They say football is a game of two halves - so is a courier's week. After last Friday's expedition to south Wales, Monday was a dead loss. I started at #11, got my wing mirror replaced during the middle of the day - Saturday's carwash visit had finalised a demolition job that began on a parking lot somewhere unknown to me - and the day finished with me getting a pre-booked job for Tuesday, which took me no further than south Oxfordshire. What started out as two decent jobs on Wednesday morning got fouled up when I discovered that the second one was to a pedestrianised city centre, with no access until after 4.30pm. I wasn't home until mid-evening, so another late start was in prospect for Thursday.
When I rang to get onto the list, I discovered that I should be only third, instead of at the foot of a long list, so I went straight along to the office, whence I was sent on a local 'trek' to Watford and Bedford. I returned just before lunch and had time for half a cup of coffee before being sent to collect something for Reading. I'd just delivered this and was in the middle of the town, when I was diverted from my homeward journey to collect a piece of machinery just down the A4 in Thatcham. Although not too heavy, this was mounted on a fibre 'pallet', which had quite a narrow base. I quickly found it wasn't very stable, and had to stop to strap it tightly fore and aft, to prevent damage either to it or to the sides of the van. This was going to a research establishment on a former airfield at Cranfield, Beds, and by the time I'd found the site in the dark and completed the delivery, it was after 7.0pm when I returned to the office. My resulting place on the scheme of things for Friday was therefore #8. I announced my intention of staying at home until mid-morning.
When morning came, I rose in leisurely fashion. I bathed, prayed, breakfasted, and sat at the computer to carry on work on a particular family history project which I've been nibbling at for a couple of weeks. To my surprise, it was not yet 9.45 when I was summoned. Deployed to a local healthcare company, I was presented with a small box and told that the contents were wanted at a Portsmouth hospital to be 'put into a patient this afternoon'. Given such a graphic mission, I went off without further delay, completing the task just before midday. I returned a little more slowly than I'd gone, taking time to savour the journey through the newly-opened Hindhead Tunnel, 1.2 miles of luxury, compared to the endless queues that formerly adorned the journey past the famous 'Devil's Punchbowl'.
Back at the depot, I found myself in another short-list-and-half-drink situation. I was asked to collect a drinks order for Norwich, and was all too soon laden with four kegs of beer for a hotel just outside Norfolk's 'Fine City'. The plan was that I should then wait until a further order could be collected for Newmarket and deliver that en route. In the event this didn't work out because the combined weight of the two jobs would have been too much for my van, and anyway there wouldn't have been room for them both on board.
Despite this final setback, the week hasn't been too bad, overall. It's a noteworthy statistic, however, that the average daily earnings for Monday to Wednesday is little more than half the average for Thursday and Friday: truly a week of two halves! Now I've caught myself up, I can look forward to a more leisurely weekend.
Saturday 28 January 2012
Saturday 21 January 2012
Fun in the Valleys
I think yesterday set a new record - the first time I've been to Wales twice in one week. After the visit to Newport on Tuesday, yesterday morning I was given a pick-up in Stevenage for Watford, and "... then pop round to [another customer in Stevenage], and they'll give you something for (I didn't catch the name) - it's somewhere near Swansea; the postcode is SA10". I did as I was bid, delivered the job in Watford, and then sat for a while in the car park of a nearby retail outlet to study my other assignment. One of my earliest colleagues once told me, "five minutes with the map can save you an hour on the ground," and although I often ignore it nowadays, it remains sound advice.
The paperwork I'd been given was of little use. It showed the recipient's name, the name of a farm and the postcode. After the farm's name came the letters 'seve' - just like that, with no capital letter - but this meant little, for the farm's name was similarly unadorned. I'd never heard of this but concluded that it might be a place near Swansea, so I looked in the index of my national atlas, and then in my Swansea area map. Drawing two blanks, I also tried the West Wales map, but this was no more productive. Almost as a last resort, I put the postcode into SatNav. The map on the tiny screen showed a small side-turning called Tynewedd off the B4109, and I turned back to the atlas to find where this road might be. It showed nowhere called Seve along this road, and was obviously not the right scale to show an individual farm.
