All a Matter of Balance

The hope with which I ended my last narrative - that of a more balanced week - wasn't fulfilled.  I suppose you could say that, while the bread showed fewer signs of sawdust, the butter was definitely no more evenly spread.  I recall my jubilation the other week at having not one but three days of northern jobs.  This week definitely seemed back to the old routine ... until the end.  But read on:

Monday found me setting off mid-morning for Farnborough, to a high-security wood-lined estate that I believe was once a military establishment.  Scarcely had I returned when I was alerted to the fact that the husband of a key member of the staff of one of our clients had managed to lock himself out of his car on a golf course in Essex.  Guess who was his rescuer?  Got it in one! 

The day finished with the weekly bookkeeping exercise, followed by bellringing practice.  There names were being taken of those willing to ring for a few minutes on the day of the Olympic opening ceremony.  Mine was conspicuous by its absence - I've already heard enough of this event to last more than a lifetime!  At work, meanwhile, drivers were being canvassed for those willing to do night-time deliveries into London during the Games - another list I keenly avoided!

Tuesday's delight was a trek through the lanes of Suffolk to deliver eight boxes of lightweight plastic mouldings. If you have ever encountered the pretty village of Coddenham, you will know of its very narrow main street.  Here I snuggled up to a creeper-lined wall, and was both relieved and impressed as a 38-ft articulated lorry carefully passed me by.  The driver gave me the thumbs-up as he approached, to thank me for my accommodating manoeuvre, and then smoothly guided his vehicle past mine.  Anxiously, I watched first the corner of the trailer and then the wheel-arches pass my protruding mirror and then the body of the van.  I'll swear there was less than half-an-inch clearance, and knowing the precision with which these people can drive, it's likely that there was little more between the lorry and the wall on the other side.

Returning from Suffolk soon after lunch, I found I had the afternoon free, and enjoyed the sunshine by using my van as a workshop for a little woodworking exercise.  Did I mention the pallet and scrap wood that I cadged the other week?  These have now been converted into a rather Heath-Robinson, but I believe effective, bed assembly that can be built in the van for holiday use, and then dismantled for minimun-space storage in my flat.  Now all I have to do is decide where to go using it.

The other excitement on Tuesday was the arrival of the postman.  At the weekend I had indulged in a little online retail therapy.  It's frightening how one purchase can so easily lead to another.  There's no difficulty in understanding how those with no willpower can soon rack up an unmanageable debt.  In no time at all I had bought a book that I'd heard mentioned recently on a podcast; while I was there I saw another volume that offered a wider view of the same topic, so why not get that one as well?  Then, there was a folk singer - I can't remember where in the last week I heard of him.  I thought I'd see if any of his music were available online.  Click! that's a double CD ordered.  I then read in the Family History Society's quarterly magazine that a number of their CDs are being reduced to a knock-down price to clear stocks.  By Tuesday evening all but one of these items had arrived - what magnificent service!  The other one arrived in my absence yesterday, so now the orders are cleared and there's a hasty resolve for more sales-resistance for the next few weeks.

Wednesday began in the wilds of Essex, where I collected a parcel for a firm in Hitchin, and was very soon out again, to Cambridge and Earith.  In the afternoon an equipment delivery to Northampton General Hospital was the spitting image of the one I'd made the other week to Liverpool - only this time delivery was to the stores, and much easier.  Thursday was in some ways similar, with a longer job first, this one from Royston to Daventry, followed by three shorter ones.  Then came Friday, and (returning to the butter metaphor) the dollop to balance the scrapings.

When I rang in first thing I learned that I'd been left on the list during those local jobs the previous afternoon, and was now in fourth position.  Consequently, I was called about 10.30, to collect two jobs, one for a hospital in Chandlers Ford, and the other for an engineering firm in Portsmouth.  Private hospitals can be strange.  Apart from the post code sending me to Barclays Bank, when I finally arrived - with goods that were allegedly urgent, and addressed to 'main theatres' - I found somewhere to park and made for reception to seek directions.  I expected, as on previous occasions, to be directed to the theatre.  No.  Before I had completed my request, the receptionist spotted the small parcel I was carrying, and uttered the mantra, "All deliveries have to be taken to the stores."  I explained that this was wanted urgently at the theatres, and mentioned the contact name I'd been given, which the woman recognised.  She picked up the phone.  Instead of ringing the theatre as I'd expected, she called the stores.  "It is right, isn't it," she asked, "that you have all deliveries, including things for theatre?"  Receiving a 'yes' in reply, she hung up and explained how I could get to the stores.  After a long walk down the corridor, I met someone at the door, who took my box and signed for it.  I thanked her, told her that it was - so I understood - required urgently in theatre.  As she turned from me back into the store, I couldn't resist uttering a barbed comment.  "I hope the patient will still be alive!"  One can go only so far ....

On my way home after a trouble-free 3.0pm delivery in Portsmouth, I stopped at a service point for some coffee, and decided to buy a salad to take home for my tea.  I can't but think that this was divine provision for, as I journeyed on, guided by SatNav to avoid the Friday afternoon queues on the motorway, I was phoned to ask whether I would be OK to do a delivery that evening in Manchester.  Hearing that I would, the controller then said that another driver would pick up the goods and meet me at the garage I should pass as I left the M25.  About an hour later I rendezvoused, collected the boxes and confirmed that they were wanted by an engineer who would be at Manchester Science Park at 10.0pm.  I was already equipped with my evening meal, so stopped on the way to eat it; then as my usual Friday evening listening ended, and the final chords of the music faded away, I cruised across the car park to where there were two cars outside the door.  I phoned the number I'd been given, and from one of them emerged the engineer to take my delivery.

I had planned to visit my cousin in Eastwood yesterday, and saw no reason to drive home to arrive in the small hours only to get up and drive halfway back again.  Instead, with the necessary revision to our arrangements duly made, I took a gentle drive down the A6 to Buxton, found somewhere to park up and doze in the van, and arrived for breakfast instead of in the early afternoon as planned.

And now, with the Test Match in full flow, and the dreaded Olympics just around the corner, it seems that summer has finally arrived.  What will it bring, and how long will it last?  Answers next week, maybe!