They say, I believe, that March comes in like a lion and goes out like a lamb. Of course, that refers to the weather; work-wise, I can't recall its beginning, but for me March (and the financial year) has ended on a high. Not exceptional - this age of recession doesn't do exceptional - but a week that has been financially healthy and full of activity. Monday started inauspiciously, with a phone call to get onto the list of available drivers. Learning that I would be in ninth position, I said that I would stay at home until mid morning at least, but in fact I was called around 10.0 to do the sort of job that isn't usually offered as a 'top-line' earner. This means it's 'middle-distance', and isolated either because it's in a direction where it's unlikely that something else will be going the same way, or else because it's wanted urgently. This particular job missed both sub-categories, and I found myself going to Hertford to collect two large boxes. These almost filled the van with just millimetres to spare, and were taken to a woodworking firm in Southend. After that, the afternoon was mostly empty until I left about 4.30 with a job to Didcot - not the easiest place to get to from any direction!
By that time, I had already been allocated an early job for Tuesday, taking a couple of items from the railway depot in Bedford to specialist maintenance consultants in Leamington Spa. This was followed by another of those 'middle distance' jobs, this one to Oundle, where I pulled up next to the biggest yacht I think I've ever seen to make my delivery to one of a surprising number of boatyards that are to be found at this inland town. Two more conventional jobs to Beaconsfield and Basingstoke completed Tuesday and meant that for the second time I wasn't home until mid-evening.
Wednesday, too, brought me four jobs. My suspicions were confirmed when I arrived in the office to find that, because I had gone out quite late the previous day, I had been left on the list, so it was still quite early when I left with deliveries at a private club near Heathrow and a factory in Thatcham. I returned to find, to my surprise, that there were no small vans in the yard. So it was that I was soon out again, this time to take a small consignment of metal to Red Bull Racing in Milton Keynes, and some paperwork on behalf of a publicity firm in Hitchin for a conference taking place the following day at a hotel and golf centre near Daventry. This journey was hampered by a serious accident that necessitated a diversion through tiny villages to avoid the severe queues on the main roads.
Thursday was solid, and straightforward. I took an envelope of documents from a firm in Hoddesdon to Leeds University. I later found that I'd been one of three of our drivers to go to Leeds that day. One, a keen cyclist, had taken his cycle and a picnic with him as he delivered to a conference early in the morning. He then spent the day making good use of the sunshine before returning to the venue to collect what he'd taken ready to return it to the exhibitors the following day. The other had left soon after me, going directly to First Direct' banking offices.
Yesterday, of course, the roads were cluttered by the faux-panic over fuel supplies. As I waited at the office for work, I had a phone call from the providers of one of my fuel cards, asking if all were well with me, since I'd not used the card for some while. She must have been anticipating my (usual) response. If the price offered by the card people is more than I can pay either at the same place or elsewhere using a credit card, the fuel card stays in the wallet. She said that she'd arranged a very favourable rate for the rest of the week. I resolved that, since I was likely to need fuel later in the day, I'd look out for an Esso station and use this. However, the one near my home had run dry (and was still closed this morning), and before I found another, a competitor had attracted my business. It will be interesting to see what effect this has on the price I'm offered next week!
Workwise, I took two trays of sample bread to Maidenhead for analysis, and then returned to wait for more work. Meanwhile, my colleague John was doing another job for the bread company, which is featured here. Again, I found myself the only small van around, and later left with a couple of fairly regular jobs that took me to a luxurious thatched cottage on the outskirts of St Albans, to a logistics firm at Heathrow and a to tiny village in the Thames valley, where documents that are taken there have to be left in an outhouse (dog-permitting!)
So one year ends, and after the weekend another will begin. I wonder what it will hold for me and the other drivers. One thing I'm sure we shall find will be the strange presence of the 'Repeating Genie'. As you read this article, you might have noticed a few examples this week - Leamington Spa on Monday and Daventry on Wednesday; two visits to the Heathrow area, and Maidenhead followed by another visit to the Thames valley yesterday. Is it too early to wish my readers 'Happy New Year'? I think not.
Happy New Year, one and all!
Saturday, 31 March 2012
Saturday, 24 March 2012
Of Soldiers and Child Protection, etc.
The other day I was detailed to undertake what seems to have become a regular job for a new company situated just opposite my home, taking their products to Pinewood Studios. Unlike the last time, when I was held up by fog, traffic and what we euphemistically call 'magnetic sheet syndrome', this week I suffered no delays and arrived at around 7.45.
As I waited in the sunshine for the first members of staff to arrive at the particular office where I was delivering, I noticed that just opposite was a creche. It is situated just inside the staff entrance to the site, ideally placed for working parents to call in, settle their young children for the morning, and then carry on their journey to their place of work.
My observation of this unfolding of many people's daily routine prompted some reflection, the product of which I will now share with you, dear reader. Think for a moment of your breakfast table (or someone else's, if appropriate.) You have overcome the 'Gulliver's Travels' moment, have removed the chosen end of that boiled egg, and are about to attack it with your soldiers. Would you even think of holding the floppy end of your bread and dipping the crust into the golden egg-yolk? No. The crust provides a convenient handle; available for another quick dip before it too is consumed. To perform the operation in reverse would invite the collapse of the soldier, leaving a stubby crust-end floating uselessly in the egg: truly a breakfast time disaster.
Now rejoin me in your mind's eye, watching those parents drive up to the creche. Each of them in turn pulled into one of about half a dozen parking spaces by the roadside, switched off the engine, emerged from the driving seat and went round to the rear door on the other side of the car. Here they released the child from the internal seat, and either helped him/her or waited while he/she emerged from the vehicle. At that precise moment, the only barrier between the child and the passing traffic, - perhaps only six feet away - is mummy's arm, or worse, only her voice. How much better to have reversed into the parking space, the results of which would be a) the moving traffic would be a further four feet away; and b) the opening car door would be a protecting barrier for the child. It would also form a guide, channelling the child naturally towards the safety of the creche.