I happened to look up just then, and noticed that SatNav had progressed to the stage of writing the route for the journey, and said 'Tynewedd, Seven Sisters.' The mystery was solved - I berated the absent customer who had provided only four of the thirteen characters of the place-name, and thought back to those terribly dark days pre-SatNav, when we had to rely on maps. I supposed that I might have been more vigilant on receiving the parcel, and would have made sure that I knew the destination before leaving. However, off I went, with the aim of getting there before dark so I could find the farm.
It was as well that I did for, clever though SatNav was at finding the road it had identified as applicable to the given postcode, the farm I wanted was actually down the adjacent turning off that main road. Luckily as I drove along Tynewedd, examining house names and disturbing the local dogs, a helpful resident was able to tell me where I ought to be. I always believe in apologising for being in the wrong place and for any inconvenience caused. It seems to help, and certainly did on this occasion. The parcel delivered, I headed first for fuel and then for home. This is something that I can trust SatNav for, since it has a live connection to a fuel database, and was able to pinpoint a Morrisons just by the M4. However, as I approached this, I found I was about to pass a Texaco station, which was even more convenient.
With no further hassle, I was home before bedtime, and with the weekend to follow, could complete all my bookwork and unwind before retiring.
The paperwork I'd been given was of little use. It showed the recipient's name, the name of a farm and the postcode. After the farm's name came the letters 'seve' - just like that, with no capital letter - but this meant little, for the farm's name was similarly unadorned. I'd never heard of this but concluded that it might be a place near Swansea, so I looked in the index of my national atlas, and then in my Swansea area map. Drawing two blanks, I also tried the West Wales map, but this was no more productive. Almost as a last resort, I put the postcode into SatNav. The map on the tiny screen showed a small side-turning called Tynewedd off the B4109, and I turned back to the atlas to find where this road might be. It showed nowhere called Seve along this road, and was obviously not the right scale to show an individual farm.
I happened to look up just then, and noticed that SatNav had progressed to the stage of writing the route for the journey, and said 'Tynewedd, Seven Sisters.' The mystery was solved - I berated the absent customer who had provided only four of the thirteen characters of the place-name, and thought back to those terribly dark days pre-SatNav, when we had to rely on maps. I supposed that I might have been more vigilant on receiving the parcel, and would have made sure that I knew the destination before leaving. However, off I went, with the aim of getting there before dark so I could find the farm.
It was as well that I did for, clever though SatNav was at finding the road it had identified as applicable to the given postcode, the farm I wanted was actually down the adjacent turning off that main road. Luckily as I drove along Tynewedd, examining house names and disturbing the local dogs, a helpful resident was able to tell me where I ought to be. I always believe in apologising for being in the wrong place and for any inconvenience caused. It seems to help, and certainly did on this occasion. The parcel delivered, I headed first for fuel and then for home. This is something that I can trust SatNav for, since it has a live connection to a fuel database, and was able to pinpoint a Morrisons just by the M4. However, as I approached this, I found I was about to pass a Texaco station, which was even more convenient.
With no further hassle, I was home before bedtime, and with the weekend to follow, could complete all my bookwork and unwind before retiring.
Wednesday 18 January 2012
Quiet Times, and Changings of Mind
This may be the quiet time of the Courier year, but the jobs themselves are quite normal ... there just aren't so many. Yesterday was typical. I was sent to Biggleswade to collect a small parcel for delivery in Newport (S. Wales). I debated whether there was any merit in calling the office to say I'd got it (with the implied question, 'and is there anything else I can take in that direction?') and decided against making the call. However, I did change my mind slightly and when I left, instead of turning right to head north towards the M1, with a view to going via Coventry, Warwick and Ross, I turned left to return to the office, thinking that a half-hour wait would not only be in order, but could determine which route I should take.
