are an increasing rarity in the high street, but whenever I find one, there is a great temptation to linger and take in deep breaths of nostalgia.
Another smell that is becoming rarer with the passage of time and with anti-smoking legislation is the pipe. A few wielders of the trusty briar remain, however, and – depending what brand of tobacco they smoke – the aromatic clouds that engulf them can remind me of my own home, where my father regularly smoked Juggler, or perhaps of family holidays - occasions when my uncle, who rolled his own cigarettes during the rest of the year, took out his pipe and enjoyed Erinmore Flake.
Other smells I remembered were more natural, and potentially healthier too. The other day we all enjoyed a most refreshing perfume as we sat in the office with the door open – that of fresh rain falling on grass and concrete after a prolonged dry spell. Connected with this is another that reminded me of schooldays – the scent of grass clippings as they dry in the open. Every week or two during the summer our school field would be cut by a large device pulled by a tractor. The clippings were never gathered up, and when we played on the field afterwards we seemed to be surrounded by this smell, which grew more pungent in dry weather as they slowly rotted on top of the new growth underneath.
Now – where did I put that bottle of bleach?
Wednesday 11 May 2011
The Red and the Green
Let me rehearse for you, gentle reader - with apologies to Jane Austen - the Doctrine of the Repeating Genie. "It is a truth universally acknowledged among courier drivers that, if one goes where one has not gone before, or at least has not been for quite a while, one should not be surprised if, in a comparative short while, one goes there again."
Now, this re-visiting may be only hours later, after an absence of a couple of weeks, or the scale may be something considerably greater, but the truth is nonetheless there. Just before Easter, on the day when our dear Queen was dishing out special coins to deserving old people, I was despatched to an oil refinery near Milford Haven. On checking my records, I find that the last time I dipped a toe into the Principality was back at the beginning of June last year, when I had been sent to Port Talbot. And now, this week, I've had a lovely trip to a part of Wales I'd never seen before, between Lampeter and Aberaeron.
I've always been fascinated by languages, before ever learning French, and later Latin, at school. Since leaving school I've dabbled quite seriously with German and with Dutch - but having virtually no live practice in either, the similarities between them have almost destroyed my confidence in both. But Welsh ... right on our doorstep, as it were, has remained a mystery. It looks almost unpronounceable for a start! One day in my late teens, when I was planning a holiday into North Wales (incidentally, a holiday that never came about because the young lady with whom I was planning to go ceased to be my girl friend, and I opted instead for a cheap week on the south coast,) I bought a Teach Yourself Welsh book. I abandoned the course around lesson five, and the only thing I have really retained from it is the key to pronunciation. There are seven vowels, not the five we are used to in English; all letters are pronounced and, once you've come to terms with the fact that 'll' is a separate letter requiring its own mouth configuration, you're away!
I've found that, on the occasions that I go there, I'm intrigued by the bi-lingual road signs, which are a wonderful way to expand the vocabulary. (I discovered the other year that the same is true in Britanny!) On Monday evening, while stopped at some roadworks, I realised that I had correctly selected which of the six Welsh words on the bilingual sign in front of me corresponded to each of the six English words beneath them - the word order in Welsh is confusingly different, more like that in French. I was so pleased with this achievement that the words stuck in my mind for quite a while afterwards: "Pan welwch olau coch seywch ima" - "When shows light red wait here".
This recollection yielded an important (?) revelation to me yesterday, when I realised too late that I had turned into a road where for several weeks men have been replacing a gas main. Almost inevitably I was stopped in front of the lights, reading a similar red sign in front of me. This one, of course, was just in English, and refered to the opposite colour, "Wait here for green light." Until now, I had never realised that there were two schools of thought on this matter!
Now, this re-visiting may be only hours later, after an absence of a couple of weeks, or the scale may be something considerably greater, but the truth is nonetheless there. Just before Easter, on the day when our dear Queen was dishing out special coins to deserving old people, I was despatched to an oil refinery near Milford Haven. On checking my records, I find that the last time I dipped a toe into the Principality was back at the beginning of June last year, when I had been sent to Port Talbot. And now, this week, I've had a lovely trip to a part of Wales I'd never seen before, between Lampeter and Aberaeron.