The design of the motor vehicle, with the steering bit at the front, is not readily compatible with the requirements of the parking manoeuvre, i.e. the need to adjust the position of the end of the car that is last to enter a parking space. I continue to be amazed at the high percentage of people who prefer to drive forwards into a space rather than reverse in - often making no adjustment whatsoever to the position of either vehicle or driving wheels once the end of the bonnet has reached the far end of the space. As an addicted people-watcher, particularly one with a professional interest in this specific aspect of behaviour, my guess is that this figure is around 80 to 85%.
Obviously a degree of shunting is necessary somewhere to get either into or out of a parking space, so why not carry this out in the most favourable and most beneficial way? Apart from the child protection aspect I noticed this week, the benefits of reverse parking are many. Take first the question of safety. When you approach the parking space, you are already aware of the surrounding traffic situation: you know which other vehicles are moving, and where they're going. Advantage can be taken of this information in order to reverse safely into a space. If you drive straight in, your later manoeuvre to leave will of necessity render you more vulnerable. It will be conducted when you have to assess the behaviour of other vehicles either before you get into the car, by which time the situation may well have changed; or from a driving position where your vision is restricted by adjacent cars, and where the possibility of eye-contact with other drivers is almost non-existent. There's also the matter of fuel economy - an all-important consideration when prices are constantly increasing! Manoeuvres carried out with a warm engine will use less fuel than the same tasks carried out with a cold one.
Our town planners don't help in coping with this dilemma. The centre of Letchworth has recently been improved, with neat parking spaces along the main shopping street, along which traffic is one-way. Unfortunately these spaces are rigidly laid out at an angle - an angle which means that you have to park in the direction of travel, and reverse out into the flow of traffic. As a van driver, I find these spaces virtually unusable for, in addition to the foregoing considerations, my rear vision is severely restricted, and the only way to emerge is simply to 'hope and go', relying on the alertness, consideration and generosity of other drivers - which is by no means a universal commodity! For the reasons I have outlined, it would have been better if the echelon parking had been laid out in the opposite direction, so that drivers reversed in and drove out, but planners are hardly going to consider safety and economy in the face of the four-fifths or more of the driving population who are set in their habits of 'drive, stop and run away', and give no thought to the essential aftermath,
As I waited in the sunshine for the first members of staff to arrive at the particular office where I was delivering, I noticed that just opposite was a creche. It is situated just inside the staff entrance to the site, ideally placed for working parents to call in, settle their young children for the morning, and then carry on their journey to their place of work.
My observation of this unfolding of many people's daily routine prompted some reflection, the product of which I will now share with you, dear reader. Think for a moment of your breakfast table (or someone else's, if appropriate.) You have overcome the 'Gulliver's Travels' moment, have removed the chosen end of that boiled egg, and are about to attack it with your soldiers. Would you even think of holding the floppy end of your bread and dipping the crust into the golden egg-yolk? No. The crust provides a convenient handle; available for another quick dip before it too is consumed. To perform the operation in reverse would invite the collapse of the soldier, leaving a stubby crust-end floating uselessly in the egg: truly a breakfast time disaster.
Now rejoin me in your mind's eye, watching those parents drive up to the creche. Each of them in turn pulled into one of about half a dozen parking spaces by the roadside, switched off the engine, emerged from the driving seat and went round to the rear door on the other side of the car. Here they released the child from the internal seat, and either helped him/her or waited while he/she emerged from the vehicle. At that precise moment, the only barrier between the child and the passing traffic, - perhaps only six feet away - is mummy's arm, or worse, only her voice. How much better to have reversed into the parking space, the results of which would be a) the moving traffic would be a further four feet away; and b) the opening car door would be a protecting barrier for the child. It would also form a guide, channelling the child naturally towards the safety of the creche.
The design of the motor vehicle, with the steering bit at the front, is not readily compatible with the requirements of the parking manoeuvre, i.e. the need to adjust the position of the end of the car that is last to enter a parking space. I continue to be amazed at the high percentage of people who prefer to drive forwards into a space rather than reverse in - often making no adjustment whatsoever to the position of either vehicle or driving wheels once the end of the bonnet has reached the far end of the space. As an addicted people-watcher, particularly one with a professional interest in this specific aspect of behaviour, my guess is that this figure is around 80 to 85%.
Obviously a degree of shunting is necessary somewhere to get either into or out of a parking space, so why not carry this out in the most favourable and most beneficial way? Apart from the child protection aspect I noticed this week, the benefits of reverse parking are many. Take first the question of safety. When you approach the parking space, you are already aware of the surrounding traffic situation: you know which other vehicles are moving, and where they're going. Advantage can be taken of this information in order to reverse safely into a space. If you drive straight in, your later manoeuvre to leave will of necessity render you more vulnerable. It will be conducted when you have to assess the behaviour of other vehicles either before you get into the car, by which time the situation may well have changed; or from a driving position where your vision is restricted by adjacent cars, and where the possibility of eye-contact with other drivers is almost non-existent. There's also the matter of fuel economy - an all-important consideration when prices are constantly increasing! Manoeuvres carried out with a warm engine will use less fuel than the same tasks carried out with a cold one.
Our town planners don't help in coping with this dilemma. The centre of Letchworth has recently been improved, with neat parking spaces along the main shopping street, along which traffic is one-way. Unfortunately these spaces are rigidly laid out at an angle - an angle which means that you have to park in the direction of travel, and reverse out into the flow of traffic. As a van driver, I find these spaces virtually unusable for, in addition to the foregoing considerations, my rear vision is severely restricted, and the only way to emerge is simply to 'hope and go', relying on the alertness, consideration and generosity of other drivers - which is by no means a universal commodity! For the reasons I have outlined, it would have been better if the echelon parking had been laid out in the opposite direction, so that drivers reversed in and drove out, but planners are hardly going to consider safety and economy in the face of the four-fifths or more of the driving population who are set in their habits of 'drive, stop and run away', and give no thought to the essential aftermath,
Thursday, 15 March 2012
Strange Places with Faraway Names ...
