This is the time of year when weeks take on a different shape. Since my childhood, this week has always been made up in this fashion: Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Saturday, another Sunday, 'Someday' and then Saturday again. Someday? Well, Boxing Day is like no other. It's not a Sunday, because there are no church services (except for those really devoted people who celebrate the Feast of St. Stephen) and, legally speaking, if 26th December falls on a Sunday, it isn't Boxing Day anyway, because a Sunday can't be a Bank Holiday. And it's not a Saturday either, because ... well, it just isn't. Yet there is sport; for many years, it has been a definite full programme day for the world of football. Even at the level that I watch, there were quite a number of matches to choose from today; although I decided to stay at home in the dry rather than venture out and get soaked.
"Chicken!" I hear you shout. And you would be quite right - there was chicken for dinner today, after lashings of turkey yesterday. (I've lost count of the wonderful accompaniments that filled the remainder of the plate as I shared the festive meal at the home of a generous and welcoming family from our church, who made a last minute invitation that I just had to accept.) And of course, the season wouldn't be complete without all the other special foods that only come out at this time of year, like the dates and candied fruits, the iced fruit cake decorated with sleds, santas and snowmen, and the tasty stollen (now easily obtainable from the nearest Lidl!) Then there's the booze, of course, (more of that anon.) and the chocolate ... loads of it, on its own in all shapes and sizes, or coating biscuits or a variety of nuts and cremes; even some in square blue boxes imitating fruit!
But before all that, you'll no doubt be wondering about the Monday, Tuesday and 'Saturday' that came before the feast. Monday began in routine fashion, with the regular delivery to Pinewood Studios, and then I went over to Thatcham to make a collection there for a customer in Luton. After that came a sequence of three local jobs that filled up the day nicely, allowing me to join my friends in the tower for the final ringing practice of the year.
Tuesday reversed this pattern, with odd jobs first. In fact, after a pre-booked collection of air-conditioning equipment in Welwyn Garden City for a house in Cambridge, it was so quiet that I thought maybe things had shut down already for the festival. No so, however, for I was then sent to a farmyard workshop in a tiny village in rural Hertfordshire that I'd not heard of in my fifteen years as a resident. (Although I'm sure there are many more such places!) On my way back, I took a detour to collect a package that was to be forwarded from our office to an address in Lancashire, and then a second detour to collect another job, from a customer in Hitchin.
I've often 'name-dropped' about the unique occasion quite early in my driving career (records aren't clear whether it was 2004 or 2006), when I found myself passing just inside the hallowed black door of no. 10 Downing Street, SW1; this particular job could have reached an even greater pinnacle of achievement. The parcel I collected in Hitchin was for no less an address than Windsor Castle! Although Her Majesty would not have been in residence, security was no less severe, and my instructions were clear. I rang the number I'd been given, and the recipient met me on the roadside outside the gate, where I obtained the necessary signature under the gaze of the guards. I wonder what action might have been taken had I not then promptly turned my van and driven off!
Once I'd returned, and agreed that I would be willing to do another job that evening, matters returned to normal ... or as normal as the day before Christmas Eve can be. I loaded as many cases of drink as would cover the floor of the van (more than half its permissible payload in weight!) and set off for the fens. As I entered the Red Lion in March, two customers were leaving. One said to the other as they passed me, "Santa's early this year ... and he's not wearing red, either!" The lady behind the bar saw my white beard and looked rather embarrassed. "Seasonal joke," I said, putting her at ease before I determined where I should park in order to transfer some of my load to her cellar. On then, to discharge the remainder of my consignment to the Three Tuns in Wisbech, where a willing customer offered to help, carrying some of the cases across the road to the rear entrance for me.
I was expecting work to be very quiet on Christmas Eve, but I usually offer to be available because it relieves the obligation on others who have families to think of, and often the work itself is not very demanding. I had only one job, which I rather enjoyed, because it took me to the rural byways of southern Suffolk, delivering a case of wine to an isolated farmhouse in Stoke-by-Nayland. I was reminded of a delivery I made some Christmas Eves ago, to a Victorian house in a terrace somewhere in London, about two streets from the Thames - I can't recall whether it was Chiswick or Wandsworth, or somewhere else in that general area. What I do recall was that the occupants were the wife, and two children under ten, who were playing by the open fireside. As I walked through their lounge a number of times to deliver several cases of wine to the kitchen, I thought what a charming picture they made, almost Dickensian, from the location, and yet not so, because of their dress and the toys ... and the TV in the corner. I was very glad that this was my last job before Christmas. It made my day, and in many ways made my festival complete!
Friday, 26 December 2014
Friday, 19 December 2014
Whatever Next ...?
... Or, put another way, 'a week not without incident'.
It began with an uninspiring visit to the office, where my PDA was unjammed, during which time I joined a new driver and completed my official training in the handling of medical samples. At the end of this I was allowed to sign a certificate, which will be kept in the office, and was presented with more 'essential' equipment, a home for which must be found in my already over-crowded van. The day proper continued with jobs to Harwich and Cambridge. Despite being home soon enough, I missed my ringing practice because of an instruction to be in Stevenage for a 6.0 collection the next morning.
I confess, I was late, and didn't get there until about 6.15, but it made little difference. No one at the warehouse knew anything about what I was supposed to collect, and I had to wait until the day shift arrived at 7.0 before I could collect the fresh produce that I took to Norwich to be photographed for publicity materials. Upon my return, I was sent north again, this time to exchange nine cooker hobs on a building site in Manea. There was then just time to clean the van's carpet and my boots before darkness fell, and I was about to settle down for the evening, when another call sent me off once more, this time to a medical practice in rural Essex.
Wednesday morning's fruitless exercise took place in Hertford. As a matter of interest, it was at the very same building (although this time for the host company) where a few weeks ago I managed to set off the security alarm (see the full story here). This week's job was to take 36 boxes to a retail park near to the Dartford river crossing. We tried loading them one way and another, but there was no way this quantity of fairly large boxes would fit into my van. The sender gave up, rang the office, who said they'd sent out a bigger van, and I left to make my way back home. I got as far as the last junction up the motorway before mine, and was then turned back to visit a white goods firm in Hemel Hempstead. The job was to collect two items, one for a hospital in Colchester, the other for a building site near Sudbury.
After a long wait, it transpired that I would only be collecting a large oven for the second of these, since the other job had been taken by another driver earlier in the day. Once I was loaded, and about to depart, I rang the office to advise them of the change, whereupon the next phase of the saga unfolded. It seems that the other driver had been 'persuaded' to take this Colchester job, notwithstanding that he was actually going to central London - not a combination that would normally be entertained! By this time he was on his way back with it, and I was asked to meet him to collect my second job (which would actually be the first one) from him. I set off for South Mimms services.
It was there that I learned the sorry truth. The Colchester job was not one item but two and, with the oven already on board, there wouldn't be room in my van for both these additional items. After some further discussion, I left for Suffolk with the one item I had collected, surprisingly unfazed by the fact that, after a completely wasted morning, this was the only job I would do that day. This time it was too dark when I returned to clean the van a second time in as many days.
Thursday was a better day; possibly the best of the week. It started with a large envelope to be taken to a converted granary office on a Norfolk farm. I'd woken up that morning with a strange feeling of regret that I had no pictures of the graves of my immediate family. No sooner had I crystalised this thought, than I realised that this very day I could do something about that fact and, once my delivery had been made, it added only a couple of miles to my return journey if I diverted via the cemetery in my native Diss. Upon my arrival, I went straight to the oldest of the graves I sought, that of my paternal grandmother, for I remembered its prominent position, and found it neatly trimmed - a contrast to the last sight I had had of it, covered in long grass, with the headstone barely visible.
One by one, I found all the others. My father's, a rugged York stone, that I had chosen myself to match his rugged life on the land, next to my mother's grave, unmarked save for a strange marker I didn't recognise and can't explain, thrust down into the site of a long-removed flower vase.
My maternal grandparents', neither of them marked by a stone, were surprisingly easy to find, because I remembered many a visit made with my mother in my teens, when we always recognised them by the adjacent stone which bore an unusual surname, Wass. The last one took longest to locate. It was that of my paternal grandfather, who died in 1950. I knew the rough area, but when I looked there, all the graves were much, much older, and somehow as I progressed with the dates, I then found myself amongst far newer ones than that which I sought. At last, I explored in the opposite direction, and struck gold, as it were. This particular plot may have initially been occupied by a garden or perhaps was a later addition, for here were several of this 'intermediate' age, as if positioned here as 'infill', long after the cemetery had been started in the mid-nineteenth century.
Thoughtfully I continued my journey home, and back to the world of work. A local job appeared on my screen just before I got home, and following this a hospital transfer that proved to be non-existent as both I and another driver sought it to no avail. Someone had apparently got his wires crossed! Then came that crucial late-afternoon question, 'are you available for more work this evening?' I decided that I was, and was persuaded to make another trip to Norfolk, to deliver some wine to a night club in the centre of Norwich.
The return journey was more exciting than I either expected or desired. As I drove down the A11, delighting in the new dual carriageway through Suffolk at about 65 mph, with dipped headlights out of consideration for drivers coming in the opposite direction, suddenly the blackness of the road surface was broken by blood and gore. I remember thinking that this stretched further than usual along the road but, since it was all between my wheels, I dismissed it as a larger-than-usual badger that had met its end. No sooner had I done so than my lights picked out a large white object. LUMP! I'd hit it and was up in the air. CRASH! in a split second I was down again, and - amazingly - still travelling smoothly along the road. It must have been a full-grown deer that had been killed by a passing lorry. This morning my first call was at the garage, where I sought to confirm that nothing serious had befallen the van. The staff there were only too pleased to run it onto one of the ramps before the work of the day got under way. It was concluded that my alignment when I'd hit the beast was about as fortunate as it could have been. A few inches either side and the result could have been serious. As it was, the only damage was to a few fuel-pipe clips that had been twisted a little out of position, the radiator grille needed re-fitting where it had been knocked loose, and I'd lost one half of the front skirt.
I think I can say that's the first time in my motoring history that I've hit an animal - alive or dead - and I'm quite content for it to be the last! After that, the rest of the day pales into insignificance, with nothing more venturous than two loads of printing, one from Stevenage to Ampthill, the other from Hitchin to Barking, and in between some fibre-glass moulds and products from Bedford to Letchworth.
Tomorrow sees yet another rehearsal for our annual carol service the following day, and this intense weekend will be the opening phase of the festivities, with only three more days before the start of the long Christmas and New Year holiday. No doubt there will be some account of the procedings here, but timing might be a little uncertain!
It began with an uninspiring visit to the office, where my PDA was unjammed, during which time I joined a new driver and completed my official training in the handling of medical samples. At the end of this I was allowed to sign a certificate, which will be kept in the office, and was presented with more 'essential' equipment, a home for which must be found in my already over-crowded van. The day proper continued with jobs to Harwich and Cambridge. Despite being home soon enough, I missed my ringing practice because of an instruction to be in Stevenage for a 6.0 collection the next morning.
I confess, I was late, and didn't get there until about 6.15, but it made little difference. No one at the warehouse knew anything about what I was supposed to collect, and I had to wait until the day shift arrived at 7.0 before I could collect the fresh produce that I took to Norwich to be photographed for publicity materials. Upon my return, I was sent north again, this time to exchange nine cooker hobs on a building site in Manea. There was then just time to clean the van's carpet and my boots before darkness fell, and I was about to settle down for the evening, when another call sent me off once more, this time to a medical practice in rural Essex.
Wednesday morning's fruitless exercise took place in Hertford. As a matter of interest, it was at the very same building (although this time for the host company) where a few weeks ago I managed to set off the security alarm (see the full story here). This week's job was to take 36 boxes to a retail park near to the Dartford river crossing. We tried loading them one way and another, but there was no way this quantity of fairly large boxes would fit into my van. The sender gave up, rang the office, who said they'd sent out a bigger van, and I left to make my way back home. I got as far as the last junction up the motorway before mine, and was then turned back to visit a white goods firm in Hemel Hempstead. The job was to collect two items, one for a hospital in Colchester, the other for a building site near Sudbury.
After a long wait, it transpired that I would only be collecting a large oven for the second of these, since the other job had been taken by another driver earlier in the day. Once I was loaded, and about to depart, I rang the office to advise them of the change, whereupon the next phase of the saga unfolded. It seems that the other driver had been 'persuaded' to take this Colchester job, notwithstanding that he was actually going to central London - not a combination that would normally be entertained! By this time he was on his way back with it, and I was asked to meet him to collect my second job (which would actually be the first one) from him. I set off for South Mimms services.
It was there that I learned the sorry truth. The Colchester job was not one item but two and, with the oven already on board, there wouldn't be room in my van for both these additional items. After some further discussion, I left for Suffolk with the one item I had collected, surprisingly unfazed by the fact that, after a completely wasted morning, this was the only job I would do that day. This time it was too dark when I returned to clean the van a second time in as many days.
Thursday was a better day; possibly the best of the week. It started with a large envelope to be taken to a converted granary office on a Norfolk farm. I'd woken up that morning with a strange feeling of regret that I had no pictures of the graves of my immediate family. No sooner had I crystalised this thought, than I realised that this very day I could do something about that fact and, once my delivery had been made, it added only a couple of miles to my return journey if I diverted via the cemetery in my native Diss. Upon my arrival, I went straight to the oldest of the graves I sought, that of my paternal grandmother, for I remembered its prominent position, and found it neatly trimmed - a contrast to the last sight I had had of it, covered in long grass, with the headstone barely visible.
 |
| My father's grave |
My maternal grandparents', neither of them marked by a stone, were surprisingly easy to find, because I remembered many a visit made with my mother in my teens, when we always recognised them by the adjacent stone which bore an unusual surname, Wass. The last one took longest to locate. It was that of my paternal grandfather, who died in 1950. I knew the rough area, but when I looked there, all the graves were much, much older, and somehow as I progressed with the dates, I then found myself amongst far newer ones than that which I sought. At last, I explored in the opposite direction, and struck gold, as it were. This particular plot may have initially been occupied by a garden or perhaps was a later addition, for here were several of this 'intermediate' age, as if positioned here as 'infill', long after the cemetery had been started in the mid-nineteenth century.
Thoughtfully I continued my journey home, and back to the world of work. A local job appeared on my screen just before I got home, and following this a hospital transfer that proved to be non-existent as both I and another driver sought it to no avail. Someone had apparently got his wires crossed! Then came that crucial late-afternoon question, 'are you available for more work this evening?' I decided that I was, and was persuaded to make another trip to Norfolk, to deliver some wine to a night club in the centre of Norwich.
The return journey was more exciting than I either expected or desired. As I drove down the A11, delighting in the new dual carriageway through Suffolk at about 65 mph, with dipped headlights out of consideration for drivers coming in the opposite direction, suddenly the blackness of the road surface was broken by blood and gore. I remember thinking that this stretched further than usual along the road but, since it was all between my wheels, I dismissed it as a larger-than-usual badger that had met its end. No sooner had I done so than my lights picked out a large white object. LUMP! I'd hit it and was up in the air. CRASH! in a split second I was down again, and - amazingly - still travelling smoothly along the road. It must have been a full-grown deer that had been killed by a passing lorry. This morning my first call was at the garage, where I sought to confirm that nothing serious had befallen the van. The staff there were only too pleased to run it onto one of the ramps before the work of the day got under way. It was concluded that my alignment when I'd hit the beast was about as fortunate as it could have been. A few inches either side and the result could have been serious. As it was, the only damage was to a few fuel-pipe clips that had been twisted a little out of position, the radiator grille needed re-fitting where it had been knocked loose, and I'd lost one half of the front skirt.
I think I can say that's the first time in my motoring history that I've hit an animal - alive or dead - and I'm quite content for it to be the last! After that, the rest of the day pales into insignificance, with nothing more venturous than two loads of printing, one from Stevenage to Ampthill, the other from Hitchin to Barking, and in between some fibre-glass moulds and products from Bedford to Letchworth.
