Patchwork

This patchwork quilt of a week (given the temperatures, not a bad metaphor!) began with a phone call at 7.15 on Saturday morning.  It was my son, planning to pay me a visit, but seeking a last minute weather report before setting out.  This was the precursor to a rare but profitable day of togetherness, as he knitted together the final loose ends of my protracted transfer from Orange broadband to an integrated broadband-and-landline deal with BT.  I was reminded just how long this has taken (to some extent, I have to admit, due to my stubborn reluctance to call Mike in earlier!) when at the conclusion of the day I attempted to show him the project I've recently been working on regarding the Sturgeon families in 19th-century Stanton.  One of my files wouldn't open, and we had to restore the back-up copy.  Sadly, we discovered that no back-ups had been made of my system since the final days of August!

Apart from the snow outside, Sunday was fairly typical, although with a meeting in the afternoon I was reluctant to turn out a third time for the evening service which would normally have commanded my willing attendance.  I also missed out on the Monday breakfast at the church, because I had been given a job which entailed an 8.0 pick-up some distance away.  Annoyingly, when I got there, I discovered that the goods were far too big for my van, so after a phone call to the controller, I came home again and spent the morning at the computer.  After lunch, I was given a more successful job to Crewe.

Tuesday was even less productive, with a local 'errand' and then a fairly regularly repeated job to Daventry, and back soon after lunch, whereupon I called into the office to sort out my paperwork.  Unfortunately, in this visit I didn't get sufficiently noticed to be added to the list, so it wasn't until lunchtime on Wednesday that a cautious caller asked, "are you working today, Brian?"  Upon announcing that I was ready and waiting, with nowhere to go, I was despatched to Huntingdon with some computer equipment, and returned again mid-afternoon thinking that another day was over.

About the time work would be allocated for the morrow, the controller called me.  "Are you planning anything tonight?" he asked.  "Would you be able to do a long job?"  I told him "No ... and yes!"  and was asked to collect promptly a parcel for Livingston, and then return to make any necessary preparations for the journey.  Arriving at our customer, I waited a few minutes for the goods to be packed.  "It's amazing," I was told, "in the whole of Scotland they haven't got these drugs; they have to get them from us!"  Fortified by this sense of importance, I set forth, having told them that they would be delivered by around 1.0am.

I stopped for a meal at Markham Moor, and then only once more, a comfort stop at Southwaite, before drawing into the yard of the distribution depot just six minutes short of my forecast arrival.  By the time I'd attracted someone's attention and got the goods signed for it was ... 1.0!  My confidence enhanced by the accuracy of my prediction, and less tired than I had expected, I set off at a modest speed for home.  I had encountered neither snow nor ice on my journey: just dry, clear roads, although there was plenty of snow alongside them.  I stopped for a chilling doze at Abington and made Carlisle by just after 4.0am, where I could park safely at the truckstop there, and doze in the van with the engine running for warmth.  By 7.15 the body-clock kicked in, telling me it was time for activity again, and after a nourishing breakfast I set off again, stopping for a short snooze at coffee time (Scotch Corner) and arriving home around 2.30 pm.

Sympathetic to my endeavours, when the controller rang about 4.0, he began with the announcement that he wasn't sending me out again that afternoon, but would I go to a customer in Letchworth to collect a tender for delivery at 9.0 the following morning.  Thus Friday began early.  I followed SatNav to a secure building near Bicester, which turned out to be a prison, rather than the barracks I had expected.  History, geography and instinct join to suggest that the two were once part of a great wartime airfield.  Once, a road ran straight through from one end to the other, which had confused my electronic friend, for now they are totally separate.  By lunchtime I had returned home after undertaking another short job on the way, and I waited to see if something else might fill the last remaining corner of the week.

After two hours or so, I was sent to Stevenage to collect a single box of print to take to Cheltenham racecourse.  It's a popular conference venue, and I knew just where to go, which was as well, for there were no useful security staff on hand to ask.  The task was quickly completed, and I made my way home, stopping for a snack on the way.

The weekend brought little rest, however, and I was up at an unearthly hour in order to get the washing done before setting out for the Suffolk Record Office.  Here I attempted to recover some of the data lost by that file corruption last weekend, though of course it wasn't possible to determine just what I might have added in the last four and a half months, and until some day in the future when I enter some snippet that rings a bell as having been 'entered before somewhere', I shan't know how successful the day was.

Now, with the snow gone from everywhere around, and the temperature so obviously much higher, I have to confront the difficulty of re-acclimatising to regular clothing and heating regimes - a task which I have to say is a very welcome one!