Two Weeks in One, as it Were!

Monday has for long been the skinniest day of the working week.  This week was no exception, and it generated only a single job.  When I picked it up and rang in for instruction, Dave said, simply, “It’s been so quiet – go and knock it out; I’ll keep you on the list and give you something decent for the morning.”  When I was in the office later, he called me over, and asked me to be in Hertford for 7.30 to collect some printed matter for Leeds University.  Despite this, and a couple of local jobs when I’d got back, Monday’s and Tuesday’s activity together represented only a day and a half.  Wednesday and Thursday fell into a slightly better mould and, although not exciting, did at least break even. 

On Thursday afternoon I’d collected some returns from Chertsey Hospital, and once I’d taken these to our customer, I was home by 4.30 and didn’t have long to wait for instructions for the morning.  Two local jobs were allocated, ‘to get me started,’ and I relaxed for an evening doing uninspiring ‘normal, things.  An hour or so later, came a call from one of the other controllers, offering a swap for those two morning duties.  “How do you fancy a 7.30 delivery in Aberdeen instead?”  I’d only recently finished a first draft of my annual newsletter, wherein I had bemoaned the fact that the number of ‘long jobs’ this year had plummeted, so how could I refuse?  Within only a few minutes I was on my way to Welham Green to collect a parcel of pharmaceuticals for delivery to Aberdeen Royal Infirmary or, as I quickly discovered, Foresterhill Medical Campus, as it’s now less romantically known.

The drive through the night followed the expected pattern.  I stopped just past Peterborough for a meal, and then drove steadily onwards, through heavy rain and vehicle spray until well into Yorkshire.  I was well aware that I’d had no sleep since the morning, and was vigilant for the first signs of drowsiness, but concentration to cope with the road conditions helped to stave these off, and I didn’t need to stop until after I’d left the A1 near Morpeth.  Although not terrifically cold, it wasn’t warm enough to stay asleep for long, and just on midnight I crossed the border and passed down the deserted main street of Coldstream, a place I remembered fondly from my Borders holiday of two years ago.

In fine weather, I passed along vaguely-recalled roads up to the Edinburgh City By-pass, and on to the Forth Bridge.  Then, from Dunfermline, SatNav led me along new routes.  I was taken to Glenrothes and through the kingdom of Fife to cross by the Tay Bridge into Dundee.  That last long stretch of the journey along the A90 is punctuated by the names of teams in the Scottish Football league, Forfar, Arbroath, Brechin and Montrose, and it has few filling stations, but many lay-bys, and in one of these I made my final snooze-stop before finally arriving in Aberdeen around 6.30.

With the delivery made, I set out in daylight for home, taking the more familiar route past Stirling services, and thence remarkably quickly to Glasgow and the M74.  More stops were required for fuel, and a couple more essential short sleeps, and the day was gone all too soon.  I finally returned home at around 8.30pm, some 27 hours after setting out, and with 2 miles short of a thousand more on the clock.

The weekend is a story of itself.  I had already booked a ticket for a concert in Ipswich, and decided to do some research at the record office in Bury St Edmunds ‘on the way past’.  I arrived in Bury at around 11.0, to find the place heaving because of a Christmas Market.  I usually use the council staff car park, since it’s turned over to the public on Saturdays and is right opposite the record office.  Along with the rest of the town, it seems, it was full.  However, a thoughtful attendant, sharing my frustration, pointed out a patch of grass at the front of the building behind an advertising board, where I could leave the van in safety.

It was a good day exploring the registers of the parish of Norton, Suffolk, but before long I came to that inevitable point where one hopes that the next page doesn’t contain any entries to record, because it’s just too much bother.  At this point, it’s time to go, and I made my way to a Little Chef for a light meal before the concert.  As I came away, I discovered that, although I’d turned them on, I had no headlights!   Fortunately, I was armed with both my AA membership card and my mobile, so well within an hour help was at hand.  Although the problem was only a blown bulb, its fellow having ceased to work temporarily in sympathy, it was by then too late to make the start of the concert, and I turned for home.  I wasn’t too disappointed for, if truth be told, I was still somewhat groggy from the rigours of a sleepless night on Thursday.

And today was no less exciting, albeit for totally different reasons.  I knew that there was to be a minor ceremony this morning, to commission the team of which I’m privileged to be a member, who either lead prayers publicly in our worship, or are available afterwards for personal prayer with individuals who have particular needs or concerns. 

