Slow, Quick, Slow, Slow, Quick

I think it was the dance-band leader Victor Sylvester who coined the original phrase, or at least who was the subject of it.  Slow, slow, quick, quick, slow, was the time theme to one of the popular dances of his era.  Not being a dancer at all, I have no intention of embarrassing myself by suggesting which one!  Nevertheless, the idea of two of one sort and three of the opposite does characterise the past week in my working life.

After my usual early start on Monday for the men's breakfast at church, I returned home for quite a long wait, before I was given two jobs, one from Letchworth to Burnham (near Slough), and the other collecting on the way from Luton for an address not far from Heathrow airport.  I'd just delivered this, when my onboard computer told me there was another job to interleave with the one I was left with, collecting from Colnbrook and delivering in Slough.  That left me an almost complete afternoon to myself.

Tuesday was much better, with an early departure with a small box I had collected on my way home on Monday, to be delivered at Loughborough University by 8.30.  I was home late morning, and there was just time to make a cup of tea - but not to drink it - before the second job of the day came, to take some luxury bathroom parts to a village not far from Portsmouth.  Again I collected a job on the way home for the next morning, this time from nearby Stotfold, for a firm in Haverhill.  This was the start of a busy but not very productive day, just returning home from one job to be given another one, and all of them quite short.  I finished up at Stansted airport, at which point the vigilant Brentwood office (to whom I owed most of my Essex tour last Friday) spotted me, and offered me a run to Cardiff that evening.  Ordinarily, I would have snapped this up, but having been up since 5.30 am, and now not in the habit of long runs, I was certain that I would need to stop for an essential sleep at least on the way home, if not on the outward leg!  I quickly added to this the fact that, from Stansted, the logical way to Wales would be via the Severn bridge, with its associated toll, and decided against it.

Instead, on my way home I was asked to collect the regular run to Pinewood Studios, and this week I was in no mind to argue with that.  Thursday morning, therefore, found me almost home, but turned around at one of the Stevenage junctions to collect from Hertford for Milton Keynes.  I was back by 12.45pm, but by then the day had - almost literally - finished.  I learned the next day that the phones hadn't rung at all after 2.0 pm!  In a way this was a blessing in a completely different direction, however, for I found a crie-de-coeur in my inbox when I checked my e-mails, from a friend who was feeling quite swamped by pressures from a number of different sources, and sought advice and prayer.  With no interruptions from incoming jobs, and yet tied to my phone and desk by still being 'on call', I was able to give considerably more time and thought than might otherwise have been the case, to devising my response.

Friday began with a regular Lenten prayer meeting at church, during which I was asked how my week was going.  I suggested a long job would ease my situation greatly, and someone suggested 'perhaps Lincoln ... that's a nice peaceful direction'.  A couple of hours later I was sent first to Bishops Stortford, and was almost back from there when two jobs appeared.  One was to Huntingdon, the other to Hull, so the prayer was rather answered more than 100%.  I returned via the truck stop near Peterborough, and was home soon after 8.30pm.

Today - apart from joining with some other men from the church making posies for tomorrow's Mothering Sunday services - I've been digging into my past, via an old photo album. Just over 25 years ago, I took my children on a camping holiday in France, and when this came up in an e-mail exchange with my daughter the other day, it revealed how different our memories were of what had taken place.

The barrel-maker's house in beautifully
medieval Riquewihr, Alsace

That's not to say either's recollections were in error, but simply that each of us recalled different incidents.  It was the work of a little longer than I had anticipated to scan some of the pictures to send her, since this isn't something I do every day, but at last a successful transmission had been achieved, and I was able to turn my attention to the usual Saturday chores.

All in all, I think I have danced through the week quite well.  It's worth trading a bow for a courtsey, anyway!