Tomorrow sees yet another rehearsal for our annual carol service the following day, and this intense weekend will be the opening phase of the festivities, with only three more days before the start of the long Christmas and New Year holiday. No doubt there will be some account of the procedings here, but timing might be a little uncertain!
Saturday, 13 December 2014
A Rewarding Pre-Christmas Week
The week began with something of a splendid Monday - not a record, perhaps, but a level not often achieved without a visit north of the border! It began with a collection near Potters Bar of some plants for an establishment in Poole. I stopped for early refreshment at South Mimms services, and just as I left there came advice of another job to be collected from Hertford before I did battle with the M25. This was going to Swindon, and I diverted to deliver it first before heading for the seaside. I had just returned to the van after making the Poole delivery when a call from another branch sent me just three miles down the road for a pick-up going to Heathrow.
The shine was knocked of an otherwise glorious day as I realised that I was getting cold. Somehow the heating in the van was off. I had encountered this problem a few weeks ago, and recalled feeling rather sheepish when the chap at the garage simply filled the cooling system with water. I have water with me, so tried this remedy. It worked, but only for about a hundred miles before needing to be filled again, and the third occasion came even sooner. Clearly something was wrong, and getting worse! Next day I appeared early on the doorstep of the garage, and spent my day at home before it had been fixed. The problem was a component hidden deep within the engine, and its replacement was most demanding of labour, patience, and the fruit of my wallet!
Two comparatively modest jobs on Wednesday in my toastie-warm van brought the week back into equilibrium, before Thursday began with a sequence of three, collecting in heavy rain from a customer in Hitchin, on a regular journey to the business park at Swavesey; over to the West Suffolk Hospital for another regular collection for a laboratory in Royston, and then a short run from Letchworth to Luton & Dunstable hospital. I had time to get halfway through my weekly bookwork before being summoned to collect two jobs from Sandy. The first was a batch of flower samples for a national supermarket, and the second a small package to be delivered not far from Gatwick Airport.
The lady who had provided the flowers was in generous - or festive - mood and (not for the first time) offered me some of the cast-aside blooms that had just missed being included in the premier displays I was to deliver. So on my way home from Gatwick I diverted to share my good fortune between two lucky ladies in my home town.
The working week was rounded off by a day that sent me in succession to three of the four points of the compass. I started with an 8.15 print collection for an estate agent in Colchester, followed quickly by some technical equipment for an address in Farnborough, and just as I left there I was asked if I could do another job in the early evening. When I said I could, I was told of a delivery that would be ready for collection soon after 4.0 in Houghton Regis for Thame.
To corrupt a well-known axiom, it's the season for the reason for the season. In the run-up to Christmas the diary is so full there are definitely some things that just can't be fitted in. Music practices for the annual carol service at church are being slotted in left, right and centre, with the hope that as many as can will turn up when we are available. I think I've missed four now, but am gradually getting to grips with two delightful modern pieces that none of us had seen before. Although home too late to sing last night, I knew the supermarket would be open, so the shopping at least could be crossed off. In contrast, today's diary page is blank, and I was glad of a time for 'catch-up'. By about 11.0 I was ready to go out, and in view of the glorious sunshine I decided on walking into town, where I had intended to rectify three items I noted had been missed from last night's shopping.
I was late enough to check my post before leaving home, and it was good that I was. A few weeks ago I had had a letter from DWP enclosing a one from a famous life assurance firm, who were trying to trace me in order to secure my instructions regarding a company pension from the mid 1970s. It was one I'd been unable to trace when I sorted out my pensions early last year, and I had consigned the minuscule amount, generated by only about a year's contributions, to that big bin that is labeled 'Experience'. Today, however, after a simple letter of acceptance, I received the cheque for the entire sum, which, if left intact, would have provided me with a magnificant annual pension of £9.01 for life!
As I passed through the town I couldn't resist the stall outside the bookshop! I came away with three small volumes ... which, as I paid for them, I described to the manager as 'forbidden fruit'. Now I have to find space on my crowded shelves for a book of Suffolk remembrances, one of agricultural statistics, and a beautiful Folio Society edition of Parson Woodforde's Diary.
The shine was knocked of an otherwise glorious day as I realised that I was getting cold. Somehow the heating in the van was off. I had encountered this problem a few weeks ago, and recalled feeling rather sheepish when the chap at the garage simply filled the cooling system with water. I have water with me, so tried this remedy. It worked, but only for about a hundred miles before needing to be filled again, and the third occasion came even sooner. Clearly something was wrong, and getting worse! Next day I appeared early on the doorstep of the garage, and spent my day at home before it had been fixed. The problem was a component hidden deep within the engine, and its replacement was most demanding of labour, patience, and the fruit of my wallet!
Two comparatively modest jobs on Wednesday in my toastie-warm van brought the week back into equilibrium, before Thursday began with a sequence of three, collecting in heavy rain from a customer in Hitchin, on a regular journey to the business park at Swavesey; over to the West Suffolk Hospital for another regular collection for a laboratory in Royston, and then a short run from Letchworth to Luton & Dunstable hospital. I had time to get halfway through my weekly bookwork before being summoned to collect two jobs from Sandy. The first was a batch of flower samples for a national supermarket, and the second a small package to be delivered not far from Gatwick Airport.
The lady who had provided the flowers was in generous - or festive - mood and (not for the first time) offered me some of the cast-aside blooms that had just missed being included in the premier displays I was to deliver. So on my way home from Gatwick I diverted to share my good fortune between two lucky ladies in my home town.
The working week was rounded off by a day that sent me in succession to three of the four points of the compass. I started with an 8.15 print collection for an estate agent in Colchester, followed quickly by some technical equipment for an address in Farnborough, and just as I left there I was asked if I could do another job in the early evening. When I said I could, I was told of a delivery that would be ready for collection soon after 4.0 in Houghton Regis for Thame.
To corrupt a well-known axiom, it's the season for the reason for the season. In the run-up to Christmas the diary is so full there are definitely some things that just can't be fitted in. Music practices for the annual carol service at church are being slotted in left, right and centre, with the hope that as many as can will turn up when we are available. I think I've missed four now, but am gradually getting to grips with two delightful modern pieces that none of us had seen before. Although home too late to sing last night, I knew the supermarket would be open, so the shopping at least could be crossed off. In contrast, today's diary page is blank, and I was glad of a time for 'catch-up'. By about 11.0 I was ready to go out, and in view of the glorious sunshine I decided on walking into town, where I had intended to rectify three items I noted had been missed from last night's shopping.
I was late enough to check my post before leaving home, and it was good that I was. A few weeks ago I had had a letter from DWP enclosing a one from a famous life assurance firm, who were trying to trace me in order to secure my instructions regarding a company pension from the mid 1970s. It was one I'd been unable to trace when I sorted out my pensions early last year, and I had consigned the minuscule amount, generated by only about a year's contributions, to that big bin that is labeled 'Experience'. Today, however, after a simple letter of acceptance, I received the cheque for the entire sum, which, if left intact, would have provided me with a magnificant annual pension of £9.01 for life!
As I passed through the town I couldn't resist the stall outside the bookshop! I came away with three small volumes ... which, as I paid for them, I described to the manager as 'forbidden fruit'. Now I have to find space on my crowded shelves for a book of Suffolk remembrances, one of agricultural statistics, and a beautiful Folio Society edition of Parson Woodforde's Diary.
Saturday, 6 December 2014
Triangles
There are many ways of looking at the variety of work, payloads and destinations of this business, but I've never thought of geometry before. However, if you consider the geography of this week, it's quite true: just look at Monday for a start.
The week began with a collection of some air-conditioning equipment in Welwyn Garden City for Wooburn, from which I turned anti-clockwise into London, for a NW10 collection. This went to Abingdon in Oxfordshire and just before I arrived at my destination came a phone call offering me a collection in Thatcham for Bell Bar in Hertfordshire. Two more anti-clockwise movements completed this task and a third brought me home, covering each side of an approximate triangle twice over.
Monday was rounded off by an amusing 'offer'. As I sat at my desk, wondering if the phone would ring, it sprang into life and brought me a choice. Having confirmed that I was willing to go out again - it was almost 5.0 pm - Dave said I could either go to Amersham or 'RG27, wherever that is'. I opted for the further destination (which turned out to be a hotel near Hook), to make losing my bellringing practice for the second Monday running really worthwhile, to which he replied, 'I hoped you'd take that one, because C----- <the only other driver available> won't know where S------ <name of our customer> is.' To me, this implied that she wouldn't be able to find it in the dark, either! - and before you condemn me for being sexist, I can think of at least one male driver of whom he would have said the same thing! To be fair, this particular customer's premises are in open country, some distance away from both the village that provides their address, and the nearest main road, some nineteen miles from our office, and both of these drivers live almost the same distance in the opposite direction!
Tuesday was taken up by one long run to St Helens, with a delivery in Northampton on the way, and after two separate jobs on Wednesday, to Royston and Coventry, a third one to Hemel Hempstead primed me for the geometric theme again. Only a few hundred yards from my delivery, I collected a full load of kitchen equipment to be delivered the following morning in Bridgend. Once this had been successfully completed - getting there via Ross-on-Wye, of course, to avoid the toll - I made for the eastbound Severn crossing, amused as ever as I left the bridge behind me, to be welcomed to England in Welsh. After a collection just off the M5 in the north-west corner of Bristol, I made a broadly 'left turn', to deliver in Derby, and after a welcome rest at Donnington Park services, my homeward journey completed a very large triangle.
Friday, too, began with two independent journeys, one to Northampton again, and the other to Pinewood Studios, and then came another triangle, this time clockwise, as I travelled to South Mimms to meet another driver. Here I was given a small package that he had collected in central London, which I took on to its final destination in Abingdon. Once more, my homeward journey completed the third triangle of the week. Incidentally, the astute reader may have noticed the hand of 'the genie' at work this week, too!
I wonder how next week will 'shape up'?
The week began with a collection of some air-conditioning equipment in Welwyn Garden City for Wooburn, from which I turned anti-clockwise into London, for a NW10 collection. This went to Abingdon in Oxfordshire and just before I arrived at my destination came a phone call offering me a collection in Thatcham for Bell Bar in Hertfordshire. Two more anti-clockwise movements completed this task and a third brought me home, covering each side of an approximate triangle twice over.
Monday was rounded off by an amusing 'offer'. As I sat at my desk, wondering if the phone would ring, it sprang into life and brought me a choice. Having confirmed that I was willing to go out again - it was almost 5.0 pm - Dave said I could either go to Amersham or 'RG27, wherever that is'. I opted for the further destination (which turned out to be a hotel near Hook), to make losing my bellringing practice for the second Monday running really worthwhile, to which he replied, 'I hoped you'd take that one, because C----- <the only other driver available> won't know where S------ <name of our customer> is.' To me, this implied that she wouldn't be able to find it in the dark, either! - and before you condemn me for being sexist, I can think of at least one male driver of whom he would have said the same thing! To be fair, this particular customer's premises are in open country, some distance away from both the village that provides their address, and the nearest main road, some nineteen miles from our office, and both of these drivers live almost the same distance in the opposite direction!
 |
| Welcome to England (picture: flickr.com) |
Friday, too, began with two independent journeys, one to Northampton again, and the other to Pinewood Studios, and then came another triangle, this time clockwise, as I travelled to South Mimms to meet another driver. Here I was given a small package that he had collected in central London, which I took on to its final destination in Abingdon. Once more, my homeward journey completed the third triangle of the week. Incidentally, the astute reader may have noticed the hand of 'the genie' at work this week, too!
I wonder how next week will 'shape up'?
Saturday, 29 November 2014
The Present Reality... with Echoes from the Past
It's been an interesting week. Let's begin with some statistics: it's only the second time since the take-over that I've done 20 jobs in a week; and yesterday was only the eleventh time in my twelve-and-a-half-year career that a single day has provided seven jobs! All five days this week have involved early starts, most needing me to leave home at 6.0 or earlier, and some evenings I wasn't home until quite late. These extensions to the working day play havoc with any kind of food planning, to say nothing of actual food intake! One evening 'meal' consisted of a (large) sausage roll! It's true what some say: this is not a job for a family man!
And before we consign the statistics to the past, let me just add that only the first and last jobs of the week went further north than Cambridge, and only two further west than Southampton. All in all, the week has been very much concentrated in the south-east of the country. Four of the seven jobs yesterday formed a neat chain, beginning with a collection in Letchworth for Harrow; then came a leap-frog sequence, with a Harrow collection for St Albans, a Watford collection for a customer in Stevenage, and a Hatfield collection for Cambridge.
The collection in Hatfield was one of those visits that took twenty minutes when three would have sufficed, had the full information been provided. It was one of those office blocks accommodating two or more companies. When I announced my purpose at the reception desk inside the door, I was asked 'which company are you collecting from?', and then 'which floor?' I could answer the first, but not the second, so I was directed to their own reception just down the passage. Here, a well-meaning, girl who seemed totally out of her depth tried to help me. As she looked through a number of items apparently awaiting collection, she asked, 'Do you have a contact name?' 'No,' I told her, 'only the name of the recipient, Cassy T.......' (who, incidentally, later turned out to be Cathy!) 'Where is it you're going?' I had already told her Cambridge, so I told her the post code CB4. She clearly thought I was offering the name of a company, for she said hopelessly, 'I don't recognise that name.' At a total loss, she suggested I try first floor reception. I made for the lifts.
I emerged on the first floor, and found a locked door with no obvious means of attracting attention. As I looked around helplessly, someone emerged from another lift. I explained my problem, and was told there was no reception on this floor - try the third floor. I could feel my hackles rising as I returned to the lift. As I opened the door on the third floor - which was encouragingly marked 'Reception' - I didn't need to explain again what I was there for. The young lady at the desk spotted the ID badge around my neck, told me I was going to Cambridge, and handed me a large envelope. What a difference two extra words would have made!
After Cambridge there came two local deliveries for an engineering firm in Letchworth, and then I collected a pallet of recycled electronic components for Milton Keynes. This latter was to be accompanied by a pick-up in Hitchin for Castle Bromwich, a repeat of a job I did one evening a few weeks ago. As before, I arrived after the factory there had closed; as a result of that earlier experience, I knew where to look for the canteen window, and was pleased to see the same security man inside. This time, however, the gates of the site were locked, and I wondered how I could let him know I was there. I tried rattling the gate. In a deserted street, it's quite amazing how much noise can be made by steel gates 3 metres high! His face looked up; I held aloft the box I was delivering; he opened the door, and then opened the gate in order to complete the formalities. As before, no one had thought to tell him that I was on my way, and we shared this frustration as he signed my PDA.
It was a week that saw visits to a number of places I'd not been to for some while. On Monday I made a return visit to Whittington Hospital, the first time for nine or ten years; and on then to Canning Town, through London streets which had become familiar to me in those far-off days before our joining operations with another company relieved us of most of the London work. I'd been before to the firm to whom I delivered in Harrow yesterday, but I didn't realise this until I entered their yard, at which point I remembered having to go round a tight blind corner to reach the goods-in door, which opens onto the rear car park.
It all goes to show that what goes around does, sooner or later, come round again.
And before we consign the statistics to the past, let me just add that only the first and last jobs of the week went further north than Cambridge, and only two further west than Southampton. All in all, the week has been very much concentrated in the south-east of the country. Four of the seven jobs yesterday formed a neat chain, beginning with a collection in Letchworth for Harrow; then came a leap-frog sequence, with a Harrow collection for St Albans, a Watford collection for a customer in Stevenage, and a Hatfield collection for Cambridge.
The collection in Hatfield was one of those visits that took twenty minutes when three would have sufficed, had the full information been provided. It was one of those office blocks accommodating two or more companies. When I announced my purpose at the reception desk inside the door, I was asked 'which company are you collecting from?', and then 'which floor?' I could answer the first, but not the second, so I was directed to their own reception just down the passage. Here, a well-meaning, girl who seemed totally out of her depth tried to help me. As she looked through a number of items apparently awaiting collection, she asked, 'Do you have a contact name?' 'No,' I told her, 'only the name of the recipient, Cassy T.......' (who, incidentally, later turned out to be Cathy!) 'Where is it you're going?' I had already told her Cambridge, so I told her the post code CB4. She clearly thought I was offering the name of a company, for she said hopelessly, 'I don't recognise that name.' At a total loss, she suggested I try first floor reception. I made for the lifts.