I add to this, first, two recent discoveries about ladies who figured in my Norfolk past.  Maggie was a Reader in Diss when I left Norfolk and is now a priest; she featured in the local paper a couple of weeks ago, about to take her first wedding service.  Sue, at that time a successful high school teacher, was the leader of the home group I attended in the 70’s and 80’s.  She too became a Reader a few years ago, and this week I learned that she is now Curate in a group of eight parishes, including the four where I had served as a Reader myself.

I sat, as so often is the case, eating  my breakfast in front of the computer screen this morning, when Twitter announced that one of my online friends was so unwell that she couldn’t decide whether to go to church or not.  Since she is a minister’s wife, I realised what a dilemma this was for her, and therefore how rough she must be feeling.  I sent off a sympathetic response and, as I prepared myself to leave, found myself praying for her.

Before long, I sat in church telling a friend about the excitements of the week just past.  Then one of the officials approached me quietly and explained that the lady who was to lead the prayers in the service that was about to begin ... hadn’t turned up!  He wondered whether I would be prepared to step into the breach.  I gulped but, as the thoughts I’ve outlined above chased each other through my mind, I realised that I had only one response.  I’m not sure how many were aware of the short notice I’d had, or whether it was simply my imagination, but it seemed to me that the whole church was far more silent and responsive than usual at that moment.

An Unusual Post

In addition to an account of some of the more interesting and amusing aspects of the courier life, part of the raison d'être of this blog is to reveal some of the thoughts that also fill my life.  So, after the 'Unusual Week' already described here, I'd like to outline a couple of these from the week just finished. 

In the calm of a post-lay-in Saturday morning, I pondered the week's news from Israel, and found myself thinking about peace - what it means, and what prevents it.

Someone once said that true peace is far more than the absence of war, and it's my contention that the present situation in the middle east is the proof of that statement.  As I see it, the problems stretch back almost a hundred years to the end of the First World War when, with the Central Powers defeated, the world leaders had to decide how to deal with their lands.  While the Versailles Conference dealt with the fates of Germany and Austria-Hungary, the partition of the Ottoman Empire had been largely pre-determined during the war by a series of agreements, mainly involving Britain and France.  The empire was divided into a number of 'chunks' bounded by many straight lines drawn on the map.  It seems that little cognisance was taken of the many nations living there, and the areas in which they lived, such as the Kurds, whose homelands are famously spread across eastern Turkey, northern Iraq and into Iran.  Some parts, like Saudi Arabia, were given independence, while others like Syria and Palestine were occupied and governed under mandate from the League of Nations.

At this point I must stop the 'history lesson', for it's far more complicated than this brief note either can cover, or needs do to make my point.  Rather bizarrely, I compared peace to a chair placed on a carpet.  When sat on, the chair teetered from corner to corner, because the carpet had not been laid on the floor, but on the rubbish that had gathered on the floor before the need for carpet and chair had been determined.  How is this situation to be corrected?  One solution would be to remove the chair and, taking some offcuts of carpet, build up the corner that was too low, so that the chair could be replaced a little more evenly.  Perhaps a better solution would be to remove both chair and carpet, and even the surface of the rubbish before replacing them.

Common sense tells us that the 'proper' solution would be to clear the rubbish out of the way completely and place both carpet and chair on the floor.  However, removing the rubbish reveals a dirt floor that is itself uneven ... and so the analogy goes on.  The underlying question is, 'how far can a problem be stripped back to find and resolve the fundamental difficulty?'  While I'm sure you can see the parallels here with the successors to the Ottoman Empire, equally, I'm sure you would agree that the solution is far from simple.  Indeed, to peel back a century of history, like the carpet, and even out the floor, would be completely impossible - and I for one have no answers to this enigma.

---------------------------

So I wondered about peace.  The other thing I want to share with you is a complete contrast, and I'll begin with a story, which you may have heard before.  It concerns a priest who was very fond of golf.  One sunny Sunday morning, Fr Ryan decided that it was such a lovely day he'd rather play golf than take Mass.  So he phoned a fellow priest, pleaded sickness, arranged for the other priest to take the service, and set off for the golf course.  As he teed up for the second hole, he was spotted from heaven by an alert angel, who reported him to St Peter.