I was halfway back when the call came - collect another job from Stevenage, to go to cargo forwarders in Feltham. Having collected three fairly large items there, off I went. The journey to Feltham was quite straightforward and, having rejected the idea of running up the M40 to rejoin my originally planned route to Newport, I set off along the M4. Now, the whole idea of going to South Wales via Ross on Wye is to avoid the toll to go westward over either of the Severn Bridges. At the last count this was £11.80, so the saving is well worth making, since this recognised alternative is only about 15 miles further.
This thought was still hovering in my mind when I passed the signboard that told me Cardiff was another 118 miles, and I started doing a bit of mental arithmetic. I decided that Newport was probably about 12 miles short of Cardiff, and hence, could see what my journey's end would show on the odometer, if I were to go on and over the Bridge. Meanwhile I set SatNav to calculate an alternative route. When it did - suggesting a way via Swindon, Gloucester and Ross - this came out at 13 miles further, so off I went at junction 15 and by a little after 3.30 I was at my destination in Newport.
Only ... it wasn't where I was expecting to be. SatNav had led me to the postcode I'd asked for, which turned out to be the Royal Mail sorting office. This does happen on occasions, usually when the address we're given is a PO Box No., so we know to avoid these. This one wasn't, however. That said Caerleon Road and here was I, more or less on the opposite side of the city. Finding that the phone no. on the parcel led to a 'sorry we can't take your call' message, I took the only available option - I went into the sorting office.
I'm a bit apprehensive about seeking help from the Royal Mail, since the time some years ago when I received a cheeky reply that suggested - none too politely - that, if I were a courier worth my salt, then I should know where such-and-such a place was, without having to ask the 'professionals'. On this occasion, however, I have nothing but praise for the ginger-haired postie on duty. I presented him with my dilemma, and handed over my map to see if he could show me just where, on the long road bearing that name Caerleon, I needed to be.
Once my ear had penetrated his thick accent, I learned that I should make my way to the roundabout he indicated, and from there go past the cenotaph and under the railway bridge. 'As soon as you get under the bridge,' he said, 'you'll see an unmarked turning cutting back on the left - that's where you need to go.' Not only were his instructions clear and concise, they proved invaluable for, even if I'd been directed to the right place in the first instance, I wouldn't have known about that turning, and could have been going to and fro several times before I'd have found the depot I sought.
So, my job done, I turned for the long journey home, and reflected that, in addition to enjoying a very helpful exchange, I'd also learned the 'correct' way to pronounce Caerleon: to a South Wales tongue, apparently, it's "C-'leen"
I was halfway back when the call came - collect another job from Stevenage, to go to cargo forwarders in Feltham. Having collected three fairly large items there, off I went. The journey to Feltham was quite straightforward and, having rejected the idea of running up the M40 to rejoin my originally planned route to Newport, I set off along the M4. Now, the whole idea of going to South Wales via Ross on Wye is to avoid the toll to go westward over either of the Severn Bridges. At the last count this was £11.80, so the saving is well worth making, since this recognised alternative is only about 15 miles further.
This thought was still hovering in my mind when I passed the signboard that told me Cardiff was another 118 miles, and I started doing a bit of mental arithmetic. I decided that Newport was probably about 12 miles short of Cardiff, and hence, could see what my journey's end would show on the odometer, if I were to go on and over the Bridge. Meanwhile I set SatNav to calculate an alternative route. When it did - suggesting a way via Swindon, Gloucester and Ross - this came out at 13 miles further, so off I went at junction 15 and by a little after 3.30 I was at my destination in Newport.
Only ... it wasn't where I was expecting to be. SatNav had led me to the postcode I'd asked for, which turned out to be the Royal Mail sorting office. This does happen on occasions, usually when the address we're given is a PO Box No., so we know to avoid these. This one wasn't, however. That said Caerleon Road and here was I, more or less on the opposite side of the city. Finding that the phone no. on the parcel led to a 'sorry we can't take your call' message, I took the only available option - I went into the sorting office.
