Taking it for Granted

As I approached them this morning, two of my fellow bellringers were in earnest conversation, in which one was relating to the other the major expedition he would mount in a couple of weeks' time to bring his son (plus luggage, equipment etc.) home from university.  I arrived, and he added, by way of introduction, "but of course to Brian, here, this would be a mere doddle!"  Before I had a chance to reply, our friend agreed.  '"Yes, I debated the other week whether to go and see my friends in Weymouth and, as I decided against it, I realised that Brian would be there and back before the day is out."  Like a number of others, they marvel at the distances I rack up in an average week - let alone the annual total.  (For the statistically-minded, last year's total was 72,742 miles, but the average for the eight weeks so far this year is a mere 1,385.)

I reflected on this exchange this afternoon, and realised just how much we all take our own, perhaps peculiar, circumstances for granted ... until something comes along to inject a dose of reality into the situation.  Before I started this job, a little more than eleven years ago, I think the furthest I had driven as a single journey was for a holiday in Exeter, which took almost all day.  Four years later I planned a similar holiday in Durham, but was so daunted by the journey that both there and back I made an overnight stop part of the way.  Now I wouldn't think twice about going to either destination - and much farther - and back in a single (albeit long) day.

It's very much a case of becoming used to it.  I may have mentioned before a conversation with an erstwhile colleague who, at the time, was making the journey to Edinburgh (and sometimes beyond) twice or even three times in a week.  "Don't you find it exhausting?" I asked.  "No," was his reply, "The more you do it, the shorter it seems."  And in the years since, I've found that to be true.

Three things this week have brought realism to my view of things.  On Tuesday, after a leisurely morning at home, I was sent to Nottinghamshire, and found myself on roads that I'd last travelled a couple of summers ago on a bus.  My holiday had been spent enjoyably 'house-sitting and cat-feeding' for my cousin and her husband while they were on their holiday, and one day I'd taken a trip on a normal service bus to visit one of the many medium-sized towns in the area.  I recall wondering where on earth the bus was taking me, as we made our way from one village to another, zig-zagging across the former coalfield, down narrow streets between small shops and coal-blackened cottages.  A few hours later, the return journey seemed to take far less time, because I was retracing my steps.  I won't say the scenery was familiar, but at least it was pre-viewed.

Wednesday was a most productive day.  I set off quite early to collect for Portsmouth, and before leaving 'home territory', I was given another job for Byfleet to deliver on the way.  Returning from these about 3.30, I was asked if I'd like another job that day.  After expressing my interest, I was told to get a 'cuppa' because it wouldn't be ready until 5.0, but was going to Wolverhampton.  I initially thought that this would fit in nicely with a meal at the Rugby truck-stop on the way back.  When I got to our customer, I learned that the goods wouldn't be ready for collection for another half-hour; by the time I'd delivered them in Wolverhampton - although there had been no delays on the way - it was clear that there was no chance of getting to Rugby before the truck-stop would have stopped serving meals, so instead I spent a restful half hour on the car park of a KFC just off junction 10 of the M6, surveying the skyline of Walsall as it fell under the cloak of darkness.

On Friday, in the the cold and rain, I paid the second visit in two weeks to the Royal Sussex Hospital in Brighton.  It's a nice straightforward route, and I like it because - like the run into Manchester from Altringham - there's a long stretch of (enforced!) 30 mph limit, which makes for a nice leisurely approach to the target.  With my collection done, I made my way back towards the A23, stopping carefully at all the pedestrian crossings and red traffic lights.  In such a queue of traffic, the only thing to do is watch the people on the pavement, and this particular trip offered much of interest. 

Just along from the Pavilion, for example, I saw a middle-aged man at the door of an empty shop.  At first I thought he was sheltering from the rain, and simply peering through the door as he waited.  Then I realised that he was apparently scraping or chipping with his fingernails at the top of the door.  As I looked, he stood back away from the door, considered, and then took something from his trouser pocket to re-apply himself to his task.  Was it a key?  Was he in fact a prospective purchaser?  No, this was at the middle of the top of the door; one would expect the lock to be at the edge furthest from the hinge.  Completely oblivious of any other passers-by, but with great determination, he continued his task ... a task that has to remain unexplained, because the traffic moved off.