'You'll never guess - I've just spotted Fr Ryan out on the golf course; didn't he call in sick?  What should we do about this?'

St Peter had the answer.  'Leave it to me,' he said.

On the fifth, Fr Ryan astounded himself and scored a hole in one.  The angel was puzzled, and said to St Peter, 'I thought you were going to sort Fr Ryan out.  He's just scored a hole in one!'  Wisdom was revealed in St Peter's reply.

'So, he'll be cock-a-hoop, but ... who's he going to tell?  That'll really pain him!'

And what has this story to do with a courier who has never touched a golf club in his life, and isn't likely to?  Simply this.  I enjoyed a very satisfying Twitter exchange on Friday morning (before being sent to Halesworth), but I can't tell my friends about it, because none of them speaks Welsh  - not that I do either, beyond a very few words.  So I'll get it off my chest by telling you, dear reader.

One of the many broadcasters that I follow on Twitter is the lady who does the morning travel reports on Radio 2, Lynn Bowles ... whom I know to be Welsh.  She had tweeted that, strangely, most of the people she had spoken to that morning were named Bob.  I decided to join in the conversation with the single comment, 'Bob dydd!'  and to my amazement I received a reply - proving, to my mind at least, that broadcasters are human after all - Lynn replied, 'Nice one, Brian.'

(For the benefit of non-Welsh-speaking readers, perhaps I should explain that 'bob dydd' means simply 'good day'.)

Here's hoping for a more normal week next week!

An Unusual Week!

This week has been very strange - not only in the doing but in the recollection of it.  For instance, in conversation this morning the name Halesworth came up, and I commented that I was there only last Tuesday, making a delivery.  I now find that it was actually Friday morning!  It's been a strange week because of a number of unexpected twists and turns, which I'll summarise briefly before moving on.

Monday found me being sent to Essex.  I was called at 8.30 to collect from a customer in Sandy and take to West Thurrock.  When I rang in to ask if there was anything else to go that way, I was told no, but there would be a collection nearby ... at 3.0pm!  Bemused, I set off, and discovered that I was to deliver to a Regional Distribution Centre  (at my age, RDC has a historic local administration meaning!)  These places usually deal with articulated lorries rather than small vans, and when I'd waited my turn, parked my van as directed and reported to the office, I learned that, as a small van, I could have unloaded myself in a more appropriate place an hour ago!  Off then for my collection - some upholstered blocks from a place I'd been to a number of times, where I arrived soon after midday ... and discovered that they were ready already!

Afterwards I was sent to Stevenage to collect for Birmingham, only to be called back half way there when the job got cancelled.  Instead, I was added to a mixed contingent of nearly a dozen small and large vans to collect in Potters Bar at 6.0 the next morning.  I was given deliveries in Uckfield, Bexhill and Totton, which I finished as requested by midday.  I thought that would be Tuesday done and dusted, but not so - upon my return I was soon off again, this time to Leighton Buzzard and Telford.  I eventually found the destination in Telford around 7.0, discovered the gate to be locked, although there were many cars on the car park and several lights on.  As I explored, I was accosted by a voice from an intercom, and eventually gained access, only to be confronted by two standard contract security officers, who won't accept anything they're not expecting, despite a genuine and recognised member of staff being named on the paperwork.  Eventually they contacted the consignee - by then snugly at home in Wales - who phoned a colleague, still at work two floors above, to come down and sign for the goods.  After a meal on the way home, I was eventually into bed about midnight!

After that, Wednesday was a comfortable one-job day, and I collected in the afternoon for an 8.0 delivery on Thursday at a factory in Leicestershire, which ensured a nice truck-stop breakfast on the way home, and only local jobs afterwards.

On Friday I was sent to Halesworth as noted above, and when I was nearly back got diverted to collect in Bedford for a firm in Letchworth.  It was then about 2.0pm, and both the van and I needed refueling!  I then collected something a colleague had picked up in Stevenage, for Swavesey near Cambridge, and thence to St Ives for some export packages to go to DHL in Hayes, Middx.  That would have rounded off the week nicely, but there was yet another twist in the tail, whereby I was diverted to Dunstable to collect three envelopes, which took me to executive dwellings in Beaconsfield, Henley on Thames (both of which I'd been to before) and lastly to a village in Oxfordshire.  Here all the houses have names rather than numbers, and try as I might - even after enquiries in the local pub - the one I sought was not to be found, so after the necessary phone calls I brought the offending envelope back whence it came, and was home for a second time in the week, at around 11.30pm.