I've always been fascinated by languages, before ever learning French, and later Latin, at school. Since leaving school I've dabbled quite seriously with German and with Dutch - but having virtually no live practice in either, the similarities between them have almost destroyed my confidence in both. But Welsh ... right on our doorstep, as it were, has remained a mystery. It looks almost unpronounceable for a start! One day in my late teens, when I was planning a holiday into North Wales (incidentally, a holiday that never came about because the young lady with whom I was planning to go ceased to be my girl friend, and I opted instead for a cheap week on the south coast,) I bought a Teach Yourself Welsh book. I abandoned the course around lesson five, and the only thing I have really retained from it is the key to pronunciation. There are seven vowels, not the five we are used to in English; all letters are pronounced and, once you've come to terms with the fact that 'll' is a separate letter requiring its own mouth configuration, you're away!
I've found that, on the occasions that I go there, I'm intrigued by the bi-lingual road signs, which are a wonderful way to expand the vocabulary. (I discovered the other year that the same is true in Britanny!) On Monday evening, while stopped at some roadworks, I realised that I had correctly selected which of the six Welsh words on the bilingual sign in front of me corresponded to each of the six English words beneath them - the word order in Welsh is confusingly different, more like that in French. I was so pleased with this achievement that the words stuck in my mind for quite a while afterwards: "Pan welwch olau coch seywch ima" - "When shows light red wait here".
This recollection yielded an important (?) revelation to me yesterday, when I realised too late that I had turned into a road where for several weeks men have been replacing a gas main. Almost inevitably I was stopped in front of the lights, reading a similar red sign in front of me. This one, of course, was just in English, and refered to the opposite colour, "Wait here for green light." Until now, I had never realised that there were two schools of thought on this matter!
Sunday 8 May 2011
Time to come out!
For all my adult life I've been voting Liberal (more recently Liberal Democrat). In the first place I did so because I couldn't stand the constant one-against-the-other of the two main parties, and gradually I appreciated what appeared to be a realistic, 'can't please everyone all the time' attitude of the third party. My stance was reinforced at some point when my father referred to his own father (long since dead) as having "always spoken well of 'the Little Welshman' (i.e. David Lloyd George); without him we'd never have got through the first war!"
Consequently, I had always been 'on the losing side' when it came to politics and my reactions underwent a sea change after last year's general election and the formation of a coalition that involved the Liberal Democrats. Because one of the major planks of their policies that I've favoured is the reform of the electoral system, I again found myself on the losing side when the result of last week's referendum was declared. Despite my political history, I was amazed just what a shock this was to me, and since hearing the result, I've been reconsidering my position. I realise that I'd voted for AV - possibly like thousands of others - because it was what was on offer, rather than because I felt it was the best replacement for the existing system. I recall Mr. Clegg's comment before the general election that it was a compromise, and now I come to think of it, I can't clearly see that it would have affected the outcome of future elections to a really great extent.
I've been looking at the proportional system in use for the Scottish Parliament and Welsh Assembly which involve electors casting two votes, one for their constituency and the other for the regional lists. This 'Additional Member' system seems very complex, and provides for at least some seats to be held by Members who have no direct constituency link. I suppose this 'unattached' quality is a reflection of the status of the House of Lords, and in a single-chamber assembly these regional Members may fulfil a somewhat similar role.
The PR system that I prefer is the one used both for the Northern Ireland Assembly and in the Republic of Ireland. This is a Single Transferable Vote within Multi-Member Constituencies. At the user-end the appearance to the voter is the same as we've heard about AV - we would rank candidates according to preference. The difference is that with each constituency electing several candidates (in Northern Ireland each of the 18 constituencies elect 6 Members to the Assembly), each constituency is represented by Members from more than one party (in Northern Ireland the average is 3.6 parties). This must mean that there remain few individuals who can claim no elected representative who shares their point of view, no one who can speak for them with understanding and sympathy. At the same time, each Member of the Assembly is directly linked to the constituency that elected him/her.
Given that the whole matter has been effectively kicked into the long grass for many years to come, what I say now will have little or no effect, but it's good to get it off my chest. Now back to the steering wheel!