I emerged on the first floor, and found a locked door with no obvious means of attracting attention. As I looked around helplessly, someone emerged from another lift. I explained my problem, and was told there was no reception on this floor - try the third floor. I could feel my hackles rising as I returned to the lift. As I opened the door on the third floor - which was encouragingly marked 'Reception' - I didn't need to explain again what I was there for. The young lady at the desk spotted the ID badge around my neck, told me I was going to Cambridge, and handed me a large envelope. What a difference two extra words would have made!
After Cambridge there came two local deliveries for an engineering firm in Letchworth, and then I collected a pallet of recycled electronic components for Milton Keynes. This latter was to be accompanied by a pick-up in Hitchin for Castle Bromwich, a repeat of a job I did one evening a few weeks ago. As before, I arrived after the factory there had closed; as a result of that earlier experience, I knew where to look for the canteen window, and was pleased to see the same security man inside. This time, however, the gates of the site were locked, and I wondered how I could let him know I was there. I tried rattling the gate. In a deserted street, it's quite amazing how much noise can be made by steel gates 3 metres high! His face looked up; I held aloft the box I was delivering; he opened the door, and then opened the gate in order to complete the formalities. As before, no one had thought to tell him that I was on my way, and we shared this frustration as he signed my PDA.
It was a week that saw visits to a number of places I'd not been to for some while. On Monday I made a return visit to Whittington Hospital, the first time for nine or ten years; and on then to Canning Town, through London streets which had become familiar to me in those far-off days before our joining operations with another company relieved us of most of the London work. I'd been before to the firm to whom I delivered in Harrow yesterday, but I didn't realise this until I entered their yard, at which point I remembered having to go round a tight blind corner to reach the goods-in door, which opens onto the rear car park.
It all goes to show that what goes around does, sooner or later, come round again.
Saturday, 22 November 2014
Off the Pitch!
"Thass bin a funny ow week!" as my mother might have said. A funny (in the sense of strange) week indeed. Let's look at work for a start: 18 jobs, which is quite good, but apart from one - which I'll tell you about in a moment - only one other was over 60 miles, so it wasn't a particularly profitable week. Most of its highlights came 'off the pitch', to steal a footballing metaphor.
On Monday, as I returned from a hospital run to Addenbrooke's in Cambridge, via a collection from another hospital in Peterborough, Dave my controller rang me because he couldn't track me on his computer and wondered how I was getting on. Apparently the goods I'd collected were quite urgently required for another hospital. I took advantage of the call to seek a meeting with him about my retirement, and was told, "come in any time." I decided to strike while the iron was hot, and after delivering to our customer in Letchworth, I visited the office.
Over the last few weeks I've been playing with figures, to come up with a plan for a 'graduated retirement'. I've heard many tales of men at this age. One week is work as normal, the next week ... nothing! And how do they cope with a change to life that can seem like falling off a cliff? Some find it no problem, with hobbies and outside interests that easily expand to fill the vacant hours. Others have been so wrapped up in work that life suddenly seems empty.
My father for instance, after a lifetime working on the farm, had quite upset my mother, getting under her feet as he wandered to and fro, not feeling needed in the home. He quickly found a part-time job at a nearby nursery, where the owner had engaged quite a number of ex-farm workers, who provided agreeable company for each other alongside their work. Another man, whom I knew quite well, was a church organist; he and his wife were childless, and had plans to travel after he had retired. Only a few months after he had finished work at an office in the town, he had gone to church early one Sunday to practise the day's music, and was found dead at the organ later in the morning.
I have no desire to be killed off by a sudden change in the pattern of life! So I'm planning to spend the next two years 'in decline', so to speak. Rather than simply retract to a four-day week, as some have done, I'm thinking of a working/retired 'sandwich', working full weeks, but not so many of them, and interspersing these with periods of other activity. Fine plans were - and still are - in the making, but the key requirement had yet to be obtained. Would it be acceptable to work like this? Hence the meeting with Dave. It went just as I'd predicted. I presented him with my plans, we exchanged a few words of explanation, reference was made to his being well satisfied with my work, and within minutes were were talking about the football team that he manages in his spare time! This formality over, my plans have been taken to a more detailed degree this week, as I've tried to finalise my financial needs and arrangements.
As our meeting took place, telephones were ringing in all directions, and there were frequent interruptions from colleagues. One call had announced that the customer to whom I had just delivered needed something taken that evening to the far side of Bristol, so as I took my leave I said to Dave, "Can I be cheeky and suggest that I go round to <customer's name>?" He smiled and replied, "Good idea!" - it was the best job of the week!
With so many jobs this week, there have also been a number of convenient slots between them in which I've been able to keep up with 'stuff' that has piled up on other fronts. One morning I had just listened to the morning service on my way home, and decided that I really ought to give some thought to my assigned task of leading the prayers in church on Christmas Day. I'd just added the final full stop to my draft as the PDA by my side beeped to announce the next job!
On another day, the podcast of an excellent talk by Audrey Collins at the National Archives inspired some notes of possible lines of research to discover what my uncles were doing in the First World War, which I hastily scribbled before the next job arrived! Survivors with common names are among the most difficult to trace, and following up these ideas might utilise one of the first creeping fingers of my retirement!
As my geography teacher once told his class, "The land is like life itself, if it doesn't change, it dies!" - wisdom not wasted!
On Monday, as I returned from a hospital run to Addenbrooke's in Cambridge, via a collection from another hospital in Peterborough, Dave my controller rang me because he couldn't track me on his computer and wondered how I was getting on. Apparently the goods I'd collected were quite urgently required for another hospital. I took advantage of the call to seek a meeting with him about my retirement, and was told, "come in any time." I decided to strike while the iron was hot, and after delivering to our customer in Letchworth, I visited the office.
Over the last few weeks I've been playing with figures, to come up with a plan for a 'graduated retirement'. I've heard many tales of men at this age. One week is work as normal, the next week ... nothing! And how do they cope with a change to life that can seem like falling off a cliff? Some find it no problem, with hobbies and outside interests that easily expand to fill the vacant hours. Others have been so wrapped up in work that life suddenly seems empty.
My father for instance, after a lifetime working on the farm, had quite upset my mother, getting under her feet as he wandered to and fro, not feeling needed in the home. He quickly found a part-time job at a nearby nursery, where the owner had engaged quite a number of ex-farm workers, who provided agreeable company for each other alongside their work. Another man, whom I knew quite well, was a church organist; he and his wife were childless, and had plans to travel after he had retired. Only a few months after he had finished work at an office in the town, he had gone to church early one Sunday to practise the day's music, and was found dead at the organ later in the morning.
I have no desire to be killed off by a sudden change in the pattern of life! So I'm planning to spend the next two years 'in decline', so to speak. Rather than simply retract to a four-day week, as some have done, I'm thinking of a working/retired 'sandwich', working full weeks, but not so many of them, and interspersing these with periods of other activity. Fine plans were - and still are - in the making, but the key requirement had yet to be obtained. Would it be acceptable to work like this? Hence the meeting with Dave. It went just as I'd predicted. I presented him with my plans, we exchanged a few words of explanation, reference was made to his being well satisfied with my work, and within minutes were were talking about the football team that he manages in his spare time! This formality over, my plans have been taken to a more detailed degree this week, as I've tried to finalise my financial needs and arrangements.
As our meeting took place, telephones were ringing in all directions, and there were frequent interruptions from colleagues. One call had announced that the customer to whom I had just delivered needed something taken that evening to the far side of Bristol, so as I took my leave I said to Dave, "Can I be cheeky and suggest that I go round to <customer's name>?" He smiled and replied, "Good idea!" - it was the best job of the week!
With so many jobs this week, there have also been a number of convenient slots between them in which I've been able to keep up with 'stuff' that has piled up on other fronts. One morning I had just listened to the morning service on my way home, and decided that I really ought to give some thought to my assigned task of leading the prayers in church on Christmas Day. I'd just added the final full stop to my draft as the PDA by my side beeped to announce the next job!
On another day, the podcast of an excellent talk by Audrey Collins at the National Archives inspired some notes of possible lines of research to discover what my uncles were doing in the First World War, which I hastily scribbled before the next job arrived! Survivors with common names are among the most difficult to trace, and following up these ideas might utilise one of the first creeping fingers of my retirement!
As my geography teacher once told his class, "The land is like life itself, if it doesn't change, it dies!" - wisdom not wasted!
Saturday, 15 November 2014
Things Recalled, Things Remembered
It's been another week of triumph for the Genie, in both regular and novel modes. I've lost count of the number of times I've thought to myself, 'here again! Genie at work!'. Then, yesterday, came a new guise. Four times in succession, I was misled by SatNav, the electronic marvel who isn't the all-seeing eye we think him to be. The day started in darkness, with a 6.30 collection of pharmaceutical samples for pre-noon delivery in a variety of locations. I was one of three drivers attacking this task, and was assigned Watford and West Molesey. In Watford, just as day was dawning (although one could be excused for not noticing this fact, owing to the torrential rain!), I was directed to a private estate of executive houses, which I knew instinctively was going to be wrong, because these goods are usually sent to warehouses or distribution centres. In fact, although I didn't recognise the name, it was a large establishment I'd visited before, about two streets away.
On, then, to West Molesey, where I found myself on an industrial estate, but sent to a dead end, with the roof of the place I wanted peeking cheekily from the adjacent road over those immediately before me. On the way home, I was diverted from the M25 for another job, collecting from Uxbridge for a specialist aviation repair firm near Southend. My collection was from a well-known logistics firm where I recalled being held up for some while waiting for goods on a previous occasion. There was no change from this yesterday but, before I could enjoy this experience, I had to overrule the instruction to take the previous turning! As I keyed in my final journey, for the delivery in Rayleigh, I had the feeling. 'this one isn't going to be right, either!' The delivery note told me 'Claydons Lane', but when presented with the postcode I'd been given, SatNav had come up with 'Rat Lane' which, although adjacent, required me to drive around the block a second time, and then make a verbal enquiry, before I could see my target.
So much for routine. There is nothing routine about a famous star of the silver screen reaching the age of 80. Twice this week, on Tuesday and Thursday, I was sent to my East Anglian homeland. On Tuesday to Hadleigh and Ipswich, and on Thursday closer to 'home', to the village of Hoxne, where I was to collect a guitar autographed by a famous singer-songwriter. As I drove along the A14 on Thursday morning I was thrilled to find myself listening to the first item on Woman's Hour, as Jenni Murray interviewed Sophia Loren about her 'fairy tale life'. You can hear the interview on the BBC website here.
Why did this so delight me, you may ask, and especially why so as I travelled towards the area where I grew up? Many possible explanations come to mind, ranging from 'coat-tail clinging' through 'name-dropping' to 'stealing glory that belongs elsewhere'. I prefer to think of it as simply pride to be associated, however tenuously, with such a romantic story. My link is this. Apart from the fact that she was an immigrant to our rural community, my mother-in-law had two other claims to fame. One was that her birthplace was mentioned in the Bible (Acts 28:13), albeit in a variant form of the name; the other was that, while she was growing up in Pozzuoli, and serving as a Sunday School teacher, in her class had been the future Sophia Loren.
My mother-in-law, long widowed, died in the spring of last year, and our lives had been lived far apart for the last thirty years or so, but I have often recalled this unusual claim to fame ... if I'm honest, probably far more often than, in her humility, she did. Maybe that's because my own life, lived for so many years in one place, and very much steeped in routine, boasted no such peaks of innocent achievement to celebrate.
This week has been quite a time of remembering; indeed, this whole year has been so, and I find - perhaps like many - that 'remembering', or rather the calling to mind of events that happened too long ago to be remembered in the literal sense, has become somewhat mind-numbing. I'm suffering from 'WWI overload'. I recognise its importance in our history; nevertheless, the fact that there are four more years of 'remembering it' to go through, none of which will match the horror of the original, is rather daunting. So it seems refreshing to have something lighter, while equally 'too long ago to be literally remembered' to think about.
On, then, to West Molesey, where I found myself on an industrial estate, but sent to a dead end, with the roof of the place I wanted peeking cheekily from the adjacent road over those immediately before me. On the way home, I was diverted from the M25 for another job, collecting from Uxbridge for a specialist aviation repair firm near Southend. My collection was from a well-known logistics firm where I recalled being held up for some while waiting for goods on a previous occasion. There was no change from this yesterday but, before I could enjoy this experience, I had to overrule the instruction to take the previous turning! As I keyed in my final journey, for the delivery in Rayleigh, I had the feeling. 'this one isn't going to be right, either!' The delivery note told me 'Claydons Lane', but when presented with the postcode I'd been given, SatNav had come up with 'Rat Lane' which, although adjacent, required me to drive around the block a second time, and then make a verbal enquiry, before I could see my target.
So much for routine. There is nothing routine about a famous star of the silver screen reaching the age of 80. Twice this week, on Tuesday and Thursday, I was sent to my East Anglian homeland. On Tuesday to Hadleigh and Ipswich, and on Thursday closer to 'home', to the village of Hoxne, where I was to collect a guitar autographed by a famous singer-songwriter. As I drove along the A14 on Thursday morning I was thrilled to find myself listening to the first item on Woman's Hour, as Jenni Murray interviewed Sophia Loren about her 'fairy tale life'. You can hear the interview on the BBC website here.
Why did this so delight me, you may ask, and especially why so as I travelled towards the area where I grew up? Many possible explanations come to mind, ranging from 'coat-tail clinging' through 'name-dropping' to 'stealing glory that belongs elsewhere'. I prefer to think of it as simply pride to be associated, however tenuously, with such a romantic story. My link is this. Apart from the fact that she was an immigrant to our rural community, my mother-in-law had two other claims to fame. One was that her birthplace was mentioned in the Bible (Acts 28:13), albeit in a variant form of the name; the other was that, while she was growing up in Pozzuoli, and serving as a Sunday School teacher, in her class had been the future Sophia Loren.
My mother-in-law, long widowed, died in the spring of last year, and our lives had been lived far apart for the last thirty years or so, but I have often recalled this unusual claim to fame ... if I'm honest, probably far more often than, in her humility, she did. Maybe that's because my own life, lived for so many years in one place, and very much steeped in routine, boasted no such peaks of innocent achievement to celebrate.
This week has been quite a time of remembering; indeed, this whole year has been so, and I find - perhaps like many - that 'remembering', or rather the calling to mind of events that happened too long ago to be remembered in the literal sense, has become somewhat mind-numbing. I'm suffering from 'WWI overload'. I recognise its importance in our history; nevertheless, the fact that there are four more years of 'remembering it' to go through, none of which will match the horror of the original, is rather daunting. So it seems refreshing to have something lighter, while equally 'too long ago to be literally remembered' to think about.
Saturday, 8 November 2014
New Lamps for Old
Yes, it won't be long until the panto season! But Aladdin and his stories bear no real relation to my tale this week. It has been a week - more than ever before, I think - of two very different halves.
But first, why that title? Well, there have been many new things lately. The take-over at the end of July brought a whole new way of working, and with it not just the use of the much-grumbled-about PDA. (When I reached a delivery the other day, my finger misjudged its stab as I tried to tell the beast that I'd arrived. I took ages to get out of a completely alien screen; when I went inside with my package, my tale of woe met with wit as well as sympathy, "I just thought you were never going to get out of the van!") Now that our self-billing invoices come online on Thursdays instead of a paper document on Mondays, I'm having to adjust to a new financial discipline as well.
In August and September, there seemed to be far more work, and it was easy to ascribe this to the new régime, too. This made October's abyssmal performance feel far worse than simply a return to the mediocre levels of the spring. Early this week, realising that in two days I'd earned scarcely more than one day's expected income, I totted up that in the last three weeks I'd done only three jobs that were more than 100 miles in length, compared to 29 in the previous eleven weeks since the take-over. I began to wonder whether I had been singled out for punitive treatment!