Yes, there's a deliberate twist to the title of this posting. Yesterday's task had me musing about the strange places I've been to over years. There are some customers for whom strangeness is a given. One customer, for example, has a fleet of high security vans, necessitated by the value of their contents. It's all too easy for the driver/engineer to leave his keys in the back of the van and, some while later, shut the door either by accident or out of habit. At this point the security lock kicks in, and he's locked out, able to sit in the cab out of the weather and fume - but not to drive away. We get called out to wherever the van happens to be parked to rescue him with the spare key from the depot.
Another firm is engaged in large scale electrical supplies, and we sometimes get called by them to deliver equipment to some strange places when power has broken down. For them I have been sent to pylons in fields, to a farm gateway where a substation had been vandalised, and even to the film-set in the grounds of Blenheim Palace, where a Harry Potter film was being shot.
There are strange consignments, too. From time to time we're called upon to shift items of furniture (although we're not trained to take proper care of antiques!) I was once sent to collect a small kitchen dresser; when I arrived I discovered that, while it may have been small for a dresser, it definitely wouldn't fit in my van! I'd been given dimensions in centimetres that should have been inches! Delivering furniture? yes, occasionally; but delivering TO furniture? The truth of yesterday's job didn't even tap the door, let alone enter my mind ...
I had collected some electrical equipment to deliver to "Dorking Cabinet, London Rd, Dorking <postcode>" I concluded that an engineer was working at a business called "Dorking Cabinet" and that once I found the requisite postcode on London Road, I should be within sight of such a place. SatNav found the place with ease, and indicated that I should stop in a certain lay-by. I found myself beside a varied row of late Victorian town houses. Abandoning the van, I explored on foot, looking up and down - in vain - for some indication of a house called 'The Cabinet', or a business plate by a door.
A few local enquiries told me nothing, so I resorted to the phone no. of the engineer. When I made contact with him, he said he was no longer there, but his colleague should be visible, in a dark car, parked on the pavement. By then I had driven round the corner to get a signal, but I did recall such a car. Once all the misunderstandings had been cleared away, I realised that I was indeed being asked to deliver to a piece of furniture: to a roadside cabinet, which housed a complex telephone installation!
When I returned to the depot I fell into conversation with William, a fairly new colleague, who hails from South Africa. His voice reminded me of a cultured gentleman who had worked for me some 25 years ago, when I was the accountant for a small group of local newspapers. He'd had a high-powered financial career in South Africa, but since his retirement to rural Suffolk, he'd found time heavy on his hands. He spotted an advert I'd placed for a part-time assistant, and applied for the post. With his background I had no hesitation in appointing him, and we shared several months of genial and productive co-operation. I was intrigued by his middle name, Boksburg, and one day I asked him about it. "It's a town not far from Johannesburg," he told me, "My grandfather was its founder."
As I now chatted to William, something prompted me to ask whether he knew the place. "Know it?" he exclaimed with both surprise and amusement, "I was born there!" And when I'd recovered from almost falling off my chair, and explained how I came to be aware of it, he went on to tell me something of his family history. There was no apparent connection to my late friend, but what a coincidence!
There's always something new and amusing in this business - and it's full of surprises, too!
Another firm is engaged in large scale electrical supplies, and we sometimes get called by them to deliver equipment to some strange places when power has broken down. For them I have been sent to pylons in fields, to a farm gateway where a substation had been vandalised, and even to the film-set in the grounds of Blenheim Palace, where a Harry Potter film was being shot.
There are strange consignments, too. From time to time we're called upon to shift items of furniture (although we're not trained to take proper care of antiques!) I was once sent to collect a small kitchen dresser; when I arrived I discovered that, while it may have been small for a dresser, it definitely wouldn't fit in my van! I'd been given dimensions in centimetres that should have been inches! Delivering furniture? yes, occasionally; but delivering TO furniture? The truth of yesterday's job didn't even tap the door, let alone enter my mind ...
I had collected some electrical equipment to deliver to "Dorking Cabinet, London Rd, Dorking <postcode>" I concluded that an engineer was working at a business called "Dorking Cabinet" and that once I found the requisite postcode on London Road, I should be within sight of such a place. SatNav found the place with ease, and indicated that I should stop in a certain lay-by. I found myself beside a varied row of late Victorian town houses. Abandoning the van, I explored on foot, looking up and down - in vain - for some indication of a house called 'The Cabinet', or a business plate by a door.
A few local enquiries told me nothing, so I resorted to the phone no. of the engineer. When I made contact with him, he said he was no longer there, but his colleague should be visible, in a dark car, parked on the pavement. By then I had driven round the corner to get a signal, but I did recall such a car. Once all the misunderstandings had been cleared away, I realised that I was indeed being asked to deliver to a piece of furniture: to a roadside cabinet, which housed a complex telephone installation!
When I returned to the depot I fell into conversation with William, a fairly new colleague, who hails from South Africa. His voice reminded me of a cultured gentleman who had worked for me some 25 years ago, when I was the accountant for a small group of local newspapers. He'd had a high-powered financial career in South Africa, but since his retirement to rural Suffolk, he'd found time heavy on his hands. He spotted an advert I'd placed for a part-time assistant, and applied for the post. With his background I had no hesitation in appointing him, and we shared several months of genial and productive co-operation. I was intrigued by his middle name, Boksburg, and one day I asked him about it. "It's a town not far from Johannesburg," he told me, "My grandfather was its founder."