It must have been at the next set of lights that I spotted the young woman with the dog.  As with many these days, she was looking intently at her outstretched hand as she walked along.  There seemed little doubt that she was texting someone, as her thumb moved rapidly across the phone she held in her hand.  I'm always amazed how people can do this while walking: I can manage it with one hand ... just; but not while contending with the motion of travel.  Let's not forget either that this woman's other hand was holding on to the dog's lead, which introduces another dimension of movement to the situation.  And to crown the whole achievement - as if the rain weren't sufficient - the dog was successfully pulling her along at what must have been almost twenty miles an hour!  If you know such a woman - in Brighton or elsewhere - please give her my warmest congratulations!

We live in a strange world, one which we should never take for granted, and I'm sure I'll be seeing more of it next week.

Excitement Abounds

Yesterday morning, I was feeling pretty exhausted.  But looking back now from Sunday afternoon, I can see that it's been quite an exciting and rewarding week - in more ways than one.  Let me sketch in some detail to that bald, if positive, outline.

The week began with me missing the church breakfast, although up at about the same time as usual in order to achieve an early pick-up in Letchworth for delivery in Harlow.  Back home again, I was able to indulge in a little family history before being sent to Romsey, to a destination where I'd been before; this time, however, the nearby roadworks had been finished, and I wasn't called upon to make an annoying diversion.  A satisfying bell-ringing practice ended the day. 

Tuesday saw the first of three examples in the week of 'stretching-the-destination' (std).  I was up early again, to make a delivery to 'Chelmsford' ... only it wasn't actually Chelmsford, but to a little village - again a place I'd visited before - called Stow Maries, some miles beyond.  A job to Basingstoke followed, and again I was comfortably home for the evening.  It was then that excitement kicked in.

In Wednesday morning's beautiful sunshine, I was given two jobs, delivering in Hemel Hempstead and London Colney, before running empty down to Brighton.  Here I visited the Royal Sussex Hospital, where building works have for some while been adding to the cramped parking conditions.  Luckily, I found a security person ticketing cars parked in the ambulances-only yard outside A&E; she quickly indicated where I could freely park for my two missions.  The first of these was to transfer some empty crates to an address in nearby Shoreham.  This involved a leisurely (30-mph-limited) 'stroll' along the seafront - absolute delight - and then back again to the hospital.  I then loaded up some equipment that was brought back to our depot for a customer.

Thursday morning offered a delivery to Bishop's Stortford, and then I was off to Manchester with some boxes that the consignor admitted could have gone overnight, but 'orders are orders!'  I came home by way of the Snake Pass, only a few hundred yards from Derwent Reservoir, where earlier in the day a Lancaster bomber had performed a flypast to commemorate the 70th anniversary of the Dambuster Raid, whose courageous aircrews had used the reservoir to practice their dangerous manoeuvre.

After a late night, I had scarcely started my breakfast when the controller called to announce that it looked like a day of local jobs for small vans, and to give me my first one.  I was just home from this, and along came the second - one that I'd done quite a few times recently, from Houghton Regis, near Luton, over to Cambridge.  This time, however, not only did it involve visiting two separate factories in Cambridge, but also taking a parcel to the firm's accountants in Stevenage.  On the way I was invited to collect a large box from a firm in 'Cambridge' - actually Waterbeach (std).  This was to go to central London, and after making my Stevenage delivery, I was glad to hand it over to another driver for this purpose.  By now it was mid-afternoon, and it was suggested that I might like to do a job to Coventry.  Inevitably plans change and, after collecting this in Hitchin, I was diverted some fifteen miles in the opposite direction to collect something else for 'Stafford', which later turned out to be a village called Hixon (std again!), and for the third night running it was almost midnight before I got home.

Yesterday's activity was almost entirely focussed on an indoor market being held at my local church.  It was in aid of the town's Foodbank, and I had contracted to run a bookstall.  I had seen this as an opportunity to reduce the size of my library, and to pass on some of the books I've already read.  In the event, however, I sold only eight books, to a total of just two customers!  I didn't really see this as a failure, though, because in the upheaval to fill four boxes to take there, I had managed something of a reshuffle, and the unsold volumes went back into different and less accessible places!

There was also excitement this week on the family history front.  Some years ago, to meet a particular need, I had devised a numbering system for all the people on my database of relatives, be they close or distant.  This was based on a well-known system to identify direct ancestors, and I had simply expanded it for my own purposes.  A few weeks ago I joined a newly founded on-line family history forum and last weekend I decided to outline my system for comment and/or use by other people there.  Two or three other members have picked this up and made their own (greatly improving) amendments to it, surpassing my original needs, and automating its application to others' records, in ways that are well beyond my programming capabilities.  This in turn has rewarded me with quite a degree of satisfaction.