I chewed this over during my daily quiet time next morning, and found a sort of perspective about it, realising that, as a consequence of attentions focussed elsewhere, my work had been largely absent from my prayers lately. Now, I'm fairly sure that Dave, my controller, is not a 'God-botherer'; I'm not so sure of the extent to which he is or is not 'God-bothered'! He rang me as I was returning from yet another local job that afternoon, to ask if I would be able to do a couple of jobs that evening. In my acceptance, I decided to advise him of that statistic. He sounded quite shocked, and shortly afterwards rang me back to add another hospital delivery to the one that he had already instructed, along with the relief of someone who had locked himself out of his van ... this an all-too-common occurence for this customer, of whom I've written here before!
Thursday morning began quite tamely, returning the afore-mentioned van key, and then deliveries in Hemel Hempstead and Uxbridge. As I drove through Uxbridge, about a mile from my second delivery, the phone rang. I was given a job I'd done a few weeks ago, collecting some computers from a training session in a hotel near Gatwick airport, and taking them to another one in the chain for a similar session the next day. This wouldn't be until after 3.0 pm, but I was being told now since it would save my travelling if I were to go straight there. It was about 11.0, and I received this news with mixed feelings. A couple of idle hours, but then a good job; a good job, but overall a very long day.
I hadn't gone far after making my delivery when the phone rang again. This time it was the Reading office, offering me a complex, but in the event an undemanding and interesting job. I collected seven deliveries of car parts from a logistics firm in Slough, passed four of them on to other drivers, and then delivered the other three, finishing only three miles from the hotel, just on 3.0! What better way to fill idle hours? Then came the planned delivery of the computers to Manchester, hampered by motorway traffic, but otherwise uneventful, from which I returned home at 3.15 am.
In the last three weeks, when there was a lot of waiting time, I had begun making tentative plans for retirement. Having seen and heard many instances of resulting torment and trauma, I've no intention of this being an overnight life change. Instead, I'm planning a gradual transition, and incorporating within it the acquisition of a motorhome, so I've been looking at what is available within my budget. There's a vast spectrum of possibilities, and some very attractive models which I don't feel I can justify for just one person. As I've considered these, I've come to realise ways in which this vehicle will not be merely a 'toy' for holidays, but that its arrival will herald a whole new life-pattern.
As if to underline this train of thought, I listened this week to a sermon podcast based on the parable of new wine and old wineskins from St Matthew chapter 9, and it seems that in order to accommodate the 'new wine' of the motorhome, I shall have to renew the 'wineskin' of my lifestyle.
Time will tell, and no doubt this blog will report in due course!
But first, why that title? Well, there have been many new things lately. The take-over at the end of July brought a whole new way of working, and with it not just the use of the much-grumbled-about PDA. (When I reached a delivery the other day, my finger misjudged its stab as I tried to tell the beast that I'd arrived. I took ages to get out of a completely alien screen; when I went inside with my package, my tale of woe met with wit as well as sympathy, "I just thought you were never going to get out of the van!") Now that our self-billing invoices come online on Thursdays instead of a paper document on Mondays, I'm having to adjust to a new financial discipline as well.
In August and September, there seemed to be far more work, and it was easy to ascribe this to the new régime, too. This made October's abyssmal performance feel far worse than simply a return to the mediocre levels of the spring. Early this week, realising that in two days I'd earned scarcely more than one day's expected income, I totted up that in the last three weeks I'd done only three jobs that were more than 100 miles in length, compared to 29 in the previous eleven weeks since the take-over. I began to wonder whether I had been singled out for punitive treatment!
I chewed this over during my daily quiet time next morning, and found a sort of perspective about it, realising that, as a consequence of attentions focussed elsewhere, my work had been largely absent from my prayers lately. Now, I'm fairly sure that Dave, my controller, is not a 'God-botherer'; I'm not so sure of the extent to which he is or is not 'God-bothered'! He rang me as I was returning from yet another local job that afternoon, to ask if I would be able to do a couple of jobs that evening. In my acceptance, I decided to advise him of that statistic. He sounded quite shocked, and shortly afterwards rang me back to add another hospital delivery to the one that he had already instructed, along with the relief of someone who had locked himself out of his van ... this an all-too-common occurence for this customer, of whom I've written here before!
Thursday morning began quite tamely, returning the afore-mentioned van key, and then deliveries in Hemel Hempstead and Uxbridge. As I drove through Uxbridge, about a mile from my second delivery, the phone rang. I was given a job I'd done a few weeks ago, collecting some computers from a training session in a hotel near Gatwick airport, and taking them to another one in the chain for a similar session the next day. This wouldn't be until after 3.0 pm, but I was being told now since it would save my travelling if I were to go straight there. It was about 11.0, and I received this news with mixed feelings. A couple of idle hours, but then a good job; a good job, but overall a very long day.
I hadn't gone far after making my delivery when the phone rang again. This time it was the Reading office, offering me a complex, but in the event an undemanding and interesting job. I collected seven deliveries of car parts from a logistics firm in Slough, passed four of them on to other drivers, and then delivered the other three, finishing only three miles from the hotel, just on 3.0! What better way to fill idle hours? Then came the planned delivery of the computers to Manchester, hampered by motorway traffic, but otherwise uneventful, from which I returned home at 3.15 am.
In the last three weeks, when there was a lot of waiting time, I had begun making tentative plans for retirement. Having seen and heard many instances of resulting torment and trauma, I've no intention of this being an overnight life change. Instead, I'm planning a gradual transition, and incorporating within it the acquisition of a motorhome, so I've been looking at what is available within my budget. There's a vast spectrum of possibilities, and some very attractive models which I don't feel I can justify for just one person. As I've considered these, I've come to realise ways in which this vehicle will not be merely a 'toy' for holidays, but that its arrival will herald a whole new life-pattern.
As if to underline this train of thought, I listened this week to a sermon podcast based on the parable of new wine and old wineskins from St Matthew chapter 9, and it seems that in order to accommodate the 'new wine' of the motorhome, I shall have to renew the 'wineskin' of my lifestyle.
Time will tell, and no doubt this blog will report in due course!
Saturday, 1 November 2014
When I Worked at the White House
It's funny how the smallest detail sometimes leads to an almighty turning back of the memory clock.
One of the embarrassing aspects of working with a PDA is the need to ask people their names. In the 'old days', I could just hand them the clipboard and say 'sign and print, please' and, so long as there was a clear indication in each box, I'd be on my way. Now, if there's a delivery sheet to sign as well, it seems something of an insult to ask, implying - however correctly - that their printed name is illegible; and if there isn't a piece of paper, then to ask a name seems nothing less than a blatant intrusion into 'their space'. To cover my embarrassment, I notice that I've developed the occasional habit of making some comment about the name I'm told. (I have to be careful what I say is not racist, of course!) This backfired on me the other day.
I'd made a delivery to a car showroom in Ashford, Kent. On arrival, I was approached by she who appeared the junior of the two ladies on duty behind the reception desk, and after putting the parcel on the floor, I asked her name. "Birch," she said. "Oh," I replied, "I used to go to school with a girl named Birch." Quick as a flash came the amused rejoinder. "I've aged very well!" She must have been in her early twenties, at most. I hastily covered my embarrassment with a comment about her being much too young, and retreated. As I drove away I thought 'Birch'.
There were, in fact, three sisters of that name. At school I knew Angela and Susan, who were respectively two years and one year older than me, and I had little to do with either of them ... shy boys of eleven didn't in those days. It wasn't until ten years or so later, when I was newly married, and a junior accountant with a manufacturing firm, that I discovered that they had a younger sister. Their works was at Harleston, about ten miles from my home town, and rather than provide my own transport, I would often travel there on the bus that was provided for the factory workers, many of whom lived in Diss. One Monday there was an attractive addition to the passengers, and as the only two office staff amongst the otherwise overalled gathering, it was perhaps natural that we should sit together.
In the following months, we shared many a Monday morning and Friday evening journey, and I learned that Julie was the sister of Angela, who by then had found a job working not with me, but in the same office, and Susan. She was married to an airman, I believe and, having found work at the factory, in the office next to ours, she lodged during the week with Angela, who lived nearby. On Fridays, she would travel to Diss, on the first leg of a complex journey to spend the weekend with her husband, making the reverse journey on Monday.
Unsurprisingly, this arrangement was not conducive to happy family life, and it only lasted a few months, by which time Julie had obtained a more suitable job nearer the base, enabling her to commute from married quarters. I was flattered that, on the first of only three occasions in my whole career, she asked me for a reference to support her application. I have no idea what it was that I wrote, given that my work and hers rarely coincided, if at all.
This whole recollection brought back many happy memories of the four years I worked at that factory, and the many faces that were familiar, although with the passing of forty or so intervening years, many of the names are now casualties of time. I remember sometimes wearing a red hand-knitted pullover, and being nicknamed 'the robin' as I walked round the shopfloor collecting data. Then there was the time when I made some notes in the presence of one of the young women who graced the shopfloor as secretaries to the departmental managers. "Coo," she exclaimed, "haven't you got nice writing ..." My head began to swell with pride until she added, "... for a feller!"
A few weeks ago, I made a delivery in the Suffolk town of Beccles, and my homeward journey would naturally have taken me past Harleston, so I took advantage of the opportunity to divert through the town and look at the site of this particular chapter of my early career. The factory building is no longer, having been demolished a few years ago to make way for housing, but the canteen is still there, now a community hall, with the car park still in use around it. More significantly, from my point of view, so too is the white house on the opposite side of the car park from the factory, which in those days housed the administrative departments. I could almost hear the slam of that solid front door as I stood by the roadside with my camera.
One of the embarrassing aspects of working with a PDA is the need to ask people their names. In the 'old days', I could just hand them the clipboard and say 'sign and print, please' and, so long as there was a clear indication in each box, I'd be on my way. Now, if there's a delivery sheet to sign as well, it seems something of an insult to ask, implying - however correctly - that their printed name is illegible; and if there isn't a piece of paper, then to ask a name seems nothing less than a blatant intrusion into 'their space'. To cover my embarrassment, I notice that I've developed the occasional habit of making some comment about the name I'm told. (I have to be careful what I say is not racist, of course!) This backfired on me the other day.
I'd made a delivery to a car showroom in Ashford, Kent. On arrival, I was approached by she who appeared the junior of the two ladies on duty behind the reception desk, and after putting the parcel on the floor, I asked her name. "Birch," she said. "Oh," I replied, "I used to go to school with a girl named Birch." Quick as a flash came the amused rejoinder. "I've aged very well!" She must have been in her early twenties, at most. I hastily covered my embarrassment with a comment about her being much too young, and retreated. As I drove away I thought 'Birch'.
There were, in fact, three sisters of that name. At school I knew Angela and Susan, who were respectively two years and one year older than me, and I had little to do with either of them ... shy boys of eleven didn't in those days. It wasn't until ten years or so later, when I was newly married, and a junior accountant with a manufacturing firm, that I discovered that they had a younger sister. Their works was at Harleston, about ten miles from my home town, and rather than provide my own transport, I would often travel there on the bus that was provided for the factory workers, many of whom lived in Diss. One Monday there was an attractive addition to the passengers, and as the only two office staff amongst the otherwise overalled gathering, it was perhaps natural that we should sit together.
In the following months, we shared many a Monday morning and Friday evening journey, and I learned that Julie was the sister of Angela, who by then had found a job working not with me, but in the same office, and Susan. She was married to an airman, I believe and, having found work at the factory, in the office next to ours, she lodged during the week with Angela, who lived nearby. On Fridays, she would travel to Diss, on the first leg of a complex journey to spend the weekend with her husband, making the reverse journey on Monday.
Unsurprisingly, this arrangement was not conducive to happy family life, and it only lasted a few months, by which time Julie had obtained a more suitable job nearer the base, enabling her to commute from married quarters. I was flattered that, on the first of only three occasions in my whole career, she asked me for a reference to support her application. I have no idea what it was that I wrote, given that my work and hers rarely coincided, if at all.
This whole recollection brought back many happy memories of the four years I worked at that factory, and the many faces that were familiar, although with the passing of forty or so intervening years, many of the names are now casualties of time. I remember sometimes wearing a red hand-knitted pullover, and being nicknamed 'the robin' as I walked round the shopfloor collecting data. Then there was the time when I made some notes in the presence of one of the young women who graced the shopfloor as secretaries to the departmental managers. "Coo," she exclaimed, "haven't you got nice writing ..." My head began to swell with pride until she added, "... for a feller!"
 |
| Mendham Lane, Harleston - former factory canteen and car park |
 |
| The White House - my office was on the top floor of the nearest corner |
Saturday, 25 October 2014
Strike a Light!
I've been thinking about light this week; and that, of course, includes lights, and more philosophical enlightenment, too.
On Monday and Tuesday I wasn't working. Instead my attention was focussed on a hospital appointment on Tuesday afternoon, when I underwent a colonoscopy procedure. As you may know, this involves a camera, and normally cameras don't operate without light. There was also light at the end of the tunnel, so to speak, when the doctor announced at the end of it that he had found nothing. Until that moment, I hadn't realised how anxious I had been about this beneath the surface, but suddenly there came a feeling of great relief, as if someone had switched on a great light!
The sky on Thursday evening was riven with more lights, as lots of fireworks were let off to mark Diwali, the Hindu Festival of Lights. I was a little apprehensive, since I had to get up early yesterday morning, but fortunately my bedroom is on the opposite side from the 'noisy quarter', and I was undisturbed.
You may think it strange, but I like driving in the evening, at night, or in the early morning. For one thing it's usually more peaceful, but often there is beauty to be seen, too. I remember one night driving home from Scotland along the A68, where a straight road on the map is actually so up and down that at times it looked as if I were driving straight at the full moon. On another occasion, I had set off early for a destination up the A1, and was able to delight in the sunrise over my right wing-mirror.
Yesterday's early departure was for Avonmouth and Weston-super-Mare, but the illumination wasn't provided by sunrise, but by a car on fire on the hard shoulder of the M25. Now when I say on fire, it wasn't just a plume of smoke, although that was there as well; there were flames shooting high into the sky, and the heat was quite intense as I passed in the second lane. It looked - thankfully - as if driver and passengers were safely standing by another vehicle some way off.
As dawn was breaking my mind was on a totally different kind of light ... or rather the lack of it. The news bulletins reported the story of the requirement by the EU of an additional contribution of £1.7 billion from the UK, according to the headlines because of our increased productivity. The main item revealed that this was actually the result of revised calculations under terms agreed nearly twenty years ago, but you wouldn't think so to hear some of the politicians interviewed, who were quick to make party capital out of the news. Terms like 'an extra tax', 'an illegal tax' were heard; later bulletins reported our PM bemoaning the short notice - which I feel is valid - but then going on to grumble about being asked to pay more anyway, when in previous years we benefitted from a rebate ... which presumably was not so objectionable. At least the interviews in this morning's news programme were more reasoned and understanding of what is going on. However, I do wish this country would for once get a grip on the fact that it is PART OF EUROPE, instead of always belly-aching about THEM and US as two sides of a constant battle!
While controversy reigns, let's turn back to the hospital I visited at the beginning of the week, where I couldn't have received better treatment ... as has always been the case. What a shame that nurses and other public sector employees were taking industrial action last week about pay. I confess to a degree of enlightenment there myself: I hadn't realised that these people earn so little that they can't afford to keep their families. I suppose, because my income fluctuates as much as it does, I've lost any feeling for seeing the same figure week after week, knowing that it won't change until the next annual review. Over the past quarter, for example, my highest weekly income was more than twice the lowest; and the lowest figure wouldn't have been enough to meet the monthly rent on my flat, let alone cover my business expenses - of which fuel alone is nearly £8,000 a year! I guess it's all a matter of balance.
And having got all that off my chest, I notice it's time to change the clocks back to GMT tonight! It sort of puts things into a greater perspective, somehow ... and gives us a bit more light in the mornings!
On Monday and Tuesday I wasn't working. Instead my attention was focussed on a hospital appointment on Tuesday afternoon, when I underwent a colonoscopy procedure. As you may know, this involves a camera, and normally cameras don't operate without light. There was also light at the end of the tunnel, so to speak, when the doctor announced at the end of it that he had found nothing. Until that moment, I hadn't realised how anxious I had been about this beneath the surface, but suddenly there came a feeling of great relief, as if someone had switched on a great light!