As I now chatted to William, something prompted me to ask whether he knew the place. "Know it?" he exclaimed with both surprise and amusement, "I was born there!" And when I'd recovered from almost falling off my chair, and explained how I came to be aware of it, he went on to tell me something of his family history. There was no apparent connection to my late friend, but what a coincidence!
There's always something new and amusing in this business - and it's full of surprises, too!
Tuesday, 13 March 2012
The Road that Seems to be Everywhere!
Most English people, I should think, could hazard a reasonable guess at the general plan behind our road numbering system. While they might not get all the destinations right, they probably know that from London the A1 goes to Scotland (Edinburgh), the A2 to Kent (Dover), the A3 to the south coast (Portsmouth), the A4 to the west (Bristol), the A5 towards Ireland (stopped by the sea at Holyhead) and the A6 to Scotland again (Carlisle).
If I'm honest, when I began trekking around this beautiful country of ours for a living, almost ten years ago, my awareness of road numbers went little beyond this general outline. I knew that the higher numbers fitted between these six primaries, in the spaces to their right, but not much more.
Fairly swiftly, I paid a great deal more attention, as I realised that (in those pre-SatNav days) this knowledge might be of considerable use in navigating my way around the land. I'm not sure of the basis upon which, in the early 1920's, a general survey of the country was made that resulted in the road numbers that we have today, but I found it fascinating to follow individual numbers across the map from start to finish.
I was amazed at some of the tiny places that had been chosen as the terminus of particular roads. One that I use quite regularly, for example, is the A507. This begins in Hertfordshire, where it leaves the A10 at Buntingford, and used to stretch almost to Aylesbury, morphing into the A418 at an otherwise insignificant roundabout near the historic village of Wing. It now disappears at the re-designed junction 13 of the M1.
The more I travelled across the midlands and south of England, the more I seemed to trip over (so to speak) one particular road, the A361. Whether I was going cross-country to Cheltenham (where I went yesterday, in advance of the Gold Cup meeting) and Tewkesbury, up to Daventry, Rugby and the car factories at Gaydon, or down to Swindon and west country destinations like Chippenham or Shepton Mallet, somewhere or other I'd find a road called A361. It seemed to be everywhere, and its ubiquity attracted my interest and demanded deeper research. I discovered that this is, in fact, the longest three-digit A-road in the country, at 195 miles, and wriggles its way from Ilfracombe on the north Devon coast to a tiny village called Kilsby on the A5 in Northamptonshire. It's even got its own website! What other road can lay claim to such fame?
As a single road, its course is somewhat bizarre. While the northern section seems a reasonable route from the east midlands to the M4 corridor, and at the other end it provides a useful link for places in north Devon to the M5, it is inconceivable that anyone would use this route - even in the days before motorways - to travel from one end of it to the other! It's almost, as one writer has suggested, like a string of local roads, where the scenery changes at every corner. For my part, all I can say is that, wherever I meet it it's usually direct for the bit I'm on; there's quite often little traffic to hold me up, and its surroundings are picturesque and have character ... which is one of the reasons I've been at this game for ten years!
If I'm honest, when I began trekking around this beautiful country of ours for a living, almost ten years ago, my awareness of road numbers went little beyond this general outline. I knew that the higher numbers fitted between these six primaries, in the spaces to their right, but not much more.
Fairly swiftly, I paid a great deal more attention, as I realised that (in those pre-SatNav days) this knowledge might be of considerable use in navigating my way around the land. I'm not sure of the basis upon which, in the early 1920's, a general survey of the country was made that resulted in the road numbers that we have today, but I found it fascinating to follow individual numbers across the map from start to finish.
I was amazed at some of the tiny places that had been chosen as the terminus of particular roads. One that I use quite regularly, for example, is the A507. This begins in Hertfordshire, where it leaves the A10 at Buntingford, and used to stretch almost to Aylesbury, morphing into the A418 at an otherwise insignificant roundabout near the historic village of Wing. It now disappears at the re-designed junction 13 of the M1.
The more I travelled across the midlands and south of England, the more I seemed to trip over (so to speak) one particular road, the A361. Whether I was going cross-country to Cheltenham (where I went yesterday, in advance of the Gold Cup meeting) and Tewkesbury, up to Daventry, Rugby and the car factories at Gaydon, or down to Swindon and west country destinations like Chippenham or Shepton Mallet, somewhere or other I'd find a road called A361. It seemed to be everywhere, and its ubiquity attracted my interest and demanded deeper research. I discovered that this is, in fact, the longest three-digit A-road in the country, at 195 miles, and wriggles its way from Ilfracombe on the north Devon coast to a tiny village called Kilsby on the A5 in Northamptonshire. It's even got its own website! What other road can lay claim to such fame?
As a single road, its course is somewhat bizarre. While the northern section seems a reasonable route from the east midlands to the M4 corridor, and at the other end it provides a useful link for places in north Devon to the M5, it is inconceivable that anyone would use this route - even in the days before motorways - to travel from one end of it to the other! It's almost, as one writer has suggested, like a string of local roads, where the scenery changes at every corner. For my part, all I can say is that, wherever I meet it it's usually direct for the bit I'm on; there's quite often little traffic to hold me up, and its surroundings are picturesque and have character ... which is one of the reasons I've been at this game for ten years!
Sunday, 11 March 2012
Of Boxes, Budgets and Foolish Virgins!
As I look back over this week, I see that it comprised two distinct parts. From a standing start on Monday, I was out by mid morning, but it was only to Leatherhead and Bracknell, and I was back in embarrassingly good time to go ringing in the evening. Tuesday's excursion into Kent was only as far as Strood, and I was back soon after lunch. I had brought my little netbook with me, and spent the afternoon making a first stab at a budget for the new financial year. The more realistically I tweaked the figures, the more depressed I became - especially when I realised that in those two days the results of my activity had only just exceeded one day's budgeted income!
