One of the downsides of the regime under which I'm now working is 'blindness'. I have no idea of the overall picture into which my little scene fits. All I know is how it affects me, now. It's very easy, when things are going well, to assume that everything is rosy, and not just my neck of the woods; conversely, when things are not so good, it's easy to take it for granted that I'm being picked on, or treated unfairly. This week has definitely felt in the latter class. Out of 18 jobs, only four have taken me further than 50 miles away, with the average job being only 35 miles.
What I can say is that the two longest jobs of the week have given me time for reflection, and have enabled me to add a sort of perspective to life. The first of these came on Wednesday, when I had a job from Royston to Milton Park, south of Abingdon. It was a sunny day, and there seemed to be nothing of interest on the radio, so my mind was 'in idle', and largely governed by the countryside through which I was driving. Not surprisingly, while I was in Royston there were passing thoughts of the time I was working there, for a large part of which I was living there, too. Perhaps the sunshine determined that I should recall that, amidst the dark background trauma of a failed marriage, there were shafts of light and glimpses of normality.
I decided to avoid the motorway and go 'cross-country', a journey that led my thoughts somewhat back in time, too. Abingdon itself - not that I actually passed through the town this week - always reminds me that it was there that I bought my father a painting for his eightieth birthday. It was an uncharacteristic present, for a man who had never shown any interest in art, but it was of a country cottage, with a clearly poor woman at the gate, and I thought it would remind him of his younger days. I never got to find out how successful had this aim been, for he died two days later, and my grieving mother asked me to take the picture back. I still have it in a drawer at home.
On this occasion, I recalled the circumstances that had taken me to Abingdon, for it was long before I took up driving for a living. My then girlfriend's mother lived in Spain, and her daughter had gone to spend some of her school holidays with her grandmother. In mid-August, I took my lady to Victoria for a coach departure to spend a couple of weeks in Spain herself, and then return with her daughter in time for the new school term. I had taken a day off work for this purpose and, instead of returning directly home, I drove up to Oxfordshire and stayed in a rather unusual B&B in the village of Stadhampton. What made it unusual was the fact that this two-bedroomed bungalow was not alongside the road, but situated behind two others, down a short roadway just wide enough for a car. Furthermore, in order to make their own bedroom available for guests, as well as the spare room, the owners - a couple in their early sixties - were sleeping in the loft! Finding the shop in Abingdon was the highlight of my onward journey back to Norfolk.
As I neared Milton Park, it wasn't surprising to pass within sight of the power station chimneys that mark out Didcot for miles around, and my thoughts moved on to a later relationship, with a resident of that town. This was a liaison that lasted only a few months and, given the geographic constraints within which it tried to flourish, it was destined from the outset to be short-lived. It was with a lady whom I met on a bank holiday bell-ringing gathering in Bedfordshire. Like me, she had travelled there alone, in response to the magazine announcement of an 'open day', and after sharing each other's company in a number of towers, we exchanged addresses, and visited each other on a number of subsequent weekends. She had two elder daughters who had 'flown the nest', and her life was complicated at that time by their younger sibling, still at home and passing through a turbulent teenage: I remember on one Saturday evening accompanying this lady to the town centre at a somewhat late hour in response to a call from the local constabulary!
Yesterday morning's journey was to a lady in one of the many small communities that occupy that area bounded by Southampton, Portsmouth, the coast between them, and the M27. I was to be there for a 9.0 collection, and at 8.57 I reversed carefully into her narrow drive, only to be compelled to advance a few feet in order that her garage door could be opened without damaging the van. The journey there had quickly exhausted any interest that the early news bulletins might have offered, and I began to reflect on the week's events.
The news earlier in the week had spoken of Prince Charles' visit to Ireland, and his momentous, if brief, chat with Gerry Adams. There was much talk of the significance of this in the context of the peace process, and the ongoing reconciliation of the two communities. In a strange way, this theme of reconciliation formed a backdrop to the week for me, and to my thoughts yesterday morning. On Monday evening our bell-ringing practice was graced by a visit from Chris, an 'occasional' ringer, whose wife died earlier this year. This man, a retired professional, is clearly devastated by his loss. "There's so much to cope with;" he said, "take the cooking ... I've no idea what is in all the drawers and cupboards. I shall have to empty them one at a time and see what to do with it all. I can't decide what to eat; and there's the shopping, too ... and I need to look after the garden ... and I find myself talking to her ... she's still there, in the house with me!"
