A Week of Surprises

I've spoken often about the Repeating Genie, and how curious it seems that a place, once visited after a long break, will come up again maybe the same day, or later the same week.  I've found in recent weeks that this is true not only of destinations, but of customers too,  Now, with the green shoots of economic recovery, there is at least a plausible reason for this, as firms come out of the doldrums, and business builds once again to a level that warrants the use of a same-day courier.  But I find, too, that the phenomenon also applies to roads.

For many weeks during the autumn I seemed to be destined to travel north, with very few jobs in the south of the country.  The last two weeks have addressed this imbalance.  With two trips to Newport last week, I thought the genie had struck and had now had its fill of the M4.  Not so, for this week started with a journey to Bristol.  It was an interesting - and potentially rewarding - exercise, too.  I had allowed what I thought was a reasonable excess in my timing to cope with the M25 and the Bristol rush-hour, in order to make my delivery as required by 9.00 am.  Whether it was simply Monday morning clutter, or a specific problem I couldn't say, but by the time I reached the M4, most of my allowance had been consumed, and I was chewing my metaphorical nails as I drove west.

Eventually I turned in the gate at precisely 9.0, parked the van in the likeliest position and made for reception to engage some help to unload these two unwieldy boxes.  What I hadn't expected was that an engineer from our customer would be waiting in reception.  He was there to install the equipment I'd brought, and then would provide tuition in its use.  Had I been late, his tight schedule would have been impaired.  As it was, he complimented me on my timely arrival, and even said he would mention this when he got back to the office!

That wasn't the only surprise this week.  After four good days, I wasn't too dismayed on Friday to have just one job.  It took me across country from Sandy down to Thame, and SatNav clearly decided that, since there are no clearly-appropriate motorways, the only way is as near to a straight line as it's possible to get.  As a consequence, I found myself on quite a few rural, and hence uncluttered, roads and passing through some hitherto unknown villages.  It was a most enjoyable experience, which was followed by the never-innocent enquiry whether or not I might be available for a job on Saturday.  When I answered that I could be, provided I did my shopping on Friday evening, I was asked to present myself at 3.30 at one of our 'farmyard unit' customers in a nearby village.

The result was that, yesterday morning, I learned - in as wet a way as possible - not to make assumptions.  I had been loaded with a fridge-freezer, packed and sealed in its original box, to deliver to a Lady.  When one is sent to Lady so-and-so at an address that comprises a single-word house name, the name of the village and a postcode, what picture comes into one's mind?  My history-soaked imagination took me to a many-roomed ancient pile in a vast estate, to which I would gain access down a long, winding and ill-kept drive.  There I would be confronted by a heavy oaken door, with studs and a handle that would creak when turned, opening to reveal a quarry-tiled barn of a kitchen.  I would be helped to carry the fridge in from the van by an ageing servant, taking care not to leave dirty footmarks on the floor as I did so.

My van, by contrast, took me to a pleasant country lane, with meadowland on one side and on the other a sequence of houses and bungalows, some of which were part of a modern estate running behind the lane, while others had drives that opened onto it.  I turned down a short, straight and well-surfaced drive at the end of which was a decent-sized bungalow, with a double garage and a convenient turning to the front door.  When I pushed the bell, I looked through the falling rain at the closed curtains of what I took to be the lounge window and realised that I'd hopelessly over-compensated for my tight timing to Bristol earlier in the week.  The door was opened quite promptly by a petite, grey-haired lady in a dressing gown.  With no hint of annoyance at being disturbed so early, she brightly told me that I was delivering a fridge, explained that there was a back door and suggested that I reverse the van toward it while she go though the kitchen to unfasten it.

By the time the van was in position and the doors open, her Ladyship had re-appeared at the now-opened back door.  The fridge was quite easily tilted out of the van, and stepped across the remaining few feet of the soaking wet concrete to the door.  There was just enough leeway to edge it up onto the threshold, and once the mats had been removed, through the utility area and into the kitchen.  A few moments of polite conversation accompanied the inevitable collection of name and signature on my sheet and, with the business of the day done, I could retrace my steps, stopping for a much-longed-for breakfast at the Route 23 Diner before heading home to the rest of my pre-Christmas weekend.