The sky on Thursday evening was riven with more lights, as lots of fireworks were let off to mark Diwali, the Hindu Festival of Lights. I was a little apprehensive, since I had to get up early yesterday morning, but fortunately my bedroom is on the opposite side from the 'noisy quarter', and I was undisturbed.
You may think it strange, but I like driving in the evening, at night, or in the early morning. For one thing it's usually more peaceful, but often there is beauty to be seen, too. I remember one night driving home from Scotland along the A68, where a straight road on the map is actually so up and down that at times it looked as if I were driving straight at the full moon. On another occasion, I had set off early for a destination up the A1, and was able to delight in the sunrise over my right wing-mirror.
Yesterday's early departure was for Avonmouth and Weston-super-Mare, but the illumination wasn't provided by sunrise, but by a car on fire on the hard shoulder of the M25. Now when I say on fire, it wasn't just a plume of smoke, although that was there as well; there were flames shooting high into the sky, and the heat was quite intense as I passed in the second lane. It looked - thankfully - as if driver and passengers were safely standing by another vehicle some way off.
As dawn was breaking my mind was on a totally different kind of light ... or rather the lack of it. The news bulletins reported the story of the requirement by the EU of an additional contribution of £1.7 billion from the UK, according to the headlines because of our increased productivity. The main item revealed that this was actually the result of revised calculations under terms agreed nearly twenty years ago, but you wouldn't think so to hear some of the politicians interviewed, who were quick to make party capital out of the news. Terms like 'an extra tax', 'an illegal tax' were heard; later bulletins reported our PM bemoaning the short notice - which I feel is valid - but then going on to grumble about being asked to pay more anyway, when in previous years we benefitted from a rebate ... which presumably was not so objectionable. At least the interviews in this morning's news programme were more reasoned and understanding of what is going on. However, I do wish this country would for once get a grip on the fact that it is PART OF EUROPE, instead of always belly-aching about THEM and US as two sides of a constant battle!
While controversy reigns, let's turn back to the hospital I visited at the beginning of the week, where I couldn't have received better treatment ... as has always been the case. What a shame that nurses and other public sector employees were taking industrial action last week about pay. I confess to a degree of enlightenment there myself: I hadn't realised that these people earn so little that they can't afford to keep their families. I suppose, because my income fluctuates as much as it does, I've lost any feeling for seeing the same figure week after week, knowing that it won't change until the next annual review. Over the past quarter, for example, my highest weekly income was more than twice the lowest; and the lowest figure wouldn't have been enough to meet the monthly rent on my flat, let alone cover my business expenses - of which fuel alone is nearly £8,000 a year! I guess it's all a matter of balance.
And having got all that off my chest, I notice it's time to change the clocks back to GMT tonight! It sort of puts things into a greater perspective, somehow ... and gives us a bit more light in the mornings!
Friday, 17 October 2014
It's All in the Mind ... or Not!
I recognise that the phenomenon that I call the Repeating Genie, and about which I write often here, can be explained completely by the variety of matters that are passing through my mind at any one time, and the way this mixture promts me to notice and link certain things that are going on around me. Understanding this, you will recall that I wrote last week about the Genie taking on new guises; this week I spotted another new one. I have made deliveries in and to a variety of strange places and recipients over the years, including on one occasion - which I wrote about here - to a piece of street furniture: a telephone 'cabinet'. At the beginning of last week, I delivered - for the first time, I'm sure - to a car park, more particularly the overheight car park at Heathrow Airport. A never-to-be-repeated occurrence? Not a bit of it! This Tuesday saw an almost parallel occasion, when I took some security equipment to the office on the sixth floor of a municipal multi-storey car park in one of our east Midland towns. The moral: never underestimate the power of the Genie!
Wednesday was 'words' day. On Tuesday evening, I got around to attending to something that has niggled me for months. I noticed that on my new hi-viz vest there were a number of long threads where the seams had been untidily stitched, and each time I saw them I remembered that I'd planned to snip them off. Like so many things, this had been put off until the next time I saw them ... and again ... until Tuesday evening when the deed was done. I entered the lounge on Wednesday morning, saw the hi-viz laying on the sideboard, ready alongside my lunch for my departure to the van, and a word came into my mind as straight from my father's lips. What I had cut off that garment the previous evening were fraisles, at least that's how I've written it; I've never seen the word in print, but I remember dad talking about the old, thin jacket he would wear for work in the summer time, how the cuffs had become frayed, and would need the fraisles taken off.
Many of the old Suffolk dialect words I've only ever heard from him, and I have suspicions that centuries ago they blew across the North Sea. I could even picture this one spelled in the original language as 'frayzel', but when I looked for anything similar in my Dutch dictionary there was no sign of it. Another such word, one that I'm convinced did come that way, was the 'bate' that was given to horses to eat in the morning. It was also used for the worker's breakfast. They used to start work at 6.0 in the summer time, and the horsemen even earlier, so by 9.0 (the traditional hour for breakfast) they would be getting hungry. Many years later, in the course of my work I discovered the Dutch expression for 'bed and breakfast': 'overnachting en ontbijt', and I felt I'd found the origin of the 'bate', since the Dutch 'ij' is pronounced like the flat 'a' of plate.
Later that morning I found myself driving along the motorway behind a van bearing the slogan "Services for your patients and their caregivers". Here was another strange word, I thought. Carers are common, but what are 'caregivers' and how might the two differ? My mind was once again scampering through the pages of the dictionary. If carers and caregivers were one and the same, then this slogan was certainly correct, however strange it might seem, because that's what carers do: they give care. Then I went on to think about people taking care of others, and how that, too, meant the same thing rather than the opposite: taking care as opposed to giving care, and yet meaning the same. And what about caretakers? Yes, I suppose they take care - or give care - in the same way, but more usually of buildings than people. Perhaps it was as well for my sanity that it was about then that I reached my destination.
This afternoon really took the biscuit. It was a reminder of another party to the whole courier scenario. We've got the sender, and the receiver, who is usually the sender's customer, or sometimes the sender's customer's customer. And then there are those occasions when we deliver directly from the sender's supplier to his customer. Rarely, if ever, do we have to consider the sender's customer's host. It was coming up to 5.30, and I had a pallet of printed matter to get rid of before people went home for the weekend. The address I had was clear, <name of consignee> Unit 3 <streetname>. Unfortunately, there were two separate Unit 3s in that street and which one came first? Yep, the wrong 'un. I'm not saying there was a connection, but by the time I found the right place, it looked very shut up.
But hey, there's a board outside with the right name on. At least that confirms it's the right place, and it's one of those flappy signs that stand outside on the pavement ... and the reception light is on ... and the door's ajar! Only it wasn't quite so my-lucky-day as it seemed. I walked into reception to see whether they had a fork truck they could get out and use. There was a sign on the desk and a bell push. All off a sudden, "WAAAIIIILLLL!" The alarm was sounding. I hesitated, looked around, listened ... no sound except that din outside. The Marie Celeste came to mind: there was no one around at all. After a minute or so, I went outside - no other door seemed remotely occupied. There was a phone no. above the door, so I rang it, got the predictable recording about 'leave a message and we'll get back to you', so I did, although it was obvious what was happening.
I'd just got through to my office to report the situation when the police car turned up. I told the controller I'd ring him back, and started explaining to the Sergeant what was going on, while her colleague looked around. Meanwhile another police car arrived, with two more officers, followed closely by two separate vehicles with the keyholders of the premises. Eventually the place was secured, the police satisfied, and then I piped up about my load of printed matter. The place was opened up again, and the two men helped me to unload the boxes. Then one of them exploded, "They're not even for us! Why couldn't he have told us he was expecting something?" I suggested that perhaps that was why the door had been left open ... . This only made things worse. "He hasn't been near the place all day," came the reply (indicating that it was this man's own colleague whose oversight had caused the problem). "He runs his business in a room that he rents from us. He's only here three days a week, and expects us to run around behind him for the rest of the time!"
So memo for the future ... beware the 4th party!
Wednesday was 'words' day. On Tuesday evening, I got around to attending to something that has niggled me for months. I noticed that on my new hi-viz vest there were a number of long threads where the seams had been untidily stitched, and each time I saw them I remembered that I'd planned to snip them off. Like so many things, this had been put off until the next time I saw them ... and again ... until Tuesday evening when the deed was done. I entered the lounge on Wednesday morning, saw the hi-viz laying on the sideboard, ready alongside my lunch for my departure to the van, and a word came into my mind as straight from my father's lips. What I had cut off that garment the previous evening were fraisles, at least that's how I've written it; I've never seen the word in print, but I remember dad talking about the old, thin jacket he would wear for work in the summer time, how the cuffs had become frayed, and would need the fraisles taken off.
Many of the old Suffolk dialect words I've only ever heard from him, and I have suspicions that centuries ago they blew across the North Sea. I could even picture this one spelled in the original language as 'frayzel', but when I looked for anything similar in my Dutch dictionary there was no sign of it. Another such word, one that I'm convinced did come that way, was the 'bate' that was given to horses to eat in the morning. It was also used for the worker's breakfast. They used to start work at 6.0 in the summer time, and the horsemen even earlier, so by 9.0 (the traditional hour for breakfast) they would be getting hungry. Many years later, in the course of my work I discovered the Dutch expression for 'bed and breakfast': 'overnachting en ontbijt', and I felt I'd found the origin of the 'bate', since the Dutch 'ij' is pronounced like the flat 'a' of plate.
Later that morning I found myself driving along the motorway behind a van bearing the slogan "Services for your patients and their caregivers". Here was another strange word, I thought. Carers are common, but what are 'caregivers' and how might the two differ? My mind was once again scampering through the pages of the dictionary. If carers and caregivers were one and the same, then this slogan was certainly correct, however strange it might seem, because that's what carers do: they give care. Then I went on to think about people taking care of others, and how that, too, meant the same thing rather than the opposite: taking care as opposed to giving care, and yet meaning the same. And what about caretakers? Yes, I suppose they take care - or give care - in the same way, but more usually of buildings than people. Perhaps it was as well for my sanity that it was about then that I reached my destination.
This afternoon really took the biscuit. It was a reminder of another party to the whole courier scenario. We've got the sender, and the receiver, who is usually the sender's customer, or sometimes the sender's customer's customer. And then there are those occasions when we deliver directly from the sender's supplier to his customer. Rarely, if ever, do we have to consider the sender's customer's host. It was coming up to 5.30, and I had a pallet of printed matter to get rid of before people went home for the weekend. The address I had was clear, <name of consignee> Unit 3 <streetname>. Unfortunately, there were two separate Unit 3s in that street and which one came first? Yep, the wrong 'un. I'm not saying there was a connection, but by the time I found the right place, it looked very shut up.
But hey, there's a board outside with the right name on. At least that confirms it's the right place, and it's one of those flappy signs that stand outside on the pavement ... and the reception light is on ... and the door's ajar! Only it wasn't quite so my-lucky-day as it seemed. I walked into reception to see whether they had a fork truck they could get out and use. There was a sign on the desk and a bell push. All off a sudden, "WAAAIIIILLLL!" The alarm was sounding. I hesitated, looked around, listened ... no sound except that din outside. The Marie Celeste came to mind: there was no one around at all. After a minute or so, I went outside - no other door seemed remotely occupied. There was a phone no. above the door, so I rang it, got the predictable recording about 'leave a message and we'll get back to you', so I did, although it was obvious what was happening.
I'd just got through to my office to report the situation when the police car turned up. I told the controller I'd ring him back, and started explaining to the Sergeant what was going on, while her colleague looked around. Meanwhile another police car arrived, with two more officers, followed closely by two separate vehicles with the keyholders of the premises. Eventually the place was secured, the police satisfied, and then I piped up about my load of printed matter. The place was opened up again, and the two men helped me to unload the boxes. Then one of them exploded, "They're not even for us! Why couldn't he have told us he was expecting something?" I suggested that perhaps that was why the door had been left open ... . This only made things worse. "He hasn't been near the place all day," came the reply (indicating that it was this man's own colleague whose oversight had caused the problem). "He runs his business in a room that he rents from us. He's only here three days a week, and expects us to run around behind him for the rest of the time!"
So memo for the future ... beware the 4th party!
Saturday, 11 October 2014
One End of a Week ... and the Other
Although I didn't realise it at the time, last weekend I was in the midst of a unique (so far) series of jobs. My old friend the Repeating Genie had adopted a new guise and, in the space of just four days, I did no less than six jobs for one particular customer in nearby Stotfold. It's not uncommon for the same job to be repeated a number of times within a few weeks, if a customer is fulfilling a protracted delivery schedule; in fact, it makes sense for the same driver to be used, because after the first time the location and personnel are familiar and provide continuity for the customer and increased satisfaction for the driver. But amongst these six were four different jobs, and all for the same customer.
It began last Thursday afternoon, when I delivered several bundles of part-finished items from our customer's premises to a firm in Bedford to have further work carried out on them; this job was repeated on Monday afternoon and Tuesday morning. Meanwhile, my first job on Friday was to collect for them from a firm in Walsall (this was the pallet whose securing I extolled in my post last week). Monday morning's activities included the collection of materials for them from a warehouse in Bicester, upon delivery of which I collected the second load of part-processed items for Bedford, and the same thing happened at lunchtime on Tuesday, when I delivered materials I had brought for them from the delightfully-named Hampton Lovett in Worcestershire.
When the same roads figure again and again in the course of a few days' work, the mind tends to wander, and I think it was Tuesday when my eye caught a row of council houses in the village of Moggerhanger ... houses past which I must have driven hundreds of times on my way to and from Bedford. My mind went back to the estate where my cousin and I grew up in adjoining streets of such houses in Norfolk. I had often compared my home to my cousin's, without particularly wondering about the reasons for the differences between them, beyond the fact that one was about three years older than the other. I now questioned whether these that I was now passing might be the same layout as either of those houses with which I had been familiar in childhood, or of yet another design. From the outside, the style of windows and brickwork seemed to cry out "late-'forties-early-'fifties", i.e. dating from the same era as our early homes.
My father was a farm worker, and ours was one of six houses built around a small roundabout that were said to be specifically 'for farm workers'. On one hand, their designation for this purpose could simply have been to relieve the pressure caused by farmers no longer willing to provide tied cottages for their workers. On the other hand, I failed to see any way in which the design of those dwellings could provide for any specific needs of farm workers as opposed to tenants engaged in any other occupation: after all, their work would be carried out on the farm, not at home! The basic difference between my cousin's home and my own was that their kitchen extended from the back of the house into a living area with a window to the front, whereas our kitchen was confined to the rear, and the corresponding front window was in a totally separate room. Both houses had another living room stretching from front to back on the opposite side of a central hallway.
The puzzles of the past must remain there. Meanwhile I'm aware that recent posts here have neglected the minutiae of my daily assignments throughout the week. This is almost certainly a good thing, but let me just give you an insight into the variety - and busy-ness - of yesterday. When I went to Ireland the other week I had missed an evening training session. While I fundamentally disapprove of training in our own time, rather than during the day, I would have gone along with everyone else had I not been elsewhere. However, yesterday I was invited to rectify this lost opportunity once I'd completed two early jobs. I was half-way through the 'excitement' of learning how to prevent medicines becoming contaminated or spilt whilst in my custody, when the controller begged the trainer to release me in order to satisfy a particular job that was becoming urgent owing to the mysterious habit of manufacturing firms to leave off early on Friday afternoons. You'll not be surprised to know that this didn't exactly disappoint me.
On my way back from this, I was diverted to another job which is a daily regular, although I haven't done it for some weeks. Sadly the security officer at this establishment was a stand-in, and neither he nor I knew the specific detail that no one had told him, i.e. whom he should call when I arrived to collect parcels for an international forwarding company. Overcoming this deficiency involved several phone calls and took quite a while, and once the job had been successfully completed, any idea of resuming the training session was far from anyone's thoughts, as the end of a busy day drew ever nearer. I was asked whether I would be available for more work; when I said I would, I was offered a choice of two jobs to East Anglia, or a combination of Tyneside and Edinburgh. Having no desperate commitments today, I decided to choose the longer distance.