Consequently, I had always been 'on the losing side' when it came to politics and my reactions underwent a sea change after last year's general election and the formation of a coalition that involved the Liberal Democrats. Because one of the major planks of their policies that I've favoured is the reform of the electoral system, I again found myself on the losing side when the result of last week's referendum was declared. Despite my political history, I was amazed just what a shock this was to me, and since hearing the result, I've been reconsidering my position. I realise that I'd voted for AV - possibly like thousands of others - because it was what was on offer, rather than because I felt it was the best replacement for the existing system. I recall Mr. Clegg's comment before the general election that it was a compromise, and now I come to think of it, I can't clearly see that it would have affected the outcome of future elections to a really great extent.
I've been looking at the proportional system in use for the Scottish Parliament and Welsh Assembly which involve electors casting two votes, one for their constituency and the other for the regional lists. This 'Additional Member' system seems very complex, and provides for at least some seats to be held by Members who have no direct constituency link. I suppose this 'unattached' quality is a reflection of the status of the House of Lords, and in a single-chamber assembly these regional Members may fulfil a somewhat similar role.
The PR system that I prefer is the one used both for the Northern Ireland Assembly and in the Republic of Ireland. This is a Single Transferable Vote within Multi-Member Constituencies. At the user-end the appearance to the voter is the same as we've heard about AV - we would rank candidates according to preference. The difference is that with each constituency electing several candidates (in Northern Ireland each of the 18 constituencies elect 6 Members to the Assembly), each constituency is represented by Members from more than one party (in Northern Ireland the average is 3.6 parties). This must mean that there remain few individuals who can claim no elected representative who shares their point of view, no one who can speak for them with understanding and sympathy. At the same time, each Member of the Assembly is directly linked to the constituency that elected him/her.
Given that the whole matter has been effectively kicked into the long grass for many years to come, what I say now will have little or no effect, but it's good to get it off my chest. Now back to the steering wheel!
Saturday 7 May 2011
On the Edge!
Imagine you are driving along a small cliff-top road. On one side is a broad swathe of pleasant countryside, while on the other is a narrow meadow, beyond which you know there's a sheer drop to the rocky sea below. Suddenly, an unseen hand removes both the meadow and its boundary hedge. Imagine your feelings as you realise that, if you stray from the little lane you're following, you'll be over the edge and onto the rocks. Something akin to these emotions has been swirling among us in recent days.
It all started when Martin, one of my fellow-drivers, received an advice through the post that he'd been caught speeding. Not one to lay down easily, he asked for photographic evidence, and learned that he'd been doing 57mph on a de-restricted single carriageway. Thinking that this was quite permissible, and that there must have been some mistake, he protested. Through doing so, he opened up - and shared with the rest of us - a whole can of worms.
Now, most of us were aware that the big (i.e. Transit or Sprinter) vans are subject to lower speed limits than cars, and have to keep to 60 on dual carriageways and 50 on single carriageways. We did, however, believe that, as small van drivers, we came under the same classification as cars. Martin's experience has taught us otherwise. He had received a little poster showing lots of pictures: vans of all shapes and sizes, and in pretty colours to make it 'pallatable'. The narrative explained that such vehicles were all subject to these lower speed limits. A number of us noticed that there was no picture of our particular van there, and we wondered why.
Someone was diligent and sought clarification on the internet. It appears that the speed limits for goods vehicles are detailed in the Road Traffic Regulation Act, 1984, which includes an exemption from the lower speed limits for a 'Car-derived Van', defined as 'a van derived from a car chassis, and having a maximum laden weight no more than 2 tonnes'. This sent us racing for our registration documents, and finding with some relief that our particular vans have a maximum laden weight of 1,995 kg. Uncertainty prevails, however, with the confusion of body type (car-derived van) and taxation class (light goods vehicle); and doubt as to whether or not it is officially accepted that - despite this declaration of body type - the chassis of our vehicle is in fact the same as a saloon.
Meanwhile some of us are learning afresh how to drive 'within the speed limit'!