As I've explained to a number of interested friends, this inactivity at a personal level isn't entirely due to the recession or lack of recovery from it. In part it is a simple consequence of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Some drivers seem to drift effortlessly from one good job to another, to another, and collect another on their way back from far places, while others have days on end with only single jobs that aren't far away at all, just because of who is available when the jobs come in or are required. So it was that, as Tuesday drew to a close, I heard with some envy that other drivers had been given multiple jobs at some distance, while I was selected for one that used to be quite a regular a year or more ago, and often came my way - a rather tame delivery from a factory in Luton to an RAF base in Suffolk.
Knowing that this would only take half a day, and would virtually guarantee another boring afternoon in the crew room, drifting pointlessly from coffee to crossword, I was none too pleased. In my prayers on Wednesday, I sought the willpower to trust in God's provision for my needs. Back from Suffolk by early afternoon, I did at least have the encouraging sniff of an evening run to the midlands, but then, instead of this, I had the earlier reality of a collection in Welwyn GC for Boston, and on my way there came a phone call offering me a 7.0 pick-up in Bedford for Preston on Thursday. Naturally I said 'yes,' and this worked out very well for me, since Thursday evening was one of those rare times when I have an engagement that I don't like to cry off (although sometimes this has been unavoidable.) I help one of a small number of teams on a rota to read items from the local free paper, providing a 'talking newspaper' for blind people in the area. This week it was our turn, and I was able comfortably to take my place with my friends at the microphone.
Friday was beginning to resemble the old pattern once more, as I'd been allocated an 8.30 collection in Milton Keynes for Wantage. But then, as I prepared my tea, came another call, inviting me to return to the office and collect some railway spares that had to be taken to MK next morning, which added value to the journey. Then, as I sat in the crew room in the afternoon, wondering if that would be the end of the week, the controller walked in and asked for volunteers for a couple of decent jobs yesterday. No one spoke up immediately, but after a few moments I realised that the 'important' jobs I'd been planning for Saturday morning could be postponed until Monday, so I declared myself available, and by 8.30am I was delivering a box to a food processing factory just a few miles outside Launceston.
My plan, such as it was, was to make good use of the trip to see somewhere new before returning home, and I took my camera for the purpose. It was early afternoon before I'd escaped the dull and damp weather that seemed determined to cling to the west country, but at Shepton Mallet I found a brown tourist sign for East Somerset Railway, and followed where it led. Although it was not open to the public, the men who were at work by the trackside didn't object as I began taking pictures.
Then disaster struck. The camera made it clear that it needed new batteries. No problem; I always carry a spare set in the case and - very carefully, since I was by then at my vantage point looking over the parapet of the road bridge (which you can just make out here behind the white signal) - I removed the dead batteries and replaced them. Sadly, the replacements too seemed to be in need of recharging. I felt like a foolish virgin (Matt. 25:3), and retreated shamefully to my van, having been unable to record half of what I'd seen.
So, what has this experience taught me? Let me just say that, after an evening of searching for the battery charger, which has now recovered pride of place on the kitchen shelf, I now have a functioning camera once more ... AND a monthly electronic reminder to check the batteries and recharge them if necessary. I wonder what else in life ought to be subjected to the same treatment?
As I've explained to a number of interested friends, this inactivity at a personal level isn't entirely due to the recession or lack of recovery from it. In part it is a simple consequence of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Some drivers seem to drift effortlessly from one good job to another, to another, and collect another on their way back from far places, while others have days on end with only single jobs that aren't far away at all, just because of who is available when the jobs come in or are required. So it was that, as Tuesday drew to a close, I heard with some envy that other drivers had been given multiple jobs at some distance, while I was selected for one that used to be quite a regular a year or more ago, and often came my way - a rather tame delivery from a factory in Luton to an RAF base in Suffolk.
Knowing that this would only take half a day, and would virtually guarantee another boring afternoon in the crew room, drifting pointlessly from coffee to crossword, I was none too pleased. In my prayers on Wednesday, I sought the willpower to trust in God's provision for my needs. Back from Suffolk by early afternoon, I did at least have the encouraging sniff of an evening run to the midlands, but then, instead of this, I had the earlier reality of a collection in Welwyn GC for Boston, and on my way there came a phone call offering me a 7.0 pick-up in Bedford for Preston on Thursday. Naturally I said 'yes,' and this worked out very well for me, since Thursday evening was one of those rare times when I have an engagement that I don't like to cry off (although sometimes this has been unavoidable.) I help one of a small number of teams on a rota to read items from the local free paper, providing a 'talking newspaper' for blind people in the area. This week it was our turn, and I was able comfortably to take my place with my friends at the microphone.
Friday was beginning to resemble the old pattern once more, as I'd been allocated an 8.30 collection in Milton Keynes for Wantage. But then, as I prepared my tea, came another call, inviting me to return to the office and collect some railway spares that had to be taken to MK next morning, which added value to the journey. Then, as I sat in the crew room in the afternoon, wondering if that would be the end of the week, the controller walked in and asked for volunteers for a couple of decent jobs yesterday. No one spoke up immediately, but after a few moments I realised that the 'important' jobs I'd been planning for Saturday morning could be postponed until Monday, so I declared myself available, and by 8.30am I was delivering a box to a food processing factory just a few miles outside Launceston.
Then disaster struck. The camera made it clear that it needed new batteries. No problem; I always carry a spare set in the case and - very carefully, since I was by then at my vantage point looking over the parapet of the road bridge (which you can just make out here behind the white signal) - I removed the dead batteries and replaced them. Sadly, the replacements too seemed to be in need of recharging. I felt like a foolish virgin (Matt. 25:3), and retreated shamefully to my van, having been unable to record half of what I'd seen. So, what has this experience taught me? Let me just say that, after an evening of searching for the battery charger, which has now recovered pride of place on the kitchen shelf, I now have a functioning camera once more ... AND a monthly electronic reminder to check the batteries and recharge them if necessary. I wonder what else in life ought to be subjected to the same treatment?