After also collecting a Tender for delivery in Southampton on Monday, I made hasty preparations for a night out, and found myself taking two items to a delightfully-designed (from what I could see by street lighting and moonlight) modern housing complex in Gateshead, and then delivering two stents to Edinburgh Royal Infirmary. This latter job was, strangely, accompanied by an instruction to call a mobile no. when I arrived. I did so, expecting the answer to come from someone within the hospital who would then emerge to take charge of the goods. Not so. My interlocutor explained that he was, in fact, in Paris; he simply advised that I should make my way to the Emergency Entrance, one place where he knew I would be able to obtain access to the hospital. Here I was given the necessary directions to the theatre suite, where I made my delivery, but I then had to overcome the difficulties presented by one-way doors only negotiable in the opposite direction by staff with the appropriate electronic pass! Amazingly, I eventually emerged nearer to my van than I had entered, and at 2.0 am began my slow journey home, interrupted by the anticipated stops for sleep and food, and food and sleep as nature dictated.
It began last Thursday afternoon, when I delivered several bundles of part-finished items from our customer's premises to a firm in Bedford to have further work carried out on them; this job was repeated on Monday afternoon and Tuesday morning. Meanwhile, my first job on Friday was to collect for them from a firm in Walsall (this was the pallet whose securing I extolled in my post last week). Monday morning's activities included the collection of materials for them from a warehouse in Bicester, upon delivery of which I collected the second load of part-processed items for Bedford, and the same thing happened at lunchtime on Tuesday, when I delivered materials I had brought for them from the delightfully-named Hampton Lovett in Worcestershire.
When the same roads figure again and again in the course of a few days' work, the mind tends to wander, and I think it was Tuesday when my eye caught a row of council houses in the village of Moggerhanger ... houses past which I must have driven hundreds of times on my way to and from Bedford. My mind went back to the estate where my cousin and I grew up in adjoining streets of such houses in Norfolk. I had often compared my home to my cousin's, without particularly wondering about the reasons for the differences between them, beyond the fact that one was about three years older than the other. I now questioned whether these that I was now passing might be the same layout as either of those houses with which I had been familiar in childhood, or of yet another design. From the outside, the style of windows and brickwork seemed to cry out "late-'forties-early-'fifties", i.e. dating from the same era as our early homes.
My father was a farm worker, and ours was one of six houses built around a small roundabout that were said to be specifically 'for farm workers'. On one hand, their designation for this purpose could simply have been to relieve the pressure caused by farmers no longer willing to provide tied cottages for their workers. On the other hand, I failed to see any way in which the design of those dwellings could provide for any specific needs of farm workers as opposed to tenants engaged in any other occupation: after all, their work would be carried out on the farm, not at home! The basic difference between my cousin's home and my own was that their kitchen extended from the back of the house into a living area with a window to the front, whereas our kitchen was confined to the rear, and the corresponding front window was in a totally separate room. Both houses had another living room stretching from front to back on the opposite side of a central hallway.
The puzzles of the past must remain there. Meanwhile I'm aware that recent posts here have neglected the minutiae of my daily assignments throughout the week. This is almost certainly a good thing, but let me just give you an insight into the variety - and busy-ness - of yesterday. When I went to Ireland the other week I had missed an evening training session. While I fundamentally disapprove of training in our own time, rather than during the day, I would have gone along with everyone else had I not been elsewhere. However, yesterday I was invited to rectify this lost opportunity once I'd completed two early jobs. I was half-way through the 'excitement' of learning how to prevent medicines becoming contaminated or spilt whilst in my custody, when the controller begged the trainer to release me in order to satisfy a particular job that was becoming urgent owing to the mysterious habit of manufacturing firms to leave off early on Friday afternoons. You'll not be surprised to know that this didn't exactly disappoint me.
On my way back from this, I was diverted to another job which is a daily regular, although I haven't done it for some weeks. Sadly the security officer at this establishment was a stand-in, and neither he nor I knew the specific detail that no one had told him, i.e. whom he should call when I arrived to collect parcels for an international forwarding company. Overcoming this deficiency involved several phone calls and took quite a while, and once the job had been successfully completed, any idea of resuming the training session was far from anyone's thoughts, as the end of a busy day drew ever nearer. I was asked whether I would be available for more work; when I said I would, I was offered a choice of two jobs to East Anglia, or a combination of Tyneside and Edinburgh. Having no desperate commitments today, I decided to choose the longer distance.
After also collecting a Tender for delivery in Southampton on Monday, I made hasty preparations for a night out, and found myself taking two items to a delightfully-designed (from what I could see by street lighting and moonlight) modern housing complex in Gateshead, and then delivering two stents to Edinburgh Royal Infirmary. This latter job was, strangely, accompanied by an instruction to call a mobile no. when I arrived. I did so, expecting the answer to come from someone within the hospital who would then emerge to take charge of the goods. Not so. My interlocutor explained that he was, in fact, in Paris; he simply advised that I should make my way to the Emergency Entrance, one place where he knew I would be able to obtain access to the hospital. Here I was given the necessary directions to the theatre suite, where I made my delivery, but I then had to overcome the difficulties presented by one-way doors only negotiable in the opposite direction by staff with the appropriate electronic pass! Amazingly, I eventually emerged nearer to my van than I had entered, and at 2.0 am began my slow journey home, interrupted by the anticipated stops for sleep and food, and food and sleep as nature dictated.
Saturday, 4 October 2014
Where Were You?
It's become something of a cliché in the last fifty years. Where were you when Kennedy was shot/Elvis died/war was declared/whatever? Until quite recently, there were only two of those questions to which I could provide an answer. I remember where I was when I heard the first news of the Seven Day War in 1967 - sitting in the school library, talking to about five others, of whom I can remember only one by name. And I remember where I was when I heard the first news of the 9/11 bombings - sitting in my office in Royston, when a colleague returned from lunch, having seen the live newsreel on TV.
I realised this week that I can add a third momentous event to that catalogue.
It's funny, isn't it, how one thought leads to another and that one to another and so on until, as a friend said after reading one of my magazine articles, "I had to go back and read it all again because I just couldn't believe how you'd got from the opening comment to the final conclusion!"
Yesterday morning, I had to make a collection from an industrial unit in Walsall. It was one of those estates that is divided into blocks, presumably according to the original stages in the development of the site. The address I had was 'Unit 2A' so, quite reasonably, I thought, I'd look for unit 2, and would find it divided into two or more parts. There was no sign of unit 2. Eventually I came upon a map: an essential component of every industrial estate in my experience. Here I discovered that there were five parts of the estate - A, B, C, D and E. I had already passed the entrance to part A, assuming incorrectly that it was all one large premises, and noticing that it didn't bear the name of the firm I was looking for. By the time I'd back-tracked and located unit 2 in this area, I was about five minutes behind my scheduled arrival time.
As I approached, two men were wrapping a pallet of goods more thoroughly than I think I've ever seen before, not only horizontally, but vertically too, with the pallet perched on the tines of the fork truck, and the men passing the roll of wrapping film from one to the other over and under it. Having confirmed that it was this pallet that I had arrived to collect, one of them promptly loaded it into my van, and ushered me inside to wait for the paperwork. As he did so, I commented on their thoroughness, referring to a very badly wrapped consignment I'd carried earlier in the week. In this case, the wrapping was applied very skimpily, once the goods had been piled on the pallet inside the van. "You're not going far," said the man, "you won't be braking suddenly, will you?" I had agreed that I shouldn't, but it wasn't the braking or not that was important. As I steered around the first roundabout, at only 8 mph, a 'whoosh, clunk' came from the rear of the van: the goods had already slipped off the pallet!
I stood in this Walsall unit, and looked around me. The whole place exuded that same care that those men had shown in their wrapping. The floor was clean, and the walls, too, apart from a few cobwebs far too high to be either reachable or any threat to what was going on beneath. The operator at the far end of the workshop, carrying on his task oblivious to my studious eye, seemed to be applying the full attention to detail to meet the requirements of the most fussy customer.
As I waited, taking in all around me, I considered just what management skills might be required to run a business in these difficult times, provide work for and appropriate rewards to at least two employees - perhaps more - and make a profit at the end of it all. Still the paperwork hadn't appeared, and my attention turned to the radio that was playing in the background. It was tuned to BBC Radio 2; by then it was coming up to 9.30 am, and Sara Cox, sitting in for Chris Evans this week, was handing over to Ken Bruce. Suddenly something flashed in my mind, and I remembered clearly where I was at 9.30 am on December 18th 2009.
I had just come to the end of one of those tricky, overnight jobs where you pick up the goods during the evening, and you know it's not really worth going home, because you'll only get a couple of hours' sleep before you need to be up to leave to drive across the country in order to make your delivery time. So you drive, slowly at first until it seems ridiculous, then normally; and you stop at an amazing number of services in order to get coffee, use the toilet or choose an attractive chocolate bar. You find a lay-by where you can grab a few minutes' sleep to keep safe for the rest of the night, and by 7.0 you get to your destination when there's no one about. You run the engine to keep warm, hoping that you don't disturb nearby residents. In between dozing, you see people going about their business as the town wakes up. Eventually someone comes and opens the shop ...
That morning I made my one and only ever delivery to a chemist's shop in Caernarfon, having purposely driven all the way up the A5 from Milton Keynes, knowing that it would take far longer than any normal route. And I listened to Radio 2 as I began the next leg of my 565-mile assignment, to collect from Liverpool for the same customer. I think that was the last morning I listened to Radio 2 - it just had no more appeal without that soft Limerick voice.
So, where were you when Sir Terry Wogan signed off for the last time?
I realised this week that I can add a third momentous event to that catalogue.
It's funny, isn't it, how one thought leads to another and that one to another and so on until, as a friend said after reading one of my magazine articles, "I had to go back and read it all again because I just couldn't believe how you'd got from the opening comment to the final conclusion!"
Yesterday morning, I had to make a collection from an industrial unit in Walsall. It was one of those estates that is divided into blocks, presumably according to the original stages in the development of the site. The address I had was 'Unit 2A' so, quite reasonably, I thought, I'd look for unit 2, and would find it divided into two or more parts. There was no sign of unit 2. Eventually I came upon a map: an essential component of every industrial estate in my experience. Here I discovered that there were five parts of the estate - A, B, C, D and E. I had already passed the entrance to part A, assuming incorrectly that it was all one large premises, and noticing that it didn't bear the name of the firm I was looking for. By the time I'd back-tracked and located unit 2 in this area, I was about five minutes behind my scheduled arrival time.
As I approached, two men were wrapping a pallet of goods more thoroughly than I think I've ever seen before, not only horizontally, but vertically too, with the pallet perched on the tines of the fork truck, and the men passing the roll of wrapping film from one to the other over and under it. Having confirmed that it was this pallet that I had arrived to collect, one of them promptly loaded it into my van, and ushered me inside to wait for the paperwork. As he did so, I commented on their thoroughness, referring to a very badly wrapped consignment I'd carried earlier in the week. In this case, the wrapping was applied very skimpily, once the goods had been piled on the pallet inside the van. "You're not going far," said the man, "you won't be braking suddenly, will you?" I had agreed that I shouldn't, but it wasn't the braking or not that was important. As I steered around the first roundabout, at only 8 mph, a 'whoosh, clunk' came from the rear of the van: the goods had already slipped off the pallet!
I stood in this Walsall unit, and looked around me. The whole place exuded that same care that those men had shown in their wrapping. The floor was clean, and the walls, too, apart from a few cobwebs far too high to be either reachable or any threat to what was going on beneath. The operator at the far end of the workshop, carrying on his task oblivious to my studious eye, seemed to be applying the full attention to detail to meet the requirements of the most fussy customer.
As I waited, taking in all around me, I considered just what management skills might be required to run a business in these difficult times, provide work for and appropriate rewards to at least two employees - perhaps more - and make a profit at the end of it all. Still the paperwork hadn't appeared, and my attention turned to the radio that was playing in the background. It was tuned to BBC Radio 2; by then it was coming up to 9.30 am, and Sara Cox, sitting in for Chris Evans this week, was handing over to Ken Bruce. Suddenly something flashed in my mind, and I remembered clearly where I was at 9.30 am on December 18th 2009.
I had just come to the end of one of those tricky, overnight jobs where you pick up the goods during the evening, and you know it's not really worth going home, because you'll only get a couple of hours' sleep before you need to be up to leave to drive across the country in order to make your delivery time. So you drive, slowly at first until it seems ridiculous, then normally; and you stop at an amazing number of services in order to get coffee, use the toilet or choose an attractive chocolate bar. You find a lay-by where you can grab a few minutes' sleep to keep safe for the rest of the night, and by 7.0 you get to your destination when there's no one about. You run the engine to keep warm, hoping that you don't disturb nearby residents. In between dozing, you see people going about their business as the town wakes up. Eventually someone comes and opens the shop ...
That morning I made my one and only ever delivery to a chemist's shop in Caernarfon, having purposely driven all the way up the A5 from Milton Keynes, knowing that it would take far longer than any normal route. And I listened to Radio 2 as I began the next leg of my 565-mile assignment, to collect from Liverpool for the same customer. I think that was the last morning I listened to Radio 2 - it just had no more appeal without that soft Limerick voice.
So, where were you when Sir Terry Wogan signed off for the last time?
Saturday, 27 September 2014
Good, Better, Best!
I wrote last week about 'bad days': my definition of them, and how difficult they can be to cope with. This week's principal story is an extension of that theme. Monday brought me four jobs, which took me to Crawley, Bourne End, Colnbrook and, in the evening, to Ash Vale, near Aldershot: although financially beneficial, definitely in the 'bad' range. Tuesday began with prayer for something 'generally north'. (I like north for many reasons; not least the attraction of a number of possible eating places - aka truck stops!) In contrast, the working day began with a job to Greenford and then one around the M25 from Cuffley to Esher.
As I made my way homeward, a call came to ask if I'd like 'a trip to the Emerald Isle.' 'I would, sir,' I replied, rolling the 'r' in an attempt at an Irish burr. A job was then described that could be collected on my way home, for delivery 'in Belfast' the next morning. Thankfully it turned out to be to a hotel some distance away from the city, to the north-west.
Realising that there could then be an interval before the departure of the return ferry, my thoughts turned to my family history, and the problem of confirming that a will, of which I'd obtained a copy some while ago, was actually that of my great-uncle. The name was right, George Evans, and the date was certainly possible, but this man's profession as a farmer, and his location, were at odds with what I already knew of my great-uncle's life; and his son and executor had 'acquired' an additional forename I'd not known before. I'm fairly sure this problem can only be satisfactorily resolved in Belfast - if at all - so I left home armed with all the details in case this might be an opportunity to take the matter forward a stage.
I've said here before that my preference is always to go to Ireland via Holyhead, to avoid the long trek to Stranraer. Although the M1 north from the end of the excellent Port Tunnel (only a €3.00 toll outside the rush-hour!) is now becoming familiar, I confess to not having previously appreciated the Mary McAleese Boyne Valley Bridge, although it's been there since June 2003!
Maybe my eye caught the roadside announcements of its change of name last year in honour of the former president; the last time I had passed over it would have been before that event.
As I drove on up the A1 towards Newry, my PDA bleeped, and I noticed at the same moment a text message on my phone. These had originated from the ever-vigilant Milton Keynes office, who had spotted on their screens that I was prowling around on the other side of the Irish Sea, and had linked this with a request for a collection from a military base not far from my destination. In my twelve years of this work, I've only been to Ireland eight times, and up to now I've neither achieved, nor heard of other drivers enjoying, a return load on such a trip.
The job proved no more difficult than to any other military establishment. The main difficulty is always identifying to the security staff just where your contact is to be located. On the last such occasion I found myself trying to make a delivery to someone who was no longer there! Once that hurdle was overcome, it was simply a case of sitting and waiting; the boxes were brought to me, loaded into the van, and I was on my way, all thoughts of any diversion to the Public Record Office completely forgotten. Instead I enjoyed a drive round the country lanes of Antrim and Down, before rejoining the A1 for my journey south.