Chris is having difficulty reconciling himself to a life alone. After living alone for the majority of the last thirty years, my problem is somewhat the reverse. One of the benefits of the life I'm living, driving around such a variety of places, is the opportunity to 'lay ghosts of the past' to rest, and enjoying some of the memories that each place has to offer. I realised the other week that I've been living in the world's first Garden City for sufficient years now that I 'have history here'. I'm beginning to recall changes that have taken place in the time I've been here. Just as I recall changes in my birthplace, 'I remember so-and-so being built, but not what was there before', so too, I'm now thinking of things that appeared here in the years soon after I came, but not what they replaced.
The great thing about all this looking back at the past, is that it's reconciling me to my past - perhaps to life itself - certainly to some of the disappointments and heartaches of earlier times. And it makes me a bit more able to sympathise with people like Chris, for whom at the moment the future looks cold and empty.
Saturday, 23 May 2015
Saturday, 16 May 2015
Family Matters
It seemed like the end of an era. I learned last week that my late cousin's widower had died. This week's post brought a neat, handwritten card from their daughter, advising me of this fact, and also relating the death last month of another cousin, whom I hadn't seen for years, but who was still on my Christmas card list ... something that seems to govern regular, albeit rare and inexpressive communication between distant friends and family members. As I've got older, this topic has ceased to be a morbid one, and if you find it so, dear reader, then I can only apologise.
Even in this clinical and post-modern age, death is inescapable ... and especially so in big families. My father was the eighth of nine to survive infancy from a family of twelve. Two of his siblings didn't marry, two more didn't have children, and the other four had a total of twelve children between them. I remember him making a comment - probably in the mid-1970s - that there seemed to have been family funerals every year for ages. This wasn't actually the case; in fact there were five deaths of either siblings or in-laws in the '60s, and four in the '70s, but with two in three months at the end of 1976, it must have felt that way to him, and as he got older, he must have been wondering when his turn would come. He lived another ten years. The death of his youngest sister in 2002 ended that generation.
As the son of a youngest son, my birth was followed in almost annual succession by the first three daughters of the next generation, as the grandchildren of my father's eldest siblings began to arrive. It was one of these three who had written to me this week. I believe it was her mother, just over two years ago, who was the first death of the next, i.e my, generation. I can't be certain about that, because there are - or were - a number of cousins with whom I have had no contact for decades.
The man who has just died, although not a blood relative, played a significant part in my early life, as I indicated in an earlier post of this blog. He and his colleague Geoffrey not only ran the shop where I spent much of my spare time in my mid-teens, but were also good friends outside of work, being two of the leading lights in the town's Cage-Bird Society, and their Autumn Show was an annual highlight for a bored schoolboy, albeit one who had no interest in birds.
One thing that does intrigue me I only discovered in the last few years. I wonder whether Cyril had any idea that there was possibly a distant and contorted link between his colleague and his wife's family. It appears that Geoffrey's aunt's second marriage was to the great-nephew by marriage of Cyril's wife's great-aunt.
What a small world we live in!
Even in this clinical and post-modern age, death is inescapable ... and especially so in big families. My father was the eighth of nine to survive infancy from a family of twelve. Two of his siblings didn't marry, two more didn't have children, and the other four had a total of twelve children between them. I remember him making a comment - probably in the mid-1970s - that there seemed to have been family funerals every year for ages. This wasn't actually the case; in fact there were five deaths of either siblings or in-laws in the '60s, and four in the '70s, but with two in three months at the end of 1976, it must have felt that way to him, and as he got older, he must have been wondering when his turn would come. He lived another ten years. The death of his youngest sister in 2002 ended that generation.
As the son of a youngest son, my birth was followed in almost annual succession by the first three daughters of the next generation, as the grandchildren of my father's eldest siblings began to arrive. It was one of these three who had written to me this week. I believe it was her mother, just over two years ago, who was the first death of the next, i.e my, generation. I can't be certain about that, because there are - or were - a number of cousins with whom I have had no contact for decades.
The man who has just died, although not a blood relative, played a significant part in my early life, as I indicated in an earlier post of this blog. He and his colleague Geoffrey not only ran the shop where I spent much of my spare time in my mid-teens, but were also good friends outside of work, being two of the leading lights in the town's Cage-Bird Society, and their Autumn Show was an annual highlight for a bored schoolboy, albeit one who had no interest in birds.
One thing that does intrigue me I only discovered in the last few years. I wonder whether Cyril had any idea that there was possibly a distant and contorted link between his colleague and his wife's family. It appears that Geoffrey's aunt's second marriage was to the great-nephew by marriage of Cyril's wife's great-aunt.
What a small world we live in!
