All up One End

My cousin recently observed that her uncle (my father) possessed a skill that neither of us has ever seen anywhere else.  He would stand the loaf on its end, butter the open surface, and then cut off the buttered slice, without changing the orientation of the loaf.  This operation would be repeated, almost mechanically, until the required number of slices had been achieved.  In this same vein, I recall an early attempt, under his tuition, to make a sandwich.  He presented me - aged about five or six - with two of the aforementioned buttered slices, together with a knife and a jar of mum's homemade jam.  After watching my efforts for a minute or so, he seized the knife and, with a mixture of amusement and frustration, commented, "Ya'r got it all up o' one ind, boy!"  And looking, I could see with shame that he was quite right, for at one end of the slice was a thick layer of jam, while at the other there was naked butter, just as it had left his skilled hand a minute earlier.

That's a fair reflection of the last week.  I have often commented that one aspect of the courier life that I enjoy is its unpredictability.  This is nearly always the case.  The exception is when a day comes when nothing happens: the phone is dead.  I commented recently on just such a Tuesday.  This week began with a standing start: after my ferry trip the previous Friday, I rang in on Monday, tongue in cheek, to say I was 'back from Belfast and could I go on the list, please.'  About an hour later, the controller rang to say that, since I was at the bottom of quite a long list, he was giving me a fairly long local job to keep me busy while I waited.  I was sent to the village of Manea, in Cambridgeshire.  More accurately, I was sent to March, but found that my destination was not even in this nearby village, but to somewhere out in the wilds of fenland, that just happened to claim Manea as its postal address.

Once I saw the address, I recalled having gone there once before, so I knew at least the nature of the building I would be visiting, instead of spending - as I had on the earlier occasion - half an hour driving up and down the road looking for an almost invisible name, before driving up to a luxurious modern house, to deliver to the garage conversion in the back garden. I can justify describing this job in some detail, because it proved to be my one job, not just for Monday, nor for Monday and Tuesday, but for the first three days of the week!

On Wednesday afternoon, I was sent soon after lunch to collect a parcel to be taken to Nottingham but, when I was within a mile of our customer, they rang to say that, in their opinion, it would be too late to get it there that day, and could they have a call at 9.0 the next morning, please.  Muttering grimly to myself about their estimate of how long it would have taken me to get to Nottingham, I returned home.

So it was that on Thursday, bright and early, I collected this parcel and sped northwards.  I won't deny my pleasure at being called when just over half-way there to be told that there was another job I could run onto afterwards, and when I called in having made the delivery, I was delighted to learn that this second job involved a cross-country journey to Cannock to collect something for one of our customers in Luton.  I was home early in the afternoon, feeling that this day at least had been quite reasonable.

After catching up on my iPlayer tele-viewing, I was relaxing at bedtime when the phone rang.  "I don't know what sort of week you've had ... ," began the night-controller.  I immediately thought, "You fibber, you know fine well that it's been a very quiet week!" but quietly waited for him to continue.  "How do you fancy going to Swansea ... now?"  I rapidly recalled Wednesday and Tuesday, and told myself there was only one answer.  I dressed once more in my uniform, and set off for this Bedford customer, who had an urgent consignment for DVLA.  Having been up since early the previous morning, I realised soon after passing Ross-on-Wye that if I didn't stop soon for a nap, I might not reach my destination at all, but not much more than an hour later, I resumed my journey, and made the delivery at 4.50 am.

Friday's breakfast was an absolute joy.  I knew there was a café somewhere on the northbound side of the A40 near Monmouth, but wasn't sure exactly where.  In fact there are two, but I stopped at the first one, bearing the unusual name 'High Noon'.  The place has just changed hands; the shop has been modernised and now it's the turn of the restaurant.  Half the eating area has been screened off, and the remainder is partly cluttered with rolled-up carpet, stacked chairs and tables.  However, the food was great, freshly cooked before my eyes, and as I sat by the window in the morning sunshine I could look at the brightly-lit hillside on the opposite side of the road.  I later discovered that this is called the Doward, and beyond it runs the River Wye, which there forms the boundary with Wales.

I returned home at midday, and went straight to bed for as long as my body needed.  Not much more than an hour had passed before I was awake again - daytime sleep is an art I've never acquired - and trying to decide whether I wanted to work again or not.  I think the fact that I was aware that there was a decision to be made was evidence that the answer was 'no'.  This was supported by the fact that, by the time I'd pottered around for a couple of hours I was feeling distinctly more awake, and decided to call the office after all.  I was asked if I would be OK for another job should one come up, to which I replied, 'nothing too far,' which was quite acceptable.  About an hour later, I was asked if I'd like to go and collect a job for delivery yesterday morning in Lancashire, which suited me fine, giving me the rest of Friday to unwind, but at the same time providing further compensation for the 'lost' days earlier in the week.  I'd just returned from this collection when another call invited me to pick up something for delivery on Monday, and gave me further instructions for a job to be collected on Monday morning as well, so next week will at least set off on the right foot.

My journey to Heywood was not without incident.  I'd been given a 9.0 - noon delivery window, and set off soon after 6.0, thinking to get some breakfast at the Markham Moor truck-stop on the way.  To my surprise, this was closed, and as I'd already noted, there were no roadside burger vans operating either.  I had spotted one café open on the southbound carriageway, and had almost resigned myself to making my delivery first and having 'brunch' there on my return, when a flag-flying burger van loomed into view at Barnsdale Bar.  Thus sustained, apart from SatNav's route not quite coinciding with what I had researched the previous evening, there were no further snags until the final crossroads, when I almost collided with a car coming at right angles to me to the junction.  Fortunately, there was no impact, no screeching of brakes, and no damage apart from to my nerves.

On my return I followed up a brown tourist sign I'd spotted as I entered the town, marked East Lancs Railway.  This proved to be a viable preserved railway, offering a public service as well as a tourist/enthusiast attraction.  Had it not been for a darkly clouded sky and a desire to catch up with things on the home front, I might well have stayed longer, and taken a £13.50 return trip to the other end of the line.  It was as well that I'd also decided against a detour to watch a football match (the new season started yesterday for most leagues), for there were road problems to contend with too.  I diverted from the A1 in order to avoid one significant delay, but a road closure on the alternative route sent me on a wild trek through the Nottinghamshire lanes before eventually regaining my route after a longer delay than I'd tried to avoid. 

I was glad to return to my weekend domesticity, and I'm now wondering whether the next week will be quite so lop-sided!