The Mad Freedom of a Bank Holiday Weekend

Long, long ago, in the days when couriers were called carters, and had to get up at silly o'clock to feed and harness their horses, someone realised that this was hard work, and invented the bank holiday (I think).  Either that, or they grew on trees and someone invented the extending ladder so they could pluck them from the low-hanging boughs.  However it happened, it was what messrs. Sellar & Yeatman (the writers of "1066 and All That", in the opinion of many the best history book ever written) might have called 'A GOOD THING'.  I'm therefore able to write this account late on a Saturday afternoon, confident that there are still two more days left before I must forsake my bed 'ere 6 o'clock in order to earn a crust.

So, what's led to the pinnacle of exhaustion that prompts this fine literary opening?  It's been a fairly normal week, really.  Someone asked me last weekend, after I'd narrated the events of one particular day, "Is that a normal day for you, then?" to which I replied, "I don't have normal days!", but I do claim to have the occasional normal week, by which I mean a mixture of all the stuff that comes my way.  In common with recent weeks, most of this week has been moderately local, the furthest destinations being Halesowen, Lancing and a round trip to Basingstoke and Fareham.  A lot has been early and late, though, and I think I managed one breakfast at home, and possibly two evenings.

The prestigious phase of the week actually began last Thursday, when I was called while driving to check that I would be working on Monday and Tuesday, and to check the registration number of my van.  My excitement was immediately dampened by the words, "It's nothing, really."  Then came the detail.  "It's just that we've been asked to give the driver's details for a delivery and collection at Twickenham Rugby Stadium, and we thought of you."  Isn't that nice?  It turned out to be a conventional service of a marketing event, but because of the venue security was heightened.  I delivered a box of banners, projector and literature, and then brought it all back next day to our customer in Harpenden.

The week's interesting highlight came on Thursday morning, when I tried to deliver an expensive car part to a serving airman at an RAF base in Suffolk. Over the years I have learned that nothing except friction and non-cooperation is achieved by losing one's patience on these occasions.  The key is to just sit back and let things take their course.  This I did, looking forward to the breakfast I would get on my way back home, however matters might work out before then.  I spoke to the man at the gate, and was politely directed to report to the guardroom.  Here I gave my name and presented photo ID as expected, and explained my purpose for being there.  That was when the smooth operation broke down.  I had the man's name and rank, even his service no., but there was no sign of him on the computer.  I had a telephone extension number, too, and the officer at the window rang it, but no one answered.  I offered the fact that I had his mobile no. in the van, so we agreed that I would call the man, and get him to come to the gate to collect his parcel.

The number was not recognised.  Time to call the office.  I was asked to sit there while they made further enquiries.  After half an hour - or more - they returned my call.  The person who had booked the job couldn't be found. They had tried the mobile no. too, and agreed that it was no good.  I was asked to return to the guardroom, and get them to have another try to get an answer from that extension.  I did so, but by now the officer I'd dealt with before had been replaced by a lady.  She too heard my tale, tried the extension with no success, and looked for the man on the computer.  She said, hesitantly, "well, I've found him, but . . . he isn't here."  I asked where he was, and was told, "I don't know - because he's not here, I can't see any more details."  Without further comment from me, she picked up the phone again.  After a brief chat she hung up and smiled, "I don't know what they'd do without us civilians! My friend knows him - he's doing some training here, I think.  She's coming over to see if she can carry the parcel.  Otherwise I'll book you in and she can escort you to the postroom."

By now the security people had realised that I'd been there some while, and decided to come and search the van.  While this was going on, the lady arrived, discovered that the item could be comfortably carried, so signed for it and went off.  Somewhat relieved, I'd just made ready to depart, when the controller rang to see how I'd fared.  I told him briefly what had transpired, and was told I was a star.

What more need be said?  Now, resting on my laurels, I prepare for Pinewood Studios again on Tuesday morning.