The Downhill Days

With the end of the three consecutive 'three-day-weeks' that I spoke of last week, I'm reminded of an incident some 30 or more years ago, when a throwaway remark caught my father at the wrong moment.  It was about this time of year when I said, "Well, it's all downhill to Christmas, now!"  Dad looked me straight in the face and with no hint of smile retorted sharply, "Christmas! - that'll come soon enough; you don't want to go wishing your time away, boy!"  He was obviously feeling his age just then.

Nevertheless, the events of these last few weeks have marked the end of a good summer, and with only a few exceptions, there are no more 'highlights' to look forward to until the great Feast.  Talking of feasting, this week has had more than its share of that!  Monday started as usual with the 6.30 prayer-breakfast at the church, and then I set off for East Anglia.  The first stop was the record office in Bury St Edmunds, where I spent some while trying to resolve a few troublesome questions, both for myself and for a friend who lives just too far away for a comfortable research visit to Bury. 

Wattisfield - the former Independent
 Chapel, now a private dwelling,
with a new church to the rear.

After scoring some success here, I moved on to the village of Wattisfield, where my great-grandparents were married at the Independent Chapel (now United Reformed Church), in  November 1876.  Although I've driven through the village many times (it's on the main road, after all!), I'd never before explored it on foot, and the sunshine made it an ideal time to take some pictures.

On then to the annual school reunion.  The former pupils of many schools hold these events on the school premises; this is denied us, because ours was demolished in the 1980s to make way for a housing estate.  All that now remains of the school is the clock that once adorned the Edwardian façade, and which for over seventy years told many a pupil that he/she would earn a red mark in the register for being late.  This has now been lovingly restored and presented to the town's museum, and this year's reunion featured the presentation of a suitable dedicatory plaque to the curator (who happens to be an old boy of the school as well!)

Letton Hall - 'a neat edifice'

Three fairly full days of work formed a run-of-the-mill interval to this concerto of a week, and were followed by a leisurely Friday, catching up with admin, e-mails, and the like before packing and departing for a church 'weekend away'.  This was first mooted almost two years ago, and seemed at first a far-away, rather elaborate excursion.  Gradually it has acquired an aura of increasing reality until eventually all the planning came together and about 70 of us, ranging in age from one to eighty-one (and perhaps beyond!) retreated in ones, twos and complete car-loads for a two-day event in rural Norfolk.  We stayed at Letton Hall, a Christian conference centre founded as such in 1979.  The building itself is probably Georgian, and lives up well to its description in Kelly's 1865 directory of Norfolk as 'a neat edifice'.

I think I can say that we all enjoyed our time there, for a variety of different reasons.  It wasn't all serious: Saturday morning included outside activities like archery and go-karting, for example, and  one of the teaching sessions ended with the diversion of teams making up a song or a story from three random words ... just for fun!  As well as encouraging us to think 'outside the box' about our parish and the people who live in it, the weekend was also a chance for us to get to know each other a bit better, and to do something that was outside our 'comfort zone'.  For me, this included the experience of driving a go-kart, and finding out just how different that is from my trusty Combo van! 

I also had a brief taste of life in a busy kitchen.  The whole event was organised on a self-catering basis, starting - thanks to the devotion of one dedicated individual - with a mammoth Tesco home-delivery on Friday afternoon.  Many of us took a turn in the rota to help with the preparation and distribution of the meals, and I'm pleased to say that assisting at this morning's breakfast wasn't nearly as traumatic as I'd persuaded myself it was going to be!

The morning sunshine from my window

Three-day Week(s)

There is much to commend the idea of working only three days a week: less pressure, more opportunity for other interests in life, personal affairs, etc.  The downside is a dramatic reduction in earnings.  Someone said that, while money might not be the most important thing in life, it does make almost everything else go more smoothly.  So, when the notion of a second holiday was first mooted, I was rather sceptical.  As the thought took root, however, it became more attractive.  I realised that, with just a little flexibility, I could take two days from one week and two from the next and enjoy, in effect, a (very) long weekend that was only one day short of a week!