The great excitement now is ... after this diversion, will I get my big family history project finished before my annual holiday in a few weeks' time?  Only time will tell, but the odds are not looking good!

One thought ... leads to another

On Wednesday afternoon, I did a 'local' job, taking a vanful of boxes from Welwyn Garden City to Peterborough.  When I arrived, I found the door of the receiving warehouse open, and as soon as I could be seen reversing up to it, someone came out to see what I'd brought.  I made a comment about the label on the otherwise blank boxes, that this particular text suggested that they were for a conference, and was told that I'd guessed right, and that they would be going to just such an event the next day.

We worked quickly together to unload the boxes, and my new friend asked, casually, how long it had taken me to get there.  I admitted, with all honesty, that I had no idea.  "I just go onto autopilot," I explained, "especially when there's a good podcast to listen to."  He asked what I had been listening to, and by the time I'd explained, he'd signed my sheet and I was away.  I drove out of the industrial estate, reflecting on this innocent, but unusually revealing conversation, and thinking as I did so, '... or when something else takes over my mind.'

As I had made my way out of town along the A15, to the point where Lincoln Road gives way to Werrington Parkway, I'd found my thoughts drifting back some 26 years (I'll come back to my actual thoughts in a moment) to the time when I had a job that involved spending some part of the time in a sixth-floor office in Peterborough, and the pressure of work at a particular time had necessitated working into the evening, beyond normal office hours.  On the specific evening that I now recalled, it was about 6.30pm, and the only other person in the office was a lady who had lived at the time in the part of the town where I found myself delivering this week.  Each of us had come to the end of our respective tasks and we were gathering our possessions ready to leave: she for her home, and I for a nearby pub, where I was lodging for convenience, to avoid a long drive home only to return the following day to carry on the work in hand.

Suddenly Liz gave a shriek and announced that she had just spotted a mouse crossing the office only feet away from her feet!  I too saw it before it had time to disappear, and - anxious to appear the 'brave hunter' - I gave chase.  More by luck than skill, I eventually had it trapped in the unfurnished vestibule of the floor, between the main office space and the landing where one emerged from the lift.  The only weapon to hand had been a sweeping brush, but it proved quite adequate for the task, and soon the poor animal had been despatched.  With teasing gallantry, I picked it up by the tail and, after parading my trophy before the admiring (?!) Liz, I opened a window and with great ceremony allowed the corpse to drop to the ground beneath.  We then made our own exit by more conventional means, and emerged to the car park.

As we did so, Liz realised that her car was parked beneath the window that had so recently been the scene of the undignified egress of the mouse; there was now a dent in the roof of the car, and the dead mouse was to be seen where it had bounced to the ground in front of it.  I felt silly, embarrassed, and not a little guilty for having thoughtlessly caused damage to someone else's property.  Fortunately, in the time we had been working together, we had established a friendship that was close enough for her to forgive me instantly, and the story was often referred to with amusement during the remaining time that we were both there.

So, what had been my actual thought, as this little episode came to mind?  Simply this - as I crossed the roundabout where the A15 makes that change of name I'd realised that, although I'd often delivered to a factory in the cul-de-sac that enters that roundabout, I'd never before gone further along the A15 towards Werrington.  Then I recalled that Liz, who'd been involved in the 'mouse incident', had at the time lived in an avenue just off this main road - a fact I'd discovered when one day, for some reason now hidden in the depths of time, I'd taken her home from work.  My thoughts are often expressed in the Suffolk/Norfolk dialect with which I grew up, and they now added, 'do that's only the once.'

This phrase brought back to me the way my father would have expressed the idea that, if I had ever been further along that road, then it would have been on no more than one occasion.  But its strange use of the word 'do' also reminded me of an exchange in our adult years with someone with whom I'd attended primary school.  In our recollection of growing up in the fifties, we recalled the unusual applications of this word, but somehow our opinions differed as to its 'translation'.  He was convinced - and others since have supported this view - that it simply replaced the word 'if', for example, "do you want to go on the train, you'll have to buy a ticket."  My recollection, however, was the very opposite, that it represented the words 'if not' or 'or else'.  The only example I could come up with when we were having this discussion was, "you must behave yourself when we get there, do you'll get a smack." and, for want of further evidence at the time, I fear I lost the argument.