It all started when Martin, one of my fellow-drivers, received an advice through the post that he'd been caught speeding. Not one to lay down easily, he asked for photographic evidence, and learned that he'd been doing 57mph on a de-restricted single carriageway. Thinking that this was quite permissible, and that there must have been some mistake, he protested. Through doing so, he opened up - and shared with the rest of us - a whole can of worms.
Now, most of us were aware that the big (i.e. Transit or Sprinter) vans are subject to lower speed limits than cars, and have to keep to 60 on dual carriageways and 50 on single carriageways. We did, however, believe that, as small van drivers, we came under the same classification as cars. Martin's experience has taught us otherwise. He had received a little poster showing lots of pictures: vans of all shapes and sizes, and in pretty colours to make it 'pallatable'. The narrative explained that such vehicles were all subject to these lower speed limits. A number of us noticed that there was no picture of our particular van there, and we wondered why.
Someone was diligent and sought clarification on the internet. It appears that the speed limits for goods vehicles are detailed in the Road Traffic Regulation Act, 1984, which includes an exemption from the lower speed limits for a 'Car-derived Van', defined as 'a van derived from a car chassis, and having a maximum laden weight no more than 2 tonnes'. This sent us racing for our registration documents, and finding with some relief that our particular vans have a maximum laden weight of 1,995 kg. Uncertainty prevails, however, with the confusion of body type (car-derived van) and taxation class (light goods vehicle); and doubt as to whether or not it is officially accepted that - despite this declaration of body type - the chassis of our vehicle is in fact the same as a saloon.
Meanwhile some of us are learning afresh how to drive 'within the speed limit'!
Thursday 5 May 2011
An Unprejudiced Observation
One of the essentials of a working life alone in a vehicle is the radio. Sometimes, I admit, it gets too much and I have to hit the off button for a little silent therapy, but it's not long before I switch on again - maybe tuned to a different programme for a change.
I usually catch the Radio 4 news at least once in a day, although sometimes the political interviews are a bit frustrating, with two opposing speakers talking across each other, and the presenter trying frantically to maintain order.
Today is polling day, and yesterday's lunchtime news brought to the fore something that has bugged me for a while. The presenter referred to the elections for the Scottish Parliament and for the Assemblies in Wales and Northern Ireland. There then followed an update on the campaigns in Scotland, and another on those in Wales. At this point, looking at the clock, I said to myself, 'I bet they don't visit Northern Ireland.' And I was right! No sooner had contact been lost with the Welsh correspondent, than Martha Kearney introduced the next topic, the death of Osama Bin Laden. Significant though this latter might be, the incident prompted an outburst of frustration from me that I feel I have to echo here.
The people of Northern Ireland - at least the Unionist majority - have expressed consistently over the last century and more that they wish to remain part of this United Kingdom. It clearly has to be for their own benefit, I have decided, rather than out of response to any consideration coming from this side of the North Channel. I have often heard, (usually through listening to RTÉ) of something that's taking place in Northern Ireland that fails to reach the UK news bulletins, although the same thing happening in Scotland or Wales would merit at the very least a couple of minutes and probably a report from a local correspondent as well.
This election campaign is just one more example of the comparative neglect at Union level of a community that, despite its troubled - and, in terms of human lives, costly - recent history, is still a part of our Kingdom. I often think that they get better service from the other side of the border in the Republic than they do from their 'fellow' countrymen over here.
I usually catch the Radio 4 news at least once in a day, although sometimes the political interviews are a bit frustrating, with two opposing speakers talking across each other, and the presenter trying frantically to maintain order.
Today is polling day, and yesterday's lunchtime news brought to the fore something that has bugged me for a while. The presenter referred to the elections for the Scottish Parliament and for the Assemblies in Wales and Northern Ireland. There then followed an update on the campaigns in Scotland, and another on those in Wales. At this point, looking at the clock, I said to myself, 'I bet they don't visit Northern Ireland.' And I was right! No sooner had contact been lost with the Welsh correspondent, than Martha Kearney introduced the next topic, the death of Osama Bin Laden. Significant though this latter might be, the incident prompted an outburst of frustration from me that I feel I have to echo here.
