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.