I'm a bit apprehensive about seeking help from the Royal Mail, since the time some years ago when I received a cheeky reply that suggested - none too politely - that, if I were a courier worth my salt, then I should know where such-and-such a place was, without having to ask the 'professionals'. On this occasion, however, I have nothing but praise for the ginger-haired postie on duty. I presented him with my dilemma, and handed over my map to see if he could show me just where, on the long road bearing that name Caerleon, I needed to be.
Once my ear had penetrated his thick accent, I learned that I should make my way to the roundabout he indicated, and from there go past the cenotaph and under the railway bridge. 'As soon as you get under the bridge,' he said, 'you'll see an unmarked turning cutting back on the left - that's where you need to go.' Not only were his instructions clear and concise, they proved invaluable for, even if I'd been directed to the right place in the first instance, I wouldn't have known about that turning, and could have been going to and fro several times before I'd have found the depot I sought.
So, my job done, I turned for the long journey home, and reflected that, in addition to enjoying a very helpful exchange, I'd also learned the 'correct' way to pronounce Caerleon: to a South Wales tongue, apparently, it's "C-'leen"
Friday 13 January 2012
Retail therapy ... and other signs of 2012
The new year has got its feet under the table, as it were. Things are slowly getting back to normal after the long festive break - although I confess that I haven't as yet got round to recycling those greeting cards that won't find their way into my 'sentimental retention' file. And work-wise, this week has been remarkably better than last: not 'good', by any means, but with income likely to be more than twice last week's, I can't be other than satisfied.
The pattern that 2012 has established so far for me is one of semi-retirement. That is, I might like for it to become semi-permanent if I were to find I could afford it (if that's not too tortuous!) With one notable exception this week I've tended to get up quite lazily, and go in to work around 10.0 or later, which has had the benefit of getting some stuff done on my desk in the morning ... and the disadvantage of allowing me the latitude of staying up later at night!
Eight jobs this week have provided an interesting mix of the known and unknown, the long and short, and the good and bad fortune - oh, and that repeating genie of which I've spoken in the past got a hand in it as well. A repeat of the Shoeburyness run I did last week was my only job on Monday, and Tuesday provided only a couple of locals. I had risen to second on the list by mid afternoon, and was offered second refusal at an anti-social job for delivery in Lancaster by 8.0 the following morning.
This entailed being woken by a phone call at around 11.30pm, to meet someone for the collection, and a long, slow, economical drive taking as long as conveniently possible for what should be a 4-hour journey. One aspect I particularly enjoyed was spending over an hour at Shardlow services on the A50, virtually the only customer - certainly the only one sitting there from 3.0 till 4.10 - sipping my coffee and reading my long-suffering book-in-the-van. It seemed a warmer way of losing some of the excess time than trying to sleep in a cold van; and anyway, after six hours' rest, if not constant sleep, before leaving home, I wasn't particularly tired - until later on.
I mentioned the repeating genie - his contribution this week was different from the usual. One of two jobs taken to Birmingham yesterday, was a box collected from our local college for delivery to a college there; this morning I collected a similar box from the same place to go to a college in Norwich.
One of the tasks to which I was able to devote - or should that be sacrifice - my time at home this morning was reinstating my podcast feeds, which I managed to lose last night when I closed a dialog box on the computer without noticing until it was too late that one of the check-boxes was ticked! At least this will prompt me to tidy up some that I downloaded long ago but have never got round to listening to!
Finally this week, a confession. I have discovered the joys of retail therapy. I blame the boredom that accompanies the present low level of work, although that's probably not justified. Last weekend I replaced my hi-fi. The old one had long since stopped playing CDs, and they all sit in the cabinet in the hall unable to be listened to. I offered the old hi-fi on freecycle, but it seems there are no handymen about who might like to attempt the challenge to get it working again. Tomorrow it goes to the tip. And with it will go my old toaster, also replaced. The excuse for this is that it was cheap and tiny, requiring the end of a standard slice of bread to be trimmed so that it would fit into the slot. I deemed this wasteful of both bread and energy!