The people of Northern Ireland - at least the Unionist majority - have expressed consistently over the last century and more that they wish to remain part of this United Kingdom. It clearly has to be for their own benefit, I have decided, rather than out of response to any consideration coming from this side of the North Channel. I have often heard, (usually through listening to RTÉ) of something that's taking place in Northern Ireland that fails to reach the UK news bulletins, although the same thing happening in Scotland or Wales would merit at the very least a couple of minutes and probably a report from a local correspondent as well.
This election campaign is just one more example of the comparative neglect at Union level of a community that, despite its troubled - and, in terms of human lives, costly - recent history, is still a part of our Kingdom. I often think that they get better service from the other side of the border in the Republic than they do from their 'fellow' countrymen over here.
Monday 2 May 2011
A Bank Holiday of pleasure
Just think - you've gone off for a nice afternoon's fishing, but ... corks! there ain't half a strong breeze coming off the water ... and you're more than a mite chilly. What do you do? Of course, call the wife, get her to organise a courier to bring you a nice bagful of woolly socks, sweaters and stuff. What other remedy could there be? Well, that's what one chap thought this afternoon, and guess who the courier was that got called in to do the deed?!
I've never been amazed at the jobs we couriers get - not since the day I collected some live baby tortoises, along with their 'passports', and was asked to check the passport numbers against the numbers written on the tortoise shells ... but that's another story, for another time. There's a lot of pleasure attached to the courier life.
After warming up the fisherman this afternoon, I had an hour to kill before going to pick up my next job (nothing out of the ordinary about that one, so I'll not mention it), and I parked at a motorway service station, got some coffee and sat listening to the radio, 'people-watching'. The thought crossed my mind just how selfish some people are, parking in disabled bays with no obvious need to use them, let alone official disabled badges on show. A sort of campaign half-formed in my mind, of producing lots of leaflets to have at the ready in my van for just such an occasion, to pop under the windscreen wipers of offending vehicles - just to remind them what such spaces are for.
Just then there emerged from the service building someone who forced me to reconsider the black-and-white ideas I'd had about badges and justification. Certainly the vehicle towards which this old lady made her way had no disabled badge, but clearly the use of a disabled bay was justified, for she was clearly blind. She was accompanied by a very caring younger lady - possibly her daughter - and had a guide dog, a beautiful golden labrador (or was it a retriever: I never could tell the difference!). I watched, fascinated, as the dog led the old lady to the side of the car, and waited obediently until the other woman had helped her inside. Then the dog came round to the back of the car and waited for the young woman to open the rear hatch. As she did so, I noticed inside a furry blanket and a woolly toy, characteristic of a dog-friendly environment. The dog made no move towards either. The young lady slowly removed the dog's harness, tossed it into the car, and had the dog sit on the ground, behind the vehicle.
After uttering a word or two, akin to a sergeant-major dismissing a squad of troops on a parade ground, the woman stood aside, and what a transformation came over that canine! A quick leap and not only was it playfully inside the car, but it had also grabbed the toy and was waving it around for a quick game of tug - just like any other 'doggy teenager'.
I'm not sure there is any wise moral to this tale, save to say that it's always worth keeping an eye open ready to spot something warm and amusing, and to beware of making ill-informed judgements.
I've never been amazed at the jobs we couriers get - not since the day I collected some live baby tortoises, along with their 'passports', and was asked to check the passport numbers against the numbers written on the tortoise shells ... but that's another story, for another time. There's a lot of pleasure attached to the courier life.
After warming up the fisherman this afternoon, I had an hour to kill before going to pick up my next job (nothing out of the ordinary about that one, so I'll not mention it), and I parked at a motorway service station, got some coffee and sat listening to the radio, 'people-watching'. The thought crossed my mind just how selfish some people are, parking in disabled bays with no obvious need to use them, let alone official disabled badges on show. A sort of campaign half-formed in my mind, of producing lots of leaflets to have at the ready in my van for just such an occasion, to pop under the windscreen wipers of offending vehicles - just to remind them what such spaces are for.
