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.

Mary McAleese Boyne Valley Bridge
(picture - RTÉ)

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!

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.

War memorial,
Churston Ferrers, Devon

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'!

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!

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!