Last weekend, therefore, I was braving the wind and rain in the vast green expanse of

Wollaton Hall, Nottingham

Wollaton Park in Nottingham, part of a grand tour of some of the stately homes and other attractions of the east Midlands.  My thoughts were far from the challenge of writing a blog! 


Peak Rail - arrival at Matlock station


After returning home on Tuesday evening, however, life came down to earth with a bump.  I quickly discovered how little I'd earned the previous week, in three none-too-productive days.  Wednesday did little to lift my gloom, with a visit to Rochester and then a local job being the only activity, apart from collecting five containers to be delivered in Newbury the following morning.  By contrast, this was to be the beginning of a much better day.  The Newbury delivery was interesting, for a start: the building was tucked away behind a church that was undergoing repair; the doorbell didn't work, so phone calls to the office, to our customer and to the consignee were necessary to gain access; and then - despite a very polite welcome - the lady there explained that these cases weren't supposed to go to her anyway, so would need to be collected later and taken the next day to the other side of the country!

Immediately after getting back from Berkshire, I was sent off on a local delivery, but by the time I'd collected this, another job had come in that was in the same general direction, so I was given that as well.  Some three hours later, as I was negotiating some road-works for the second time on my return journey, the controller rang to ask whether I'd be able to take something 'to somewhere in Scotland' that evening.  My curious mind needed no further bidding, and I accepted the challenge immediately.  Another driver would pick this job up for me, and in return I was to collect a parcel for him to take to south London on my way back to Letchworth.

By the time I'd swapped loads, and been home to collect a few necessaries, it was probably 4.0pm before I set off for a destination about three-quarters of the way from Glasgow to the Ayrshire coast.  I made the Carlisle truck-stop my 'base', and stopped there both for a meal on my way, and then for a few hours' sleep and breakfast on the return journey.  Not surprisingly, I recall very little of the adventure, and saw none of its beauty since it was dark when I went and dark when I came back.  I don't know how long the engineer had been standing there, but he was waiting outside the security gate when I arrived.  We negotiated the delivery from vehicle to vehicle on the deserted car park, and by the time I'd planned my homeward journey, he'd driven into the works with the goods in the boot of his car.

I was home about 3.30 on Friday afternoon, and set my weekend off to an early start.  The business week wasn't over, though.  Fuel apart, one of the biggest expenses of being a courier is the van's insurance, and yesterday's post brought the annual 'bombshell', the renewal paperwork.  To my amazement, this year the premium has actually gone down by £50 ... and despite the fact that the brokers have increased their fee by a staggering 50% (!) the total sum due is still more than 2.5% lower than last year.

Now comes the third three-day week in a row, for tomorrow I'm off for some family history research followed by a school reunion, and next weekend begins a day early in order to take part in a church retreat in rural Norfolk.  Life may not be in the realm of super-profits, but it's certainly not dull!

Bolsover Castle - the terrace that's visible from the M1

Health and Technology

This week started with frustration, and went downhill.  On Friday afternoon I collected an envelope to be taken on Monday to Pinewood Studios in Buckinghamshire.  This is quite a regular job, that often comes my way because I live opposite the sender.  However, it is some weeks since it last came up, and the layout of the premises has changed in the intervening time.  I made this discovery after queuing to find somewhere to park in order to sign in to get on the site, having arrived promptly at 9.0, and forgoing the first men's breakfast and Bible study of the new season in order to do so.

This was the only job I did on Monday, and Tuesday began quite quietly, too.  Then the week took a more profitable, and distinctly medical turn, as jobs for three hospitals came in succession.  Tuesday afternoon found me on my way to a beautiful establishment, Russell's Hall hospital in Dudley.  Wednesday's task was to the Sancta Maria hospital in Swansea, and Thursday began with a couple of local jobs, one of which was to Bedford General hospital, followed by another delivery in Bedford.