Just then there emerged from the service building someone who forced me to reconsider the black-and-white ideas I'd had about badges and justification. Certainly the vehicle towards which this old lady made her way had no disabled badge, but clearly the use of a disabled bay was justified, for she was clearly blind. She was accompanied by a very caring younger lady - possibly her daughter - and had a guide dog, a beautiful golden labrador (or was it a retriever: I never could tell the difference!). I watched, fascinated, as the dog led the old lady to the side of the car, and waited obediently until the other woman had helped her inside. Then the dog came round to the back of the car and waited for the young woman to open the rear hatch. As she did so, I noticed inside a furry blanket and a woolly toy, characteristic of a dog-friendly environment. The dog made no move towards either. The young lady slowly removed the dog's harness, tossed it into the car, and had the dog sit on the ground, behind the vehicle.
After uttering a word or two, akin to a sergeant-major dismissing a squad of troops on a parade ground, the woman stood aside, and what a transformation came over that canine! A quick leap and not only was it playfully inside the car, but it had also grabbed the toy and was waving it around for a quick game of tug - just like any other 'doggy teenager'.
I'm not sure there is any wise moral to this tale, save to say that it's always worth keeping an eye open ready to spot something warm and amusing, and to beware of making ill-informed judgements.
Sunday 1 May 2011
Where do I begin?
When you've never done something before, there is always a feeling of trepidation as you set out. It doesn't matter whether it's your first dive from the top board at the local swimming pool, or walking into a new job, or something far less auspicious, like just walking down the road from your new home, first times are always a bit daunting. You think, "Who's looking?", "What will they think of me?", "Do I look the way I should?", "Will I do myself credit?" ... and so on.
Long ago, a friend gave me a bit of a verbal slap and at the same time instilled a degree of confidence for such occasions. She asked me, "Do you really think they're so interested as to be looking at your every move?" And, of course, the answer has to be a resounding 'no.' Unless your name is Prince William, people just aren't interested. The problem is solely in your own mind. So, here goes with my first-ever blog, and I have only one person to satisfy with it - myself.
What am I hoping to get out of it, then? For some while, I have kidded myself that I'm a writer. This is the chance to prove that it's true, and not just a whim. I can see what I've written in print, for one thing. That's something else than the book I self-published a couple of years ago. I ordered over a hundred copies of it, thinking that it would sell like hot cakes, and I've still got over a third of them stashed away in my bedroom!
The other principal aim is to give anyone who is interested an idea of what a life on four wheels is like. Now, don't get me wrong: I don't actually live on four wheels (although it does feel that way sometimes). No, home for me is a flat in the world's First Garden City, and I work as a same-day courier. As a result of this way of earning a living, I might breakfast at home and be back home for tea, or at the other extreme I might find myself at the other end of the country for one or other of these ... and occasionally both!
Well, having set out my goals, I'm going to take what I consider to be a well-earned rest, and wait until work begins again after the bank holiday. Then I shall have something positive to report, and as you read it you'll learn something about me too.
Long ago, a friend gave me a bit of a verbal slap and at the same time instilled a degree of confidence for such occasions. She asked me, "Do you really think they're so interested as to be looking at your every move?" And, of course, the answer has to be a resounding 'no.' Unless your name is Prince William, people just aren't interested. The problem is solely in your own mind. So, here goes with my first-ever blog, and I have only one person to satisfy with it - myself.
What am I hoping to get out of it, then? For some while, I have kidded myself that I'm a writer. This is the chance to prove that it's true, and not just a whim. I can see what I've written in print, for one thing. That's something else than the book I self-published a couple of years ago. I ordered over a hundred copies of it, thinking that it would sell like hot cakes, and I've still got over a third of them stashed away in my bedroom!
The other principal aim is to give anyone who is interested an idea of what a life on four wheels is like. Now, don't get me wrong: I don't actually live on four wheels (although it does feel that way sometimes). No, home for me is a flat in the world's First Garden City, and I work as a same-day courier. As a result of this way of earning a living, I might breakfast at home and be back home for tea, or at the other extreme I might find myself at the other end of the country for one or other of these ... and occasionally both!
Well, having set out my goals, I'm going to take what I consider to be a well-earned rest, and wait until work begins again after the bank holiday. Then I shall have something positive to report, and as you read it you'll learn something about me too.
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