So this week, as my memory of long ago once more came to the fore, and I thought to myself, "I haven't been along here before - do that's only the once", I'm reminded again of the peculiar phrases of the past.  I don't suppose people use them at all nowadays, but if by chance my readers happen to include someone who has heard this one, then perhaps you'd let me know.

Getting there, and Doing the Job

I've spoken about it before, I know, but one of the delights of this work is the variety - in particular, the variety of reactions I get to my arrival.  At one extreme is the problem of finding a destination, such as on Monday evening this week, when looking for a factory in Chelmsford.  I had the address, I even had the phone no. (... but there was no reply when I called it for directions,) but I couldn't find the place.  Next along the spectrum is the late arrival, having just made it before closing time, with lots of stuff, which almost guarantees a grudging reception, often accompanied by swearing.  Then there's the reaction to the goods themselves, which can be anything from a puzzled, 'what's he sent me that for?' to two I encountered this week, that are described below.

The road in Chelmsford was a simple T-shaped cul-de-sac; on one side was a factory, and then a warehouse set back behind its yard, while on the other were two similar factory units, all of which were clearly labelled with a name other than the one I sought.  Across the road, along the long top-edge of the T, were four more such places large and small, none of which were of interest to me.  At one end was the blank wall of the property in the adjacent close, and at the other were two small businesses, neither of which was the one I was aiming for.  I rang the controller, who brought up the website of the company I was delivering to, and described to me the map there.  It bore no relationship to the road in which I now found myself, and to prove it, I drove up and down once more, describing to him the various properties I passed.  My colleague patiently waited - whether listening or watching his TV, I know not - until I came to the end.

"... and next to that," I said, "there's a narrow passage ... Hey! that's it! - I'll call you back if I have any further problems."  I drove down the passage into a small courtyard in front of the business I was looking for.  The light was poor, and the name small, and high on the wall.  It could only be seen when I was actually at the mouth of the passage.  A car and a van were outside, and much more important, a light could be seen at the window.  The reception door was locked, but on the opposite side of that protruding block was one that opened, and I entered to the factory building.  In response to my 'hello' two faces appeared from behind a large machine.  One was an engineer, the driver of the van outside, who had called to do some repairs, and was preparing to leave, his work done.  The other was the sole operator on the night shift, who explained, 'you were lucky Jim was here - I usually lock the door behind me once I'm inside.'  We had a joint moan about left hand and right hand being mutually incommunicative, he unloaded my goods, and as I left I regaled my controller with all these tidings.  He undertook to complain to the sender on the morrow, making him well aware how closely he'd come to a re-delivery charge.

Almost by contrast, the next day was positively joyful.  I found myself in the Bristol area, delivering identical electronic equipment to a number of charity shops.  The situation was similar in each one, a small army of older women in the shop, probably volunteers, and a younger woman in the back-room sorting out donations, clearly the manager.  At one of these deliveries I was guided through the rear door of the shop, to be met by a young lady emerging from behind a tall rack of clothing and fighting her way between boxes of other goods.  As she saw me, and the box in my hand, her eyes lit up.  "Oh lovely!" she exclaimed, "You've brought my new router!"  Knowing the business of the customer sending it, I replied "It could well be; it's nice to see you're expecting it."  By the time I'd finished my reply, she had come into full view and was beside me to sign for the delivery.  I realised that she was pregnant, and we shared the unintended humour of the verbal exchange with broad smiles as I thanked her and went on my way.

The week progressed, with the usual ups and downs, and waiting for work - comfortably at home.  Thursday lunchtime found me delivering to a small unit in Harlow.  I was met in goods-in by a well-built woman of mature years.  I told her I had six quite large boxes for them, and suggested that she might like me to put them on a pallet for her.  She sounded rather annoyed as she gestured to the piles of boxes behind her, and made a comment about having enough to deal with already, without another pallet-load.  Nevertheless, a pallet was brought out, and the boxes placed on it.  As she read the delivery note her attitude changed and she said with a smile, "I know a young woman upstairs who'll be very pleased with this lot."  She picked up my board and started to sign for the goods.  Usually I'm silent at this point in the routine, because I know how unexpectedly difficult I find it to sign my name if someone is talking to me.  On this occasion, however, something prompted me to quip, "That's my purpose in life - to make young ladies happy!" and I briefly related the story of the woman in the charity shop.  As she handed my board back, her face broke into broad laughter, and I drove off thinking, "... and the not so young!"

More excitement next week, on the other side of the 'workers'' bank holiday - I hope, like me, you're looking forward to a restful break.