Interest came once more to the fore on Thursday afternoon as I ventured south with two jobs.  First was something to a building site in Pirbright, and as I drove through the village afterwards, passing the church as I did

Stanley's grave (Wikipedia)

so, my eye caught sight of one gravestone in the churchyard that was significantly larger than those around it.  Research after I'd returned home told me that this was the last resting place of Henry Morton Stanley (1841-1904), the explorer who (might have) uttered the now-famous words, "Dr Livingstone, I presume." The second job was to the oil refinery at Fawley, near Southampton, where I was impressed by both the intensity of the security arrangements and the courtesy of the gatehouse staff.

Today I found myself on the M3 again (that repeating Genie doesn't give up!)  After delivering a box to a company in Chertsey, I was off on the 'interesting' tack again, taking to Basingstoke what I described - to the amusement of the person who received it - as 'a naked piece of engineering'.  It was all wires and coils, and solidly mounted on a metal base and since it showed all the signs of going nowhere without a couple of people lifting it, the absence of any kind of covering or protection seemed somehow unimportant. 

It reminded me of an occasion a year or so ago, when I'd collected from a private address what I think of as being a sort of helicopter.  There was a vane on the top, and lots of delicate apparatus beneath, which had to be perched between and supported by boxes of other stuff, all very experimental and 'Heath-Robinson'.  I believe the recipient was waiting to take it overseas to a conference.  I only hope he packed it for flight much more securely than I'd delivered it to him! 

It's all part of the anything, anywhere work of a sameday courier.  As I explained to someone this week, there are three reasons why people come to us with their needs.  Value, urgency or fragility.  Sometimes more than one of these applies, but more often it's only one, and it's usually obvious which one it is.  If it's fragility, such as the samples I wrote about last week, it sometimes requires us to drive more slowly or carefully than normal; so if you see a white van demonstrating peculiar behaviour on the road ..........!

Now for a restful weekend.

Dipping and Dodging

One aspect of the life of a courier that appeals to me, as a seasoned 'people-watcher', is the way that I dip into and out of other people's lives.  As I do so, I sometimes find myself wondering if a system works.  Or put another way, looking back at my own experiences in business and industry, I wonder whether there is actually a system in place to achieve what common sense tells me is essential.  I mean, if you receive a delivery of goods, it seems to me two things are critical.  Firstly, the goods have to find their way from the person who receives them on behalf of the company to the person who is going to use them; and secondly the individual who will eventually initiate payment for these goods has to be told by some means or other that they have actually been received, and that therefore payment is justified.

Take last Monday for example.  I made a delivery to a hospital in Birmingham.  The box I took had been used several times for, although it bore a number of labels on it, in varying degrees of wear and obliteration, it didn't carry any indication of the individual or department to whom its present contents were consigned.  These details were written on a separate, un-headed sheet that was given to me when I collected it.  The gentleman at the receiving point signed my sheet to confirm a successful delivery, and his body language indicated that our business was then at an end.  I offered the paper I'd been given, saying, "there isn't a name on it, do you want to note who it's for?"  His smiling reply almost sent me reeling.  "No need.  I know who it's for by the shape of the box!"  Knowledge is a wonderful thing, I mused as I drove away, but what if he were to fall beneath the proverbial bus during his lunch-break?

This week I first had a Suffolk day, and then an Essex day, each of which was satisfying, because there were no hold-ups. I could go, deliver and return with no hindrance at all.  There was also a glimpse of the seaside, too, as I ended up on Tuesday morning just yards from Lowestoft's seafront.  I had gone there to collect some samples for a laboratory in Letchworth.  I'd taken a couple of big metal boxes in which to carry them, and my contact carefully - almost gingerly - brought them forth from a locked room: a number of plastic boxes that he handled wearing bright blue safety gloves.  Once they were loaded, and the metal containers securely fastened, we carefully lifted these back into my van, and I drove back very steadily, least there should be any spillage of the liquids from the plastic boxes, which reminded me of ice cream tubs or margarine cartons.  Upon arrival at our customer, the containers were eagerly removed by two members of staff and, while one signed to acknowledge their receipt, the other was already opening the first container, and then one of the plastic boxes, which he had lifted out with his bare hands.  I had to presume that he was aware of the nature of what he was handling, but I found this a distinct contrast to the care and caution of the man who had loaded them just a short time previously.  Realising that this was none of my business, just like the 'knowledge-rather-than-documentation' attitude I'd encountered a week earlier, I departed for my next job.