Add to these extravagences, the normal service to the van last Tuesday, and this week's follow-up to the eye test last weekend, i.e. new reading specs, and I can see why they call one day in late January 'Black Monday'. It's when all the credit card balances, inflated by festive spending, have to be settled. In my case, it's not festive over-spending, but a simple Micawberesque case of outgoings exceeding income, but one way or another it cannot be allowed to continue!
The pattern that 2012 has established so far for me is one of semi-retirement. That is, I might like for it to become semi-permanent if I were to find I could afford it (if that's not too tortuous!) With one notable exception this week I've tended to get up quite lazily, and go in to work around 10.0 or later, which has had the benefit of getting some stuff done on my desk in the morning ... and the disadvantage of allowing me the latitude of staying up later at night!
Eight jobs this week have provided an interesting mix of the known and unknown, the long and short, and the good and bad fortune - oh, and that repeating genie of which I've spoken in the past got a hand in it as well. A repeat of the Shoeburyness run I did last week was my only job on Monday, and Tuesday provided only a couple of locals. I had risen to second on the list by mid afternoon, and was offered second refusal at an anti-social job for delivery in Lancaster by 8.0 the following morning.
This entailed being woken by a phone call at around 11.30pm, to meet someone for the collection, and a long, slow, economical drive taking as long as conveniently possible for what should be a 4-hour journey. One aspect I particularly enjoyed was spending over an hour at Shardlow services on the A50, virtually the only customer - certainly the only one sitting there from 3.0 till 4.10 - sipping my coffee and reading my long-suffering book-in-the-van. It seemed a warmer way of losing some of the excess time than trying to sleep in a cold van; and anyway, after six hours' rest, if not constant sleep, before leaving home, I wasn't particularly tired - until later on.
I mentioned the repeating genie - his contribution this week was different from the usual. One of two jobs taken to Birmingham yesterday, was a box collected from our local college for delivery to a college there; this morning I collected a similar box from the same place to go to a college in Norwich.
One of the tasks to which I was able to devote - or should that be sacrifice - my time at home this morning was reinstating my podcast feeds, which I managed to lose last night when I closed a dialog box on the computer without noticing until it was too late that one of the check-boxes was ticked! At least this will prompt me to tidy up some that I downloaded long ago but have never got round to listening to!
Finally this week, a confession. I have discovered the joys of retail therapy. I blame the boredom that accompanies the present low level of work, although that's probably not justified. Last weekend I replaced my hi-fi. The old one had long since stopped playing CDs, and they all sit in the cabinet in the hall unable to be listened to. I offered the old hi-fi on freecycle, but it seems there are no handymen about who might like to attempt the challenge to get it working again. Tomorrow it goes to the tip. And with it will go my old toaster, also replaced. The excuse for this is that it was cheap and tiny, requiring the end of a standard slice of bread to be trimmed so that it would fit into the slot. I deemed this wasteful of both bread and energy!
Add to these extravagences, the normal service to the van last Tuesday, and this week's follow-up to the eye test last weekend, i.e. new reading specs, and I can see why they call one day in late January 'Black Monday'. It's when all the credit card balances, inflated by festive spending, have to be settled. In my case, it's not festive over-spending, but a simple Micawberesque case of outgoings exceeding income, but one way or another it cannot be allowed to continue!
Friday 6 January 2012
A Question of Balance
If anyone dares to claim that the work of a courier is not seasonal, don't listen to him! This is the week I usually take as a winter holiday - see this earlier blog, and often during the week I've wished I had done so after all. Apart from the working part of the week consisting of only four 'proper' days, my financial rewards have to show the lowest weekly total on record - holidays excepted. The proceeds will total between one and two days' normal earnings. Fortunately, I was able to find other satisfactions than financial ones with which to measure the success of the week.
Monday was, of course, the New Year Bank Holiday, and the office was closed. I had elected to be available for work, but I decided that I wouldn't phone in first thing to let whoever was manning the phones know I was still alive. This might have been favourable, but the pseudo-Quaker in me said that if I did so, I should be making a complete irrelevance of the list upon which I had declared my availability in the first place. Consequently, perhaps, and certainly without causing me great surprise, my phone was silent and the van remained unused.