Friday, 2 March 2012
When Memories Take Over
The other afternoon I was listening to a podcast about the development of supermarkets, and my mind shot right back to my teens, when I used to help out at the grocery shop of W Bale & Son. It was actually two shops in one, 2-3 Market Place, and it had two front doors - well, three actually, since there was another one in the closed, warehouse end that had been no. 2. Customers only saw the actual shop, no.3, and being right on the corner, overlooking the market place, it was usually bright and sunny.
Entering by the door further from the corner you had to go down a couple of steps to floor level, and were immediately beside the bacon slicer. This shining silver and red machine was cleaned every evening by one of the two men who ran the shop, Geoffrey and Cyril. It was operated by turning a big handle at the far end, as a result of which a system of gears and levers moved the carriage from one end to the other of the bed, and each turn of the handle moved it slightly to the left, and nearer to the circular blade that revolved with a constant whirr as the handle went round. On the carriage were either two or four poles, between which lay a side of bacon, or a big ham, held firmly in place by a set of fierce metal teeth, part of a securing cover which slid up and down on the poles.
I was always fascinated to watch the rhythmic motion of the men, swinging to and fro as one hand turned the handle while the other caught the rashers as they fell from the blade. These in turn were swung with equal precision onto a sheet of greaseproof placed there for the purpose. When by their judgement enough slices had accumulated to make the required weight, this was moved swiftly to the scale, and checked. Maybe another slice was required, and then he would wrap it up in one smooth movement, tucking in the last end and placing it on the counter facing the customer, as the other hand reached for the ubiquitous pencil perched on his ear, ready to write the price on the outside. Meanwhile he was already asking, "... something else, Mrs Brown?" Never a moment was lost, in those days when there was personal service for everyone.
By the time I was about thirteen, I was already familiar with the shop, since my mother had worked there before I was born, and I'd been taken there regularly from a toddler. It had been suggested that I go and help out for the weeks when Geoffrey, Cyril and their colleague Roly who drove the van, took their annual summer holidays. At two weeks each, that would nicely occupy me during the long and boring weeks off school. I was put to gentle duties like shelf-filling, and taking orders around the town on the trade bike, which was brought out of retirement and cleaned up for the occasion.
The customers were the predictable mixture of 'old faithfuls' who lived in the town and called in on a daily or weekly basis, younger families living on the council estates to the east and south-east of the town centre, and farmers and the rural elite from the surrounding villages. Some would take their groceries with them; others would have them delivered. One lady from Kenninghall or Fersfield sent her chauffeur, and there was a delightful chap who would have done P G Wodehouse proud, who arrived with a monocle and a limp, and pronounced his greeting, " 'Morning, Mr Hubbard! 'Morning Mr Haystead!" [to Roly] "Hello, young man!" In turn I too received my due ... a silent smile. I believe he was an 'Honourable', and had a place in "Who's Who".
On my first day behind the scenes, I was shown round the store, and then introduced to a manually operated coffee grinder located on the second floor by a beautiful oriel window overlooking the churchyard. The premises were quite straightforward. Each of the two shops consisted of living accommodation above a sales floor. There was access between the two on the ground and first floors, but above that they were independent. Because of the slope of the ground, the back doors were on the first floor, and opened onto the churchyard. We normally used the back door of no.2, beside which was a tiny kitchen, while the rear of no. 3 led to what had once been a little veranda. It was by that time a dark and dingy place and home to vast colonies of spiders, whose webs seemed to be everywhere. It was secured to the outside by vertical shutters at the foot of two or three steps that ran the length of the shop; between these and the back door was a kind of rough storage area, secure but open to the elements. This was where the bike lived.
Behind this almost unused door there were two rooms, the windows of which had been bricked up, so they were always dark, and illuminated when required by lone, unshaded electric bulbs In one was kept sugar and biscuits, and in the other a variety of tinned fruit, jams and marmalades. When it was delivered, the ordinary, granulated sugar arrived at the back door in brown paper packages each containing fourteen two-pound bags. On the next floor were two more rooms, bright and airy, with a big window overlooking the market place, which were used to store coffee and tea, sweets and chocolate. My first task that morning was to fill the coffee drawer with powder freshly ground from beans emptied from a one- or two-pound bag into the machine.
When it was full, the drawer was carried down two flights of stairs to its place in the long wooden counter which ran most of the length of the shop. There was a gap in the middle of the counter to allow access to the 'staff area' behind it, and at the end nearer the bacon slicer was a small office. As well as coffee, the drawers underneath the counter contained rice, sugar of many kinds, and a variety of dried fruit. When they were empty, or in slack times, simply running low, they were carried upstairs, refilled and returned. On this brown wooden counter stood the magnificent cash register, with its sliding markers for pounds, shillings and pence. Once the correct amount was set, the handle was turned rapidly and the cash drawer opened. Change was counted up into the hand of the customer, as I've described elsewhere.
Past the office door was a small passage up a couple of steps that led into the ground floor of no.2, and its little-used front door. I only saw it opened for two regular purposes. One was the loading of the delivery van from wooden racks that filled most of this former shop area, where the orders were placed once picked. The other reason for opening this door was when bacon and cheese was delivered, for at the far end there was a great refridgerated cupboard, and the delivery driver would carry the bacon straight from the lorry to the fridge. At the back of no.2 was a brick arch, through which two or three steps gave access to a small dark cellar, which was actually beneath the churchyard. Here the cheeses were stored until required. As the level of custom in the shop allowed, one of the men would take a sharp knife and go into the fridge to remove the bones from the bacon, packing them into a small cardboard box. One of my less pleasant duties when I was there involved carry this box round the corner to the abbatoir in Chapel St, where I was thankful to leave them in a pre-arranged corner, just inside the door.
