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.

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!

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.

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?

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!

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.

Gary - the Storyteller

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.

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.
 

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!

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 ...