Instead, my Bank Holiday was apportioned between two tasks. I spent the afternoon and early evening playing an audio tape through the USB converter I bought last year, and storing the product on the computer. This was the first of a 'double tape' product, and its fellow was similarly dealt with later in the week. The other task on Monday was to identify an internet mailing list for Co Fermanagh, and subscribe to it with a view to finding out something more about the great family I'd located for my great-uncle George, who had been discharged from the army in 1876, and settled in Enniskillen (sorry if I've mentioned this before, but it has rather overshadowed my thoughts recently, since I'd long since decided that I would never know what had happened to him.)
Tuesday began with a number of necessary phone calls, made while waiting for my van to be serviced. I needed to order a new inhaler, and also to make an appointment for an eye test. Just as I was beginning to feel cold and rescued my coat from the van, I noticed the rain sheeting down outside and was glad I didn't have to be out in it. At that point the van was almost finished, but when he took it for a road test, the engineer decided there was a problem with the tracking. By the time this had been put right, the sun was out, and it was something of a pleasure soon afterwards to be sent to Leicester and see a magnificent double rainbow as I drove up the motorway. I'd just finished my evening meal when a phone call sent me off to Shoeburyness, so I was out until 10.40pm, and late on parade the next day.
Wednesday brought no work at all, and by 2.30 I decided to be realistic and come home. I discovered that someone else had usurped my post to the Fermanagh mailing list and answered with what was, in effect, a completely new enquiry about something totally different, with the result that, out of eight messages headed 'Evans - Enniskillen', one was a not-very-helpful reply to me, and the others totally irrelevant. I hastily responded caustically to this 'identity theft' as I described it, but the following day realised the error of such an action, and apologised. I think this was much more effective, for as a result I then received lots of encouragement and some very helpful general advice and details of websites that have opened my eyes to the intricacies of Irish research.
Yesterday I did a single job to a charming village in the west of Bedfordshire, delivering hygiene materials to a 'college' which seemed to cater solely for disabled students. Once more I took the afternoon off, since it seemed pointless to sit there at the bottom of a long list, when the phones were hardly ringing, and the few jobs coming in were for the big vans. Once more family history and the tape conversion took centre stage.
Numerically, today has been more productive, but the first of the two jobs was only a very local one, and the other only 50 miles away, so the excitement was little. I returned to find that one of my colleagues was researching a job he'd just been given to deliver tomorrow morning in Falkirk. This is the sort of job I'd normally have given my eye teeth for, but somehow I just didn't have the energy to get excited about it. I had departed and was just returning home from my shopping expedition when I realised that, even if I had been offered it, I should have had to turn it down anyway, because of the optician's appointment tomorrow morning.
So my week has been a true balance, and has felt all the better for it, with this evening spent exploring some of those fascinating Irish websites!
Monday was, of course, the New Year Bank Holiday, and the office was closed. I had elected to be available for work, but I decided that I wouldn't phone in first thing to let whoever was manning the phones know I was still alive. This might have been favourable, but the pseudo-Quaker in me said that if I did so, I should be making a complete irrelevance of the list upon which I had declared my availability in the first place. Consequently, perhaps, and certainly without causing me great surprise, my phone was silent and the van remained unused.
Instead, my Bank Holiday was apportioned between two tasks. I spent the afternoon and early evening playing an audio tape through the USB converter I bought last year, and storing the product on the computer. This was the first of a 'double tape' product, and its fellow was similarly dealt with later in the week. The other task on Monday was to identify an internet mailing list for Co Fermanagh, and subscribe to it with a view to finding out something more about the great family I'd located for my great-uncle George, who had been discharged from the army in 1876, and settled in Enniskillen (sorry if I've mentioned this before, but it has rather overshadowed my thoughts recently, since I'd long since decided that I would never know what had happened to him.)