As I neared my destination, pleased with a likely arrival in Dublin just before the check-in time, the phone rang. It was Dave, my controller. "I hear you went into an Irish church, and came out with another job," he said, with teasing geniality. When I replied that there had been no church involved, implying simply prayer - although not expecting so generous an outcome! - he said how pleased he was that I'd been able to do the extra job, and asked whether I'd still be able to make the ferry booking, since this had been made on the basis of just the one job. I have to confess to not a little pride as I told him, "No problem. I'm driving through the Port Tunnel as we speak!"
The fact of a job to Ireland was 'better' than the 'something north' that I'd prayed for; the extra job was something even better, but for me, Dave's call was the icing on the cake ... the 'best' of this week's headline. It wasn't until later that I noticed another fine detail. Our ferry bookings are usually made showing the vehicle on the outward journey as 'laden', i.e. carrying goods, but on the return journey as 'empty'. On this occasion, both journeys were declared as 'laden'. A slip of the pen or ...?
After an early delivery of the goods I'd picked up, I spent the rest of Thursday in recovery mode, and yesterday was fairly normal, beginning with jobs to Haywards Heath and Hove. When I was then offered an evening ride to Salford, I had to say no, but collected the goods from West Drayton for another driver to take north.
Today, our ringers were supposed to take part in the county Striking Competition, but had to withdraw at the last minute owing to illness, so I'm left with the opportunity to visit one of the FA Cup ties taking place this afternoon. I'm fortunate in having little cause for boredom, the curse of so many these days!
As I made my way homeward, a call came to ask if I'd like 'a trip to the Emerald Isle.' 'I would, sir,' I replied, rolling the 'r' in an attempt at an Irish burr. A job was then described that could be collected on my way home, for delivery 'in Belfast' the next morning. Thankfully it turned out to be to a hotel some distance away from the city, to the north-west.
Realising that there could then be an interval before the departure of the return ferry, my thoughts turned to my family history, and the problem of confirming that a will, of which I'd obtained a copy some while ago, was actually that of my great-uncle. The name was right, George Evans, and the date was certainly possible, but this man's profession as a farmer, and his location, were at odds with what I already knew of my great-uncle's life; and his son and executor had 'acquired' an additional forename I'd not known before. I'm fairly sure this problem can only be satisfactorily resolved in Belfast - if at all - so I left home armed with all the details in case this might be an opportunity to take the matter forward a stage.
.jpg) |
| Mary McAleese Boyne Valley Bridge (picture - RTÉ) |
Maybe my eye caught the roadside announcements of its change of name last year in honour of the former president; the last time I had passed over it would have been before that event.
As I drove on up the A1 towards Newry, my PDA bleeped, and I noticed at the same moment a text message on my phone. These had originated from the ever-vigilant Milton Keynes office, who had spotted on their screens that I was prowling around on the other side of the Irish Sea, and had linked this with a request for a collection from a military base not far from my destination. In my twelve years of this work, I've only been to Ireland eight times, and up to now I've neither achieved, nor heard of other drivers enjoying, a return load on such a trip.
The job proved no more difficult than to any other military establishment. The main difficulty is always identifying to the security staff just where your contact is to be located. On the last such occasion I found myself trying to make a delivery to someone who was no longer there! Once that hurdle was overcome, it was simply a case of sitting and waiting; the boxes were brought to me, loaded into the van, and I was on my way, all thoughts of any diversion to the Public Record Office completely forgotten. Instead I enjoyed a drive round the country lanes of Antrim and Down, before rejoining the A1 for my journey south.
As I neared my destination, pleased with a likely arrival in Dublin just before the check-in time, the phone rang. It was Dave, my controller. "I hear you went into an Irish church, and came out with another job," he said, with teasing geniality. When I replied that there had been no church involved, implying simply prayer - although not expecting so generous an outcome! - he said how pleased he was that I'd been able to do the extra job, and asked whether I'd still be able to make the ferry booking, since this had been made on the basis of just the one job. I have to confess to not a little pride as I told him, "No problem. I'm driving through the Port Tunnel as we speak!"
The fact of a job to Ireland was 'better' than the 'something north' that I'd prayed for; the extra job was something even better, but for me, Dave's call was the icing on the cake ... the 'best' of this week's headline. It wasn't until later that I noticed another fine detail. Our ferry bookings are usually made showing the vehicle on the outward journey as 'laden', i.e. carrying goods, but on the return journey as 'empty'. On this occasion, both journeys were declared as 'laden'. A slip of the pen or ...?
After an early delivery of the goods I'd picked up, I spent the rest of Thursday in recovery mode, and yesterday was fairly normal, beginning with jobs to Haywards Heath and Hove. When I was then offered an evening ride to Salford, I had to say no, but collected the goods from West Drayton for another driver to take north.
Today, our ringers were supposed to take part in the county Striking Competition, but had to withdraw at the last minute owing to illness, so I'm left with the opportunity to visit one of the FA Cup ties taking place this afternoon. I'm fortunate in having little cause for boredom, the curse of so many these days!
Saturday, 20 September 2014
So, what HAS changed?
It seems that 'change' is the in-word at the moment, especially in the light - and the aftermath - of the Scottish Referendum. Since I referred to this at length last week, I'll just make one observation and pass on. It seems that greater minds than mine had noticed the 'English unfairness'; the NO vote may have triggered some movement on this aspect. Whether greater or lesser movement remains to be seen, but it will dominate our domestic news bulletins for months to come.
The big change in my own life - again mentioned here a number of times - has been the takeover of our operation by a national courier company. After eight weeks, I feel I can make a fairly balanced assessment of its effects. Earlier this year, I wrote here about my 'gold and silver' analysis scheme for comparing the results of each week. This weekend I've been comparing the seventeen weeks, from the start of the financial year in April to the takeover, to the eight weeks since. In the longer period there were three silver weeks and one gold; in the eight weeks since the change five weeks have been 'silver' and one gold.
I think it was Disraeli who gets the blame for the comment about 'lies, damned lies, and statistics', and it's certainly true that figures can, in large measure, be massaged according to the desired message. So I throw out these comparisons with no guarantee of their being connected or inter-related or evidence of cause-and-effect. Rather, in my father's simple wisdom, I just 'speak as I find'. Since the change of régime, my average weekly income has increased by almost a quarter; the average distance travelled each day is almost 14% more, and the earnings per mile driven is up by over 11%. The number of jobs in a week has also increased, from 12.2 in the earlier weeks to 15.6 more recently. I have explained about getting work from other depots, which is a significant departure from our previous isolated operation; such assignments account for about 12% of my income since the takeover, but even eliminating these completely, the jobs from our own area have risen to 13.9 per week.
Enough figures!
One thing that hasn't changed is the existence of so-called 'bad' days, and my reaction to them. Let me be clear: not all 'bad' days are financially unproductive; into that category I consign any day that has seemed in any way unsatisfying. Conversely, a day when I've done just one job that has been interesting, or which might have involved overcoming a particular problem would definitely not be a bad day at all ... such as the sunny Friday afternoon I spent at a caravan park near Skegness, trying to find out what to do with a van-load of medication for a hospital out-patient arriving for his holiday the following day! Usually, after a succession of two or three 'bad' days, I find depression kicks in, bringing thoughts of 'being singled out for the rubbish' or 'left off the list', or simply being deliberately overlooked.
This week began with two of those 'bad' days. On Monday I began with a journey to Bedford; next came one to Braintree, and then in the afternoon came a pair of deliveries to Hatfield and Bishop's Stortford, on the return from which I was diverted to Hertford, to collect for Witham. If you're interested enough to check out the map, you'll see that I had to negotiate the notorious junction at Little Hadham no less than six times in the day, and didn't venture more than one county away from base all day. Tuesday began with the exact same job to Bedford again, and then fell into a similar limited frame, as two jobs followed one after the other, with no return home until the day was done: one from Biggleswade to Milton Keynes, the other collected from Bedford with deliveries in Baldock and Harefield.
Then came the day that redeemed the week. Up long before daylight, I took some air-conditioning equipment to a shop that is being refurbished in the centre of Bath. I was also loaded with a collection of important envelopes, the first of which had to be delivered to an office next to Temple Meads station in the middle of Bristol before 9.0 am! Then the pressure was off, as I took the remaining envelopes to addresses in Chippenham, Torquay and Brixham.
Finishing at 1.30, I could then spend the rest of the day getting home. I called the office in Plymouth, just in case there should be a job going in my direction, but to no avail and, after a lovely half-hour relaxing in the sunshine by this war memorial in Churston Ferrers, I made my way back to the motorway.
After such a day the rest of the week, which included trips to a remote farm near Whittlesey, Cambs., Gillingham Hospital in Kent, and Crowmarsh Gifford in rural Oxfordshire, paled into insignificance proving that (in the words of a BBC Radio 4 programme title) it's 'All in the Mind'!
The big change in my own life - again mentioned here a number of times - has been the takeover of our operation by a national courier company. After eight weeks, I feel I can make a fairly balanced assessment of its effects. Earlier this year, I wrote here about my 'gold and silver' analysis scheme for comparing the results of each week. This weekend I've been comparing the seventeen weeks, from the start of the financial year in April to the takeover, to the eight weeks since. In the longer period there were three silver weeks and one gold; in the eight weeks since the change five weeks have been 'silver' and one gold.
I think it was Disraeli who gets the blame for the comment about 'lies, damned lies, and statistics', and it's certainly true that figures can, in large measure, be massaged according to the desired message. So I throw out these comparisons with no guarantee of their being connected or inter-related or evidence of cause-and-effect. Rather, in my father's simple wisdom, I just 'speak as I find'. Since the change of régime, my average weekly income has increased by almost a quarter; the average distance travelled each day is almost 14% more, and the earnings per mile driven is up by over 11%. The number of jobs in a week has also increased, from 12.2 in the earlier weeks to 15.6 more recently. I have explained about getting work from other depots, which is a significant departure from our previous isolated operation; such assignments account for about 12% of my income since the takeover, but even eliminating these completely, the jobs from our own area have risen to 13.9 per week.
Enough figures!
One thing that hasn't changed is the existence of so-called 'bad' days, and my reaction to them. Let me be clear: not all 'bad' days are financially unproductive; into that category I consign any day that has seemed in any way unsatisfying. Conversely, a day when I've done just one job that has been interesting, or which might have involved overcoming a particular problem would definitely not be a bad day at all ... such as the sunny Friday afternoon I spent at a caravan park near Skegness, trying to find out what to do with a van-load of medication for a hospital out-patient arriving for his holiday the following day! Usually, after a succession of two or three 'bad' days, I find depression kicks in, bringing thoughts of 'being singled out for the rubbish' or 'left off the list', or simply being deliberately overlooked.
This week began with two of those 'bad' days. On Monday I began with a journey to Bedford; next came one to Braintree, and then in the afternoon came a pair of deliveries to Hatfield and Bishop's Stortford, on the return from which I was diverted to Hertford, to collect for Witham. If you're interested enough to check out the map, you'll see that I had to negotiate the notorious junction at Little Hadham no less than six times in the day, and didn't venture more than one county away from base all day. Tuesday began with the exact same job to Bedford again, and then fell into a similar limited frame, as two jobs followed one after the other, with no return home until the day was done: one from Biggleswade to Milton Keynes, the other collected from Bedford with deliveries in Baldock and Harefield.
 |
| War memorial, Churston Ferrers, Devon |
Finishing at 1.30, I could then spend the rest of the day getting home. I called the office in Plymouth, just in case there should be a job going in my direction, but to no avail and, after a lovely half-hour relaxing in the sunshine by this war memorial in Churston Ferrers, I made my way back to the motorway.
After such a day the rest of the week, which included trips to a remote farm near Whittlesey, Cambs., Gillingham Hospital in Kent, and Crowmarsh Gifford in rural Oxfordshire, paled into insignificance proving that (in the words of a BBC Radio 4 programme title) it's 'All in the Mind'!
Saturday, 13 September 2014
It's Personal!
Personal - adj. - one's own; done or made in person; directed to or concerning an individual; existing as a person, not as an abstraction or thing - Oxford English Dictionary (selections).
Most of my work is the collection and delivery of goods the ownership of which is being transferred from one inanimate entity to another. By contrast, the work is carried out by receiving the goods from an employee of one company and later having them signed for by an employee of another company. I receive them from one person and give them to another person ... in that way, it's a personal service: rarely, if ever, does it take place without the passage of words - more likely a brief conversation - between us.
Some of the people I collect from are already known to me, like Martin, who used to be a fellow bell-ringer, and whom I sometimes encounter watching the same football match on a Saturday. Others I have come to know through regular contact, some by name, like Shazad, who usually sends me on my way with a friendly comment like 'take care, mate!'; others simply by being the same face at the same door every time. On the delivery side, regular jobs often involve meeting the same people each time I deliver there. Sometimes a single delivery can generate conversation sufficient to warrant the parting greeting, 'see you again', or 'see you next time', even when there is little likelihood of my ever going there again. Often peculiar situations make specific people or jobs easy to recall. This week, for example, I delivered a piece of equipment to a dental practice in Liverpool. It was heavy, and the occasion was memorable for the genial conversation between myself, the recipient, with whom I carried it from the van to the office, and his female assistant, who dealt with the doors.
I'm reminded of another dental delivery some months ago, this time for a different customer, and to a practice in Oswestry. Here the goods consisted of a single box, less than 12" cube, but exceedingly heavy. It was as much as I could do to lift it from the floor to the van. When I arrived, the nearest I could park to the door was several yards away, and the comment that sprang into my mind, as I asked if there was someone who could carry it in, has lodged there ever since. I said to the woman who answered the door, 'I don't know what's in that box, but it's far heavier than something that size has any right to be!' The smile of sympathetic amusement that accompanied the reply, 'I'll fetch our young man,' underlines the personal nature of my work.
This line of thought was prompted by two separate incidents this week. On Wednesday, I did a job for one of our oldest customers, whose goods are always fragile. When he gave me the job the previous evening, the controller said, "I'm not sure I should tell you this, but they asked for you in particular to do it: 'can we have the man with the cross, please?' " I have to explain that, for many years now, I have consistently worn a small wooden cross around my neck. It is usually overlooked, perhaps thought of as a mere eccentricity, or unmentioned because of familiarity or for lack of something appropriate to say. Occasionally, however, it attracts a passing comment like 'that's a nice cross', or a direct question, 'are you a Christian, then?' Sometimes it can introduce confusion when people assume - wrongly - that I wear it because I'm a priest. Explanations can vary from complex, to embarrassing, to dismissive, according to the personalities involved. In this case, it was a convenient means of personally identifying their preferred driver.
The second incident won't reach its conclusion until next Thursday, but already it is dominating the news bulletins to the point of exasperation. I refer, of course, to the Referendum on Scottish Independence. When it first arose, I think I considered the whole thing a bit of a nonsense; they've been part of the UK since 1707, why on earth should things change after over 300 years? As 'R-Day' has drawn closer, however, and the debates have become more heated, I have found myself thinking more deeply about the matter. The 'magic' date of 1707 only marked the final union of the two parliaments; soon after his succession as King of England in 1603, James I (who as James VI had already been King of Scotland for over 35 years) was dreaming of the two kingdoms becoming one and declared himself to be King of Great Britain. Against this, it is arguable that the countries themselves have never been one. Scotland, for example, still has its own legal system which, though generally similar, is different in countless ways from that of England and Wales.
Listening to the most recent discussions on the radio - my constant companion on the road - I learn that the main thrust of the pro-independence argument is the claim that, despite once more having its own Parliament in Edinburgh, Scotland still finds itself fundamentally governed from Westminster by a Parliament which does not reflect the political balance of the votes cast in Scotland. Whatever additional powers might be granted to the Scottish Parliament in the event of a 'No' vote, this basic situation would still prevail, keeping Scotland subject to English domination and whim, very much like a colony, with its own control only over those matters that the dominant power decides to allow.