Access to the third floor of no.2 was by means of a staircase at the far end, small enough almost to be a spiral, and one of my abiding memories is of struggling up and down those stairs with a box containing 36 giant packets of Kelloggs Cornflakes. The two topmost floors of no.3 and the top floor of no.2 were all empty, and some of them were still covered with wallpaper from their time as bedrooms.
In the shop there seemed to be a place for everything, and of course everything had to be in its place. Across the middle of the ceiling, just in front of the counter, was a shelf for the cereals, with lots of cornflakes at one end, and porage oats at the other. In between were the usual varieties that were advertised on TV and favourite with the children, like Frosties and Rice Krispies, Sugar Puffs and Shreddies; and beside the Weetabix ... do you remember the yellow boxes of Force Wheat Flakes, with a picture of Sunny Jim on the front, vaulting a gate? In front of this shelf, the ceiling was supported by two metal columns that helped to bear the weight of the four floors above, and the furniture of the shop was completed by a seat in front of the counter where the more elderly customers could rest their legs whilst waiting to be served.
As the week progressed, not only did the constant flow of people through the shop receive the personal service to which they were accustomed, but phone calls from isolated farms would be recieved in the office and answered with orderbook and pen, providing lists from which their requirements could be picked and packed ready for the regular deliveries. There were four specific rounds over the course of the week, one on Tuesdays to the villages north and north-east of the town, two on Thursdays to the north-west and south-west, and then one on Friday mornings to the south-east. At holiday times, Roly was required in the shop, of during the day, of course, and so these had to be accommodated in the evenings, and it was my excitement to go along with him on these occasions, ostensibly to help and reduce the time they took. More often than not, the customers were only too pleased to see a new face, and embarrassed me by their friendly interrogation.
During my time at the shop, I learned many skills that are of no use today, and have now passed into history. These included (with varying degrees of proficiency) wrapping a wedge of cheese in a neat greaseproof parcel; later on I was even allowed - with guidance, and for known, tolerant customers - to cut it myself, using that wire that ran down the middle of the marble slab! Similar progressions were made in other matters, such as pouring sugar or rice from the scalepan into a blue bag without spilling any, before folding the top of the bag so that none should spill out. Then came the greatest test of all -wrapping a pound of ground coffee in a plain white paper. This involved bringing up both sides and folding these edges together so as to form a sort of tube, but gently so as not to shoot the coffee all over the counter; then the whole was swung onto one end, trapping the coffee against the counter while the other end was folded in the manner of a sugar bag; and finally - great risk of spillage here - inverting the whole thing and tucking in the other end. On many occasions my efforts weren't deemed roadworthy as I'd left them and had to be tied with string for safety!
What a field day the health and safety people would have in such a situation as this today. Such a lot of risk assessments; the need for clean hands; and the carrying of heavy boxes up all those hazardous stairs! And I'm sure the employment people would have been quick to prevent me going along voluntarily as I did on Saturdays when holiday cover couldn't justify my paid attendance, simply because I enjoyed the company and the activity! Such vivid and happy memories - it's hardly possible that they were almost fifty years ago!
Entering by the door further from the corner you had to go down a couple of steps to floor level, and were immediately beside the bacon slicer. This shining silver and red machine was cleaned every evening by one of the two men who ran the shop, Geoffrey and Cyril. It was operated by turning a big handle at the far end, as a result of which a system of gears and levers moved the carriage from one end to the other of the bed, and each turn of the handle moved it slightly to the left, and nearer to the circular blade that revolved with a constant whirr as the handle went round. On the carriage were either two or four poles, between which lay a side of bacon, or a big ham, held firmly in place by a set of fierce metal teeth, part of a securing cover which slid up and down on the poles.
I was always fascinated to watch the rhythmic motion of the men, swinging to and fro as one hand turned the handle while the other caught the rashers as they fell from the blade. These in turn were swung with equal precision onto a sheet of greaseproof placed there for the purpose. When by their judgement enough slices had accumulated to make the required weight, this was moved swiftly to the scale, and checked. Maybe another slice was required, and then he would wrap it up in one smooth movement, tucking in the last end and placing it on the counter facing the customer, as the other hand reached for the ubiquitous pencil perched on his ear, ready to write the price on the outside. Meanwhile he was already asking, "... something else, Mrs Brown?" Never a moment was lost, in those days when there was personal service for everyone.
By the time I was about thirteen, I was already familiar with the shop, since my mother had worked there before I was born, and I'd been taken there regularly from a toddler. It had been suggested that I go and help out for the weeks when Geoffrey, Cyril and their colleague Roly who drove the van, took their annual summer holidays. At two weeks each, that would nicely occupy me during the long and boring weeks off school. I was put to gentle duties like shelf-filling, and taking orders around the town on the trade bike, which was brought out of retirement and cleaned up for the occasion.
The customers were the predictable mixture of 'old faithfuls' who lived in the town and called in on a daily or weekly basis, younger families living on the council estates to the east and south-east of the town centre, and farmers and the rural elite from the surrounding villages. Some would take their groceries with them; others would have them delivered. One lady from Kenninghall or Fersfield sent her chauffeur, and there was a delightful chap who would have done P G Wodehouse proud, who arrived with a monocle and a limp, and pronounced his greeting, " 'Morning, Mr Hubbard! 'Morning Mr Haystead!" [to Roly] "Hello, young man!" In turn I too received my due ... a silent smile. I believe he was an 'Honourable', and had a place in "Who's Who".