Tuesday began with a number of necessary phone calls, made while waiting for my van to be serviced. I needed to order a new inhaler, and also to make an appointment for an eye test. Just as I was beginning to feel cold and rescued my coat from the van, I noticed the rain sheeting down outside and was glad I didn't have to be out in it. At that point the van was almost finished, but when he took it for a road test, the engineer decided there was a problem with the tracking. By the time this had been put right, the sun was out, and it was something of a pleasure soon afterwards to be sent to Leicester and see a magnificent double rainbow as I drove up the motorway. I'd just finished my evening meal when a phone call sent me off to Shoeburyness, so I was out until 10.40pm, and late on parade the next day.
Wednesday brought no work at all, and by 2.30 I decided to be realistic and come home. I discovered that someone else had usurped my post to the Fermanagh mailing list and answered with what was, in effect, a completely new enquiry about something totally different, with the result that, out of eight messages headed 'Evans - Enniskillen', one was a not-very-helpful reply to me, and the others totally irrelevant. I hastily responded caustically to this 'identity theft' as I described it, but the following day realised the error of such an action, and apologised. I think this was much more effective, for as a result I then received lots of encouragement and some very helpful general advice and details of websites that have opened my eyes to the intricacies of Irish research.
Yesterday I did a single job to a charming village in the west of Bedfordshire, delivering hygiene materials to a 'college' which seemed to cater solely for disabled students. Once more I took the afternoon off, since it seemed pointless to sit there at the bottom of a long list, when the phones were hardly ringing, and the few jobs coming in were for the big vans. Once more family history and the tape conversion took centre stage.
Numerically, today has been more productive, but the first of the two jobs was only a very local one, and the other only 50 miles away, so the excitement was little. I returned to find that one of my colleagues was researching a job he'd just been given to deliver tomorrow morning in Falkirk. This is the sort of job I'd normally have given my eye teeth for, but somehow I just didn't have the energy to get excited about it. I had departed and was just returning home from my shopping expedition when I realised that, even if I had been offered it, I should have had to turn it down anyway, because of the optician's appointment tomorrow morning.
So my week has been a true balance, and has felt all the better for it, with this evening spent exploring some of those fascinating Irish websites!
Sunday 1 January 2012
Happy New Year
Whilst driving home, I was listening to the BBC Radio 4 'pick of the year'. One interview was particularly moving. The subject, a lady in Devon, was describing how she'd cared for her late husband in the final stages of Alzheimer's. At the worst moments he became quite violent, and on one occasion she had to dash out of the bedroom and hold the door shut with all her strength to avoid being done serious physical harm. As the interviewer empathised, and wondered how she'd been able to cope with such conditions. She said, quite simply, "I loved him all the while. When we married, all those years ago, I promised to love and care for him till death should part us, and that's what I did"
It may be a bit far-fetched, but I saw some link or parallel between that heart-wrenching tale and the plans that many have fulfilled for themselves within the last few minutes. That woman was going to carry out her pledge to love her husband to the very last minute; we have seen out all that 2011 had to offer right up to the very last minute. Not that many of us have seen much love from 2011! But rather than give up mid-evening and retreat to bed, hoping to wake up refreshed in a new and better year, we brave ones have hung on until the bitter end, to give 2011 a firm kick into the past, and to be among the first to welcome 2012 with a warm handshake as we offer a brief prayer that all those fearful and unfinished matters that have troubled us recently may be brought to a favourable conclusion in the months to come.
So here's to a Wonderful New Year!
It may be a bit far-fetched, but I saw some link or parallel between that heart-wrenching tale and the plans that many have fulfilled for themselves within the last few minutes. That woman was going to carry out her pledge to love her husband to the very last minute; we have seen out all that 2011 had to offer right up to the very last minute. Not that many of us have seen much love from 2011! But rather than give up mid-evening and retreat to bed, hoping to wake up refreshed in a new and better year, we brave ones have hung on until the bitter end, to give 2011 a firm kick into the past, and to be among the first to welcome 2012 with a warm handshake as we offer a brief prayer that all those fearful and unfinished matters that have troubled us recently may be brought to a favourable conclusion in the months to come.
So here's to a Wonderful New Year!
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