- and for tidiness' sake, after such a long 'summary', I'll add what was to have followed in a separate post here.

Back to the Country

It's not everyone's cup of tea but, for me, one of the nice things about this life on four wheels is the freedom of the countryside.  This week has been a good example, taking me to two places I'd never heard of, and to another that I visit only rarely, and that on the way to somewhere else.

After two days of unexciting routine, an early start led me to the village of Moreton-on-Lugg on Wednesday morning, where I was supposed to collect a small piece of machinery that was wanted urgently by our client in Stevenage.  And where is Moreton-on-Lugg? I hear my reader asking - just a little way up the A49 from Hereford.  Once I'd found the particular building, in a factory complex that half-filled a former airfield, I discovered the little chap, strapped to a pallet and all ready to be lifted into my van ... and there was a burger van just down the road for breakfast!

On Thursday afternoon, I took a metre-length of brass rod to a factory right next to the railway line at Overton, in north Hampshire.  Built on a slope, its front door bore an unusual notice - "All deliveries to be made downstairs at the back door."  Unexpected, but straightforward, and with a lovely view over the fields.

Yesterday was a busy day, more like the Fridays of yore.  I was out at 8.45, for a succession of local jobs that fell upon each other, adding wisdom to my decision to switch my computer off rather than leave in on stand-by as I do sometimes when going 'local'.  Then, about lunch time I set off on two 'proper' jobs, one of which carried a story that merits a blog to itself.  The first delivery was to High Wycombe, and I then set forth for Little Kimble, where I was to deliver a small roll of material for the print industry.

Now, Little Kimble is on the far side of Aylesbury (if I were coming from home) but attacking it, as I did yesterday, from High Wycombe it's before Aylesbury.  I don't think I've ever gone to it, and only pass through it if I'm going to one of those places in south Oxfordshire like Didcot, Abingdon or Wallingford, that aren't more easily reached by using a motorway.

I first discovered it when I had a girl-friend who lived in Didcot, back in the days when I was in Norfolk, and not so motorway-aware as I am now.  The only way to get to or from hers was, in my mind, the nearest I could find on the map to a straight line (no wonder the journey took me several hours!)  This led me through Luton, Dunstable, Aston Clinton, Prince's Risborough and Chinnor ... and on the way would come Little Kimble.  Not that I knew its name then - it was just the place where my route zig-zagged under a railway bridge.

So there I was yesterday afternoon, looking for an address, 'Crossways, Little Kimble'.  SatNav took me to the 'homeward' side of that railway bridge, to a small lane that led only to a few cottages; nothing that looked remotely like a printing works.  I turned tail and looked around.  I passed through the bridge, and tried the road that seemed more in the direction of the village than away from it.  As I did so, I spotted a spritely lady of late middle age, making her way towards me on the opposite side of the road.  As she approached, I wound down my window and asked if the firm's name or the address meant anything to her.  They didn't, so I carried on, found myself unproductively passing a few more cottages and at the end of the road - appropriately I thought - the undertaker's!

I turned around and, as I made my way back to that now famous railway bridge, I saw my erstwhile friend coming back.  I prepared to make a gesture indicating 'no luck', but before I could do so, she flagged me down.  She explained that she'd only gone just beyond the bridge to the pillar box, and noticed that the name on the cottage gate just before it was 'Crossways'.  It was worth a try.  I thanked her profusely and back the way I'd come.  Sure enough, on a gate so shabby and overgrown as to be unnoticeable to the casual passer-by, was the name I sought.  I parked by the roadside and approached it.  On the door of the cottage I found an even more encouraging note.  'Deliveries to the back, down the lane.' 

A short way down the lane, I found a gate and walked in, about to go to the rear of the cottage.  As I did so, I passed the door of a small, purpose built structure housing the very business I'd been looking for.  I entered confidently, presented my package, and amused the occupant with my story of how I'd found him.  He was not only impressed by the tale, but also by the apparent speed with which his delivery had been made.  Exchanges like this can be added to the list of good things about the courier life.