Saturday, 9 May 2015
Electric Shocks this Week
Unusually, I'm starting and ending this post with quotations.
"There are two ways of seeing the world. The first is to travel. The second is to stand still, having so organised your life that you have time 'to stand and stare'. I suspect that this latter is the more thorough way; but you need to be something of a saint, mystic or philosopher to be able to command the necessary patience and humility."
I found this in a book I was reading on Wednesday afternoon. It's from an article called 'Standing by the Gate', one of a collection by Richard Church, published under the title 'A Country Window' way back in 1958. No one would disagree, I'm sure, that life is lived at a much faster pace nearly sixty years later!
Now, I'm no saint or mystic, nor a philosopher in any accepted sense of the word, although I do sometimes find myself reflecting about life and its meaning. One thing, though, that I'm beginning to learn from this present semi-retired status, is that there can be times when it is quite permissible to do almost nothing: in Mr Church's words, 'to stand and stare'. In this case, the occasion was prompted, albeit accidentally, by nothing more significant than a couple of screws. I will explain.
A few weeks ago, I had just plugged in the electric hook-up to my motor-home, ready to do a little job that needed power inside the vehicle. Before leaving it for a while, I decided to tidy the lead neatly underneath, rather than leave it untidily across the lawn. As I did so, my arm happened to nudge part of the trim beside the rear wheel-arch, revealing that this was loose. Closer inspection showed that, at some time in the past, it had been knocked, and what should have been a firm joint was in fact quite loose. It was nothing really serious, but I felt it ought to be attended to and, since the motorhome is still within its warranty, I made the journey back to its supplier for the purpose. However satisfying, however much it might boost my confidence, a 40-mile round trip seemed a bit over-the-top just to have two small screws expertly fitted. I decided, therefore to make a day of it, and visit nearby Grafham Water as well.
The day wasn't ideal. There was rain from time to time between the sunny intervals, and the wind ... well, that's best not spoken of! I have to admit that the power of the waves on what is, after all, just a small inland lake, was certainly humbling. Apart from a brief stroll by the waterside, I contented myself with typing and reading and eating my picnic snugly inside the saloon. It was interesting just to watch the birds trying to make headway against the air currents, or finding scraps to eat on the side of the dam in the face of quite a strong tidal wash. It wasn't until I got home again, and prepared to go out in the evening, that I realised just how relaxed and satisfied I was feeling ... in an ideal frame of mind, in fact, to take part in a Bible study group.
Then came election day. I was so taken by the sunshine to which I awoke, that I decided to walk round to the polling station before breakfast. It took no more than twenty minutes, but it set me up for a day poring over figures at the desk, setting up my accounts for the new financial year, and wondering - but no more, at this stage - about my tax return.
Yesterday, by contrast, seemed a non-day. Like many, I suspect, I was overcome by curiosity when I awoke during the night, and couldn't resist switching on the computer to learn of some of the early results. I returned to bed around 4.15 am, thinking no more than 'oh, the nationalists are doing well', only to return to wakefulness a few hours later to discover the full extent to which post-election shock-waves had hit. I confess to - as I described it to one of my fellow bell-ringers in the evening - 'wasting the day' working on a spreadsheet to explore the possibilities of re-arranging the results of the constituencies nearest me in some form of Proportional Representation.
Yes, bell-ringing on a Friday! Being 8th May, we were ringing to celebrate the seventieth anniversary of the end of the european war, and Mr. Churchill's radio broadcast at 3.0 pm that day, during which he announced that, 'Hostilities will end officially at one minute after midnight tonight, but in the interests of saving lives the "Cease fire" began yesterday to be sounded all along the front, and our dear Channel Islands are also to be freed today.'
"There are two ways of seeing the world. The first is to travel. The second is to stand still, having so organised your life that you have time 'to stand and stare'. I suspect that this latter is the more thorough way; but you need to be something of a saint, mystic or philosopher to be able to command the necessary patience and humility."
I found this in a book I was reading on Wednesday afternoon. It's from an article called 'Standing by the Gate', one of a collection by Richard Church, published under the title 'A Country Window' way back in 1958. No one would disagree, I'm sure, that life is lived at a much faster pace nearly sixty years later!
Now, I'm no saint or mystic, nor a philosopher in any accepted sense of the word, although I do sometimes find myself reflecting about life and its meaning. One thing, though, that I'm beginning to learn from this present semi-retired status, is that there can be times when it is quite permissible to do almost nothing: in Mr Church's words, 'to stand and stare'. In this case, the occasion was prompted, albeit accidentally, by nothing more