On my first day behind the scenes, I was shown round the store, and then introduced to a manually operated coffee grinder located on the second floor by a beautiful oriel window overlooking the churchyard. The premises were quite straightforward. Each of the two shops consisted of living accommodation above a sales floor. There was access between the two on the ground and first floors, but above that they were independent. Because of the slope of the ground, the back doors were on the first floor, and opened onto the churchyard. We normally used the back door of no.2, beside which was a tiny kitchen, while the rear of no. 3 led to what had once been a little veranda. It was by that time a dark and dingy place and home to vast colonies of spiders, whose webs seemed to be everywhere. It was secured to the outside by vertical shutters at the foot of two or three steps that ran the length of the shop; between these and the back door was a kind of rough storage area, secure but open to the elements. This was where the bike lived.
Behind this almost unused door there were two rooms, the windows of which had been bricked up, so they were always dark, and illuminated when required by lone, unshaded electric bulbs In one was kept sugar and biscuits, and in the other a variety of tinned fruit, jams and marmalades. When it was delivered, the ordinary, granulated sugar arrived at the back door in brown paper packages each containing fourteen two-pound bags. On the next floor were two more rooms, bright and airy, with a big window overlooking the market place, which were used to store coffee and tea, sweets and chocolate. My first task that morning was to fill the coffee drawer with powder freshly ground from beans emptied from a one- or two-pound bag into the machine.
When it was full, the drawer was carried down two flights of stairs to its place in the long wooden counter which ran most of the length of the shop. There was a gap in the middle of the counter to allow access to the 'staff area' behind it, and at the end nearer the bacon slicer was a small office. As well as coffee, the drawers underneath the counter contained rice, sugar of many kinds, and a variety of dried fruit. When they were empty, or in slack times, simply running low, they were carried upstairs, refilled and returned. On this brown wooden counter stood the magnificent cash register, with its sliding markers for pounds, shillings and pence. Once the correct amount was set, the handle was turned rapidly and the cash drawer opened. Change was counted up into the hand of the customer, as I've described elsewhere.
Past the office door was a small passage up a couple of steps that led into the ground floor of no.2, and its little-used front door. I only saw it opened for two regular purposes. One was the loading of the delivery van from wooden racks that filled most of this former shop area, where the orders were placed once picked. The other reason for opening this door was when bacon and cheese was delivered, for at the far end there was a great refridgerated cupboard, and the delivery driver would carry the bacon straight from the lorry to the fridge. At the back of no.2 was a brick arch, through which two or three steps gave access to a small dark cellar, which was actually beneath the churchyard. Here the cheeses were stored until required. As the level of custom in the shop allowed, one of the men would take a sharp knife and go into the fridge to remove the bones from the bacon, packing them into a small cardboard box. One of my less pleasant duties when I was there involved carry this box round the corner to the abbatoir in Chapel St, where I was thankful to leave them in a pre-arranged corner, just inside the door.
Access to the third floor of no.2 was by means of a staircase at the far end, small enough almost to be a spiral, and one of my abiding memories is of struggling up and down those stairs with a box containing 36 giant packets of Kelloggs Cornflakes. The two topmost floors of no.3 and the top floor of no.2 were all empty, and some of them were still covered with wallpaper from their time as bedrooms.
In the shop there seemed to be a place for everything, and of course everything had to be in its place. Across the middle of the ceiling, just in front of the counter, was a shelf for the cereals, with lots of cornflakes at one end, and porage oats at the other. In between were the usual varieties that were advertised on TV and favourite with the children, like Frosties and Rice Krispies, Sugar Puffs and Shreddies; and beside the Weetabix ... do you remember the yellow boxes of Force Wheat Flakes, with a picture of Sunny Jim on the front, vaulting a gate? In front of this shelf, the ceiling was supported by two metal columns that helped to bear the weight of the four floors above, and the furniture of the shop was completed by a seat in front of the counter where the more elderly customers could rest their legs whilst waiting to be served.
As the week progressed, not only did the constant flow of people through the shop receive the personal service to which they were accustomed, but phone calls from isolated farms would be recieved in the office and answered with orderbook and pen, providing lists from which their requirements could be picked and packed ready for the regular deliveries. There were four specific rounds over the course of the week, one on Tuesdays to the villages north and north-east of the town, two on Thursdays to the north-west and south-west, and then one on Friday mornings to the south-east. At holiday times, Roly was required in the shop, of during the day, of course, and so these had to be accommodated in the evenings, and it was my excitement to go along with him on these occasions, ostensibly to help and reduce the time they took. More often than not, the customers were only too pleased to see a new face, and embarrassed me by their friendly interrogation.
During my time at the shop, I learned many skills that are of no use today, and have now passed into history. These included (with varying degrees of proficiency) wrapping a wedge of cheese in a neat greaseproof parcel; later on I was even allowed - with guidance, and for known, tolerant customers - to cut it myself, using that wire that ran down the middle of the marble slab! Similar progressions were made in other matters, such as pouring sugar or rice from the scalepan into a blue bag without spilling any, before folding the top of the bag so that none should spill out. Then came the greatest test of all -wrapping a pound of ground coffee in a plain white paper. This involved bringing up both sides and folding these edges together so as to form a sort of tube, but gently so as not to shoot the coffee all over the counter; then the whole was swung onto one end, trapping the coffee against the counter while the other end was folded in the manner of a sugar bag; and finally - great risk of spillage here - inverting the whole thing and tucking in the other end. On many occasions my efforts weren't deemed roadworthy as I'd left them and had to be tied with string for safety!
What a field day the health and safety people would have in such a situation as this today. Such a lot of risk assessments; the need for clean hands; and the carrying of heavy boxes up all those hazardous stairs! And I'm sure the employment people would have been quick to prevent me going along voluntarily as I did on Saturdays when holiday cover couldn't justify my paid attendance, simply because I enjoyed the company and the activity! Such vivid and happy memories - it's hardly possible that they were almost fifty years ago!
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