The next day, I found myself driving down a lane completely shrouded by trees, and narrow enough to need passing places every few hundred yards.  About three miles after leaving a 'normal' road, I turned into a farmyard that had now been converted into a trading estate, to make my delivery of labels.  There were over a dozen units, built inside (or carved out of, depending on your point of view) a number of long, low buildings accessed by wide concrete roadways.  Piles of boxes, and pallets of more boxes, stood around as if just delivered, and in the warm summer sunshine a gentle breeze was blowing a thin layer of dust over everything.  It wasn't exactly unpleasant, but I had a distinct feeling that I wouldn't like to be working on any kind of permanent basis in such an isolated and untidy location.

By complete contrast, on Thursday I was sent to an establishment to which, in a past life, I'd often addressed communications.  I'd never dreamed of one day visiting Companies House in Crown Way, Cardiff.  Whenever I'm called to go to south Wales on a job that isn't so desperately urgent that an extra half hour or so is critical, I prefer to avoid the M4.  For one thing, it's such a long and boring road, and for another, there is the ever-increasing cost of the toll at the Severn crossing.  Normally, the journey time is only a little longer, and cost of the fuel to cover the additional distance is far less than the toll fee.  On this occasion, I did question my wisdom when I found myself sitting in a queue of traffic on the A40 waiting to turn off for the Monmouthshire Show.  At last I could find cool, if brief, freedom from the sun in the Gibraltar Tunnel, and the rest of the journey proceeded unhindered.

The return journey wasn't free from hold-up either.  I had noted that there were no northbound queues at Monmouth, but SatNav had indicated that there were significant delays on the A46 near Leamington; not wanting to use the M6, for fear of further delay in traffic, I opted for a slower but shorter and at least constantly moving route through Birmingham.  Indications that the tunnels around the city centre were closed prompted further diversion, and then a wrong turning led me to the M6 I'd sought to avoid, but when I reached the M1 I felt I home sweet home would not be long now.  Wrong!  An accident near Northampton held me up yet again, before I could finally declare the day closed.

Friday was more like a normal end-of-month story, with a collection from Rushden for an engineering firm in Sandy, and then a little run over to Luton, before I finally reached the head of the list, and was despatched to an address in Hoddesdon to collect a couple of cases for a stand at the NEC.  I'd been warned that there would be no one there when I arrived, so I nearly took the longer and less likely to be congested route via the A10 and A14.  SatNav prevailed, though, but nearly went out of the window when I found myself in yet another motorway queue halfway up the M1!  When I arrived, I felt a little conspicuous pushing two bulky cases under the protective screen erected and fastened around the display area, but a reassuring smile from a security guard who had watched the complete procedure, offered me welcome relief.  It would have rounded the week off rather badly to find myself accused, however innocently, of planting explosive devices in a public place!

Yesterday, having dipped into and out of many different lives in the course of an average week, I indulged in a bit of 'third party' dipping.  One of the many football teams whose fortunes I follow is Walsham le Willows, who play with my native Diss Town in the premier division of the East Anglian League.  A couple of weeks ago they played in the extra-preliminary round of the FA Cup, and were beaten by Tower Hamlets from the Essex Senior League.  Had they won, they would have visited Southern League's Harlow Town in the next round, and I'd planned to go to nearby Harlow to watch them there.  I decided to stick to my plan, and watched the match anyway.  Rather than feeling the satisfaction of revenge, however, my sympathy for underdogs came to the fore, and I was rather sorry to see Tower Hamlets beaten 3-0 in a game that I felt was closer than the score line implied.