And today?  No football this week.  Instead, it's been the bellringers' annual autumn outing, with which I shall not bore my readers.  Suffice to say that, after a day's driving on country lanes, interspersed by several bouts of unaccustomed physical exercise and a pub lunch, energy levels are sadly depleted, and bed will provide welcome relief!

Oddly Productive

It's definitely been an odd week but, I have to confess, a productive one.  A lot of time, quite a bit of thought and, I admit, even the occasional dream over the last two or three weeks has been devoted to something called GenoPro.  This is a genealogy program that has been lurking on my computer virtually unused, for a number of years.  One of the reasons it has remained unused is because I'd never really taken the trouble to find out just what it is capable of.

Now I have examined it more closely than ever before I can see that, quite apart from the obvious capability of producing family tree 'pictures' (which was the reason I got it in the first place), the latest version is able to build them up in family groups and link them together one by one, so that hundreds of characters can be detailed in just one computer file, and displayed on up to a thousand separate pages.  While it isn't my plan to swap my existing database for this program, I've been working my way through my records making sure that I have entered the basic information for each person I've researched in my family tree.  It's been a revealing exercise in the vagaries of personal discipline, as key data readily available is now revealed as being missing in countless examples - more work for the dark winter evenings!

Alongside this, of course, there has been work to distract me.  Having said that, though, this has been statistically one of the most straightforward weeks I've known.  It's a reflection of the partial nature of the nation's recovery from recession that in three of the last five weeks there has been one day in which I've done no work at all.  This week it was Monday, which enabled me to carry on quite freely with the family history stuff I've noted above.  No work at all, that is, until about 3.30pm, when I was sent to Stevenage to load up lots of heavy boxes of printed matter for a conference that took place in Glasgow later in the week.

Tuesday was therefore a long day, made longer by my inability to sleep.  I woke for the second time at 2.30 and decided that, rather than try once more to resume my slumbers, I might as well dress and get under way.  As a result, my plans for breakfast were adjusted, and I stopped at the Nightowl truck-stop outside Carlisle instead of Markham Moor as I'd originally intended.  Arriving in the narrow street next to the office where I was supposed to deliver, I had to wait for a truck that was blocking the road making a delivery before I could drive round the final corner.  While I did so, a phone call from my office passed on a request for me to take some of the boxes on board to the exhibition centre first.  The overall effect of this delay was that it was an hour later that I finally got away from the city centre, and could enjoy the freedom of an unhurried journey home.

A few months ago I began listening to the weekly podcasts produced by the church at Kirkmuirhill, not far from the M74, midway between Glasgow and Carlisle, and I'd resolved that next time I was passing I would go and take a look at the village for myself.  Despite the fact that the weather wasn't ideal, I did so, but the picture I took was but a pale imitation of the one on their website. 

The rest of the week was uninspiring.  The calendar month finished with a journey to an insurance office in Norwich, delayed by a diversion to the hospital in King's Lynn, and Thursday found me sampling the delights of Hampshire with deliveries in Romsey and Southampton. 

By Friday, I was quite ready for a lazy day, and a journey to one of the farthest corners of Oxfordshire suited my mood nicely.  Whether it was fatigue I couldn't say, but even the normal hitches and frustrations didn't seem to bother me.  First of all it took me quite a while driving up and down the busy High Street of Ware to find the collection point.  Then, to my surprise SatNav asked if I wanted to use a toll road in my journey - an offer for which I could see no justification, so I ignored it.  As I drove along, listening to the radio, it occurred to me that this 'fastest route' that I was following seemed to include a lot of little-used country lanes.  My delivery made, I set course for home and again was offered a route using a toll road.  This time I decided to sample this delight, and very soon found that I had to pay 40p to cross the Thames at Pangbourne.  Soon afterwards I was on the motorway, all thoughts of slow back-lanes far behind me, and the weekend to which to look forward.

Today, though busy, has been relaxing, with a breakfast event to start, followed by a discussion on the theme of 'friendship' and, after shopping, getting the van cleaned and the tyres and tracking checked, I was off to watch a football match.  This week I decided to visit a local team playing in the United Counties League, and watched Potton United lose 3-1 to Oadby Town, despite the visitors' goalkeeper being sent off after only a quarter of an hour!  With so many events clamouring for attention on Saturdays this was my first match since the end of September, but I do intend to watch an FA Vase tie in two weeks' time.  More news here as it happens!