I find myself in sympathy with the 'Yes' side, and experience the same kind of feelings that characterise my deep, though unexplained, interest in all things Irish, of which I have written before in this blog. I have questioned why this should be, since - at least as my family history researches have shown up to now - I'm English through and through. The only thought that seems to stand further scrutiny is some kind of post-devolution envy. Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland each has its own assembly to control essentially domestic matters, but control of the corresponding domestic affairs of England are inextricably inter-woven within the legislature that governs the whole Union. This lop-sided situation is unfair to England, which has never had its own exclusive parliament since the Act of Union (with Wales) in 1536; at the same time, it is unfair to the other parts of the UK, since it underlines the thought expressed above - if nowhere else - that Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland are but colonies, allowed to run certain things for themselves, but within strict limits defined by the motherland.
Everything is personal, whether it's the reaction of other people to me or with me, or mine to them, or the thoughts that clutter my mind on the road. Sooner or later it all comes out here in the blog, so watch this space for more personal revelations!
Most of my work is the collection and delivery of goods the ownership of which is being transferred from one inanimate entity to another. By contrast, the work is carried out by receiving the goods from an employee of one company and later having them signed for by an employee of another company. I receive them from one person and give them to another person ... in that way, it's a personal service: rarely, if ever, does it take place without the passage of words - more likely a brief conversation - between us.
Some of the people I collect from are already known to me, like Martin, who used to be a fellow bell-ringer, and whom I sometimes encounter watching the same football match on a Saturday. Others I have come to know through regular contact, some by name, like Shazad, who usually sends me on my way with a friendly comment like 'take care, mate!'; others simply by being the same face at the same door every time. On the delivery side, regular jobs often involve meeting the same people each time I deliver there. Sometimes a single delivery can generate conversation sufficient to warrant the parting greeting, 'see you again', or 'see you next time', even when there is little likelihood of my ever going there again. Often peculiar situations make specific people or jobs easy to recall. This week, for example, I delivered a piece of equipment to a dental practice in Liverpool. It was heavy, and the occasion was memorable for the genial conversation between myself, the recipient, with whom I carried it from the van to the office, and his female assistant, who dealt with the doors.
I'm reminded of another dental delivery some months ago, this time for a different customer, and to a practice in Oswestry. Here the goods consisted of a single box, less than 12" cube, but exceedingly heavy. It was as much as I could do to lift it from the floor to the van. When I arrived, the nearest I could park to the door was several yards away, and the comment that sprang into my mind, as I asked if there was someone who could carry it in, has lodged there ever since. I said to the woman who answered the door, 'I don't know what's in that box, but it's far heavier than something that size has any right to be!' The smile of sympathetic amusement that accompanied the reply, 'I'll fetch our young man,' underlines the personal nature of my work.
This line of thought was prompted by two separate incidents this week. On Wednesday, I did a job for one of our oldest customers, whose goods are always fragile. When he gave me the job the previous evening, the controller said, "I'm not sure I should tell you this, but they asked for you in particular to do it: 'can we have the man with the cross, please?' " I have to explain that, for many years now, I have consistently worn a small wooden cross around my neck. It is usually overlooked, perhaps thought of as a mere eccentricity, or unmentioned because of familiarity or for lack of something appropriate to say. Occasionally, however, it attracts a passing comment like 'that's a nice cross', or a direct question, 'are you a Christian, then?' Sometimes it can introduce confusion when people assume - wrongly - that I wear it because I'm a priest. Explanations can vary from complex, to embarrassing, to dismissive, according to the personalities involved. In this case, it was a convenient means of personally identifying their preferred driver.
The second incident won't reach its conclusion until next Thursday, but already it is dominating the news bulletins to the point of exasperation. I refer, of course, to the Referendum on Scottish Independence. When it first arose, I think I considered the whole thing a bit of a nonsense; they've been part of the UK since 1707, why on earth should things change after over 300 years? As 'R-Day' has drawn closer, however, and the debates have become more heated, I have found myself thinking more deeply about the matter. The 'magic' date of 1707 only marked the final union of the two parliaments; soon after his succession as King of England in 1603, James I (who as James VI had already been King of Scotland for over 35 years) was dreaming of the two kingdoms becoming one and declared himself to be King of Great Britain. Against this, it is arguable that the countries themselves have never been one. Scotland, for example, still has its own legal system which, though generally similar, is different in countless ways from that of England and Wales.
Listening to the most recent discussions on the radio - my constant companion on the road - I learn that the main thrust of the pro-independence argument is the claim that, despite once more having its own Parliament in Edinburgh, Scotland still finds itself fundamentally governed from Westminster by a Parliament which does not reflect the political balance of the votes cast in Scotland. Whatever additional powers might be granted to the Scottish Parliament in the event of a 'No' vote, this basic situation would still prevail, keeping Scotland subject to English domination and whim, very much like a colony, with its own control only over those matters that the dominant power decides to allow.
I find myself in sympathy with the 'Yes' side, and experience the same kind of feelings that characterise my deep, though unexplained, interest in all things Irish, of which I have written before in this blog. I have questioned why this should be, since - at least as my family history researches have shown up to now - I'm English through and through. The only thought that seems to stand further scrutiny is some kind of post-devolution envy. Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland each has its own assembly to control essentially domestic matters, but control of the corresponding domestic affairs of England are inextricably inter-woven within the legislature that governs the whole Union. This lop-sided situation is unfair to England, which has never had its own exclusive parliament since the Act of Union (with Wales) in 1536; at the same time, it is unfair to the other parts of the UK, since it underlines the thought expressed above - if nowhere else - that Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland are but colonies, allowed to run certain things for themselves, but within strict limits defined by the motherland.
Everything is personal, whether it's the reaction of other people to me or with me, or mine to them, or the thoughts that clutter my mind on the road. Sooner or later it all comes out here in the blog, so watch this space for more personal revelations!
Saturday, 6 September 2014
Serving two Masters
... or more accurately, over thirty masters!
As I indicated here a few weeks ago, the business that has provided my courier work for the last dozen years has been taken over by a nationwide organisation. I'm sure this has brought greater efficiency for our customers (initial 'bedding in' problems apart), and it has certainly been different for us drivers, if only in respect of the uniform and electronic means of recording our work.
One aspect that isn't quite so obvious has become apparent to me in the last week or so. The man I loosely term my 'boss' was one of the founders of the company many years ago and, without consciously thinking of it I'm sure, he has always regarded the business, the office and the work provided by the customers as 'his', and the drivers as his employees ... even though, as self-employed contractors, we weren't.
Occasionally other work has cut across this domestic picture, like the time when I diverted after making a delivery in Durham, to collect an engine that a friend had bought on e-Bay from someone in Morpeth. I was called with the eternal question, 'whereabouts are you?' when I was still on the far side of Newcastle, and was treated to a puzzled, 'what on earth are you doing up there?' There was no obligation, of course, but I think he did expect to be told when we weren't going to be available. And, in fairness, such a courtesy would have been diplomatic, even if not a requirement. Sadly, diplomacy is not my style ... as I have realised to my cost in a number of ways in the past.
Under the regime that now prevails, serving a business catering for the demands of thousands of customers from a network of (I'm told) 39 centres across the country, it is accepted that, to maximise our earnings, we can legitimately contact another centre for work when we're free in their area. Equally, as happened to me on only the second day of working this way, another centre, seeing an 'incomer' on their screen in a convenient place (I believe the system also allows them to determine whether we're on a job or empty) can contact us to offer an attractive assignment to a distant destination. It was just such a call that led me the other day to go out with jobs to Radlett and Greenford, and end up in Chelmsford!
On Thursday, I left home early with goods I had collected the previous afternoon for the distribution centre just off the M1 at Crick. No sooner had I set off than I received another job to collect locally for Risley, Derbyshire. (I'm now wondering whether this came from our own night controller, or from a neighbouring centre ... the PDA makes no distinction.) Thinking no further than about the time it would take me to get from one location to the other, off I went. Once I had gathered my thoughts, however, it made sense to me to contact the office in Nottingham when I was available, and my day was completed with two jobs for them, from which I arrived home at about 5.50pm.
I was about to touch my phone to let the local office know I would be available for work the next day, when it rang. It was 'the boss', calling to give me a job for the following morning. I said that I had been about to ring him, and was treated to a line of 'banter' to the effect that he'd been watching me on the screen all day, wondering where I was going, and bemoaning the fact that I was doing work for other people. I'm still not sure whether or not he was serious, but I take heart from the fact that there was a job for me at the end of it. It does underline, however, the extent of the change that faces him in this new environment.
The Bible story that prompted today's title warns against trying to serve two masters; this situation is different, in that we're now all trying to serve one - new - master!
As I indicated here a few weeks ago, the business that has provided my courier work for the last dozen years has been taken over by a nationwide organisation. I'm sure this has brought greater efficiency for our customers (initial 'bedding in' problems apart), and it has certainly been different for us drivers, if only in respect of the uniform and electronic means of recording our work.
One aspect that isn't quite so obvious has become apparent to me in the last week or so. The man I loosely term my 'boss' was one of the founders of the company many years ago and, without consciously thinking of it I'm sure, he has always regarded the business, the office and the work provided by the customers as 'his', and the drivers as his employees ... even though, as self-employed contractors, we weren't.
Occasionally other work has cut across this domestic picture, like the time when I diverted after making a delivery in Durham, to collect an engine that a friend had bought on e-Bay from someone in Morpeth. I was called with the eternal question, 'whereabouts are you?' when I was still on the far side of Newcastle, and was treated to a puzzled, 'what on earth are you doing up there?' There was no obligation, of course, but I think he did expect to be told when we weren't going to be available. And, in fairness, such a courtesy would have been diplomatic, even if not a requirement. Sadly, diplomacy is not my style ... as I have realised to my cost in a number of ways in the past.
Under the regime that now prevails, serving a business catering for the demands of thousands of customers from a network of (I'm told) 39 centres across the country, it is accepted that, to maximise our earnings, we can legitimately contact another centre for work when we're free in their area. Equally, as happened to me on only the second day of working this way, another centre, seeing an 'incomer' on their screen in a convenient place (I believe the system also allows them to determine whether we're on a job or empty) can contact us to offer an attractive assignment to a distant destination. It was just such a call that led me the other day to go out with jobs to Radlett and Greenford, and end up in Chelmsford!
On Thursday, I left home early with goods I had collected the previous afternoon for the distribution centre just off the M1 at Crick. No sooner had I set off than I received another job to collect locally for Risley, Derbyshire. (I'm now wondering whether this came from our own night controller, or from a neighbouring centre ... the PDA makes no distinction.) Thinking no further than about the time it would take me to get from one location to the other, off I went. Once I had gathered my thoughts, however, it made sense to me to contact the office in Nottingham when I was available, and my day was completed with two jobs for them, from which I arrived home at about 5.50pm.
I was about to touch my phone to let the local office know I would be available for work the next day, when it rang. It was 'the boss', calling to give me a job for the following morning. I said that I had been about to ring him, and was treated to a line of 'banter' to the effect that he'd been watching me on the screen all day, wondering where I was going, and bemoaning the fact that I was doing work for other people. I'm still not sure whether or not he was serious, but I take heart from the fact that there was a job for me at the end of it. It does underline, however, the extent of the change that faces him in this new environment.
The Bible story that prompted today's title warns against trying to serve two masters; this situation is different, in that we're now all trying to serve one - new - master!
Saturday, 30 August 2014
What's in a Community?
I've been thinking a lot this week about communities. It all started on Saturday, as I returned from watching a football match in a nearby town. During my eight-mile drive home, I thought about how much I'd enjoyed the game, and then recalled that the winning team - like many these days - was drawn not from the local community but from a pool of known talent that is transferred from team to team as finances and careers in the sport rise and fall: as skills wax and wane. By then I was passing through a large village, and passed a couple of men outside the pub, chatting over a late afternoon drink. I remembered the meal I'd shared with my son a couple of weeks ago, while watching another football match on TV, and I realised what a place sport has in community life, whether it is live, as I'd just enjoyed, or secondary as we'd experienced on that occasion. I found myself regretting what seemed to be the single shortcoming of my present lifestyle: the absence of a village ambience.
After a relaxing bank holiday weekend (made more so by typical bank holiday weather, which greatly discouraged any going out!), on Tuesday morning I found myself once again in that mid-Bedfordshire countryside, passing through two villages on my way to deliver in a third. In one, I saw a large open space where, on sunny summer weekdays, as well as at the weekend, it's quite likely there'll be a cricket match in progress. My delivery was to a pleasant cottage opposite the church; I've been there a number of times, and always marvel at the many antique items that clutter the yard. It would be a little boy's exploratory heaven! I wondered about the owner and his history, presuming him to be a former businessman, now able to indulge a passion for such things while spending his retirement in these very pleasant surroundings.
A particularly straight road led through the third village, and from some way off I could see a postman walking from house to house with his deliveries. There was no one else to be seen; it was calm and the quiet was interrupted only by my passing van. And yet, was this place the idyll I had first imagined? I could see no shops; the nearest doctor was probably some miles away, and for someone without a car, what public transport would be available? I had seen no school, but towards the end of the school holidays, I hadn't seen any children either. Without children, where was the vitality of the village? I noticed some building going on at the edge of the village, but would these be executive dwellings for wealthy people seeking a country retreat in their middle age? Or would they be the affordable homes that would make it possible for the village's own young people to remain there to strengthen the community?
Today I was offered the chance of a delivery in Norfolk - something I rarely turn down - and loyalty to my native county earned its reward. I found myself driving through Breckland's narrow lanes (with passing places!) between high hedges, with an occasional gap through which you can see for miles across arable land, meadows, and in the distance are more hedges. Between the few market towns are lots of villages, one after another, each with its shop, a pub sometimes indicating a declining clientele by its need for a lick of paint, its medieval church, and the houses: some of red brick, some of flint, but many more built of a combination of the two.
Many a village has a Station Road which shows no sign of station nor relic of railway, until suddenly, in the middle of the countryside a steep incline is encountered and here is a house by the site of a level crossing, showing those unique characteristics that denote a former station, that served a number of villages and yet wasn't really in any of them. Some of these sites have retained one or both of the original platforms, but between them now is a footpath instead of sleepers and rails, and in the middle distance a barred gate, beyond which is someone else's section of the former railway.
After a relaxing bank holiday weekend (made more so by typical bank holiday weather, which greatly discouraged any going out!), on Tuesday morning I found myself once again in that mid-Bedfordshire countryside, passing through two villages on my way to deliver in a third. In one, I saw a large open space where, on sunny summer weekdays, as well as at the weekend, it's quite likely there'll be a cricket match in progress. My delivery was to a pleasant cottage opposite the church; I've been there a number of times, and always marvel at the many antique items that clutter the yard. It would be a little boy's exploratory heaven! I wondered about the owner and his history, presuming him to be a former businessman, now able to indulge a passion for such things while spending his retirement in these very pleasant surroundings.
A particularly straight road led through the third village, and from some way off I could see a postman walking from house to house with his deliveries. There was no one else to be seen; it was calm and the quiet was interrupted only by my passing van. And yet, was this place the idyll I had first imagined? I could see no shops; the nearest doctor was probably some miles away, and for someone without a car, what public transport would be available? I had seen no school, but towards the end of the school holidays, I hadn't seen any children either. Without children, where was the vitality of the village? I noticed some building going on at the edge of the village, but would these be executive dwellings for wealthy people seeking a country retreat in their middle age? Or would they be the affordable homes that would make it possible for the village's own young people to remain there to strengthen the community?
Today I was offered the chance of a delivery in Norfolk - something I rarely turn down - and loyalty to my native county earned its reward. I found myself driving through Breckland's narrow lanes (with passing places!) between high hedges, with an occasional gap through which you can see for miles across arable land, meadows, and in the distance are more hedges. Between the few market towns are lots of villages, one after another, each with its shop, a pub sometimes indicating a declining clientele by its need for a lick of paint, its medieval church, and the houses: some of red brick, some of flint, but many more built of a combination of the two.
 |
| The former station at East Rudham, which saw its last train in 1967 after closing to passengers 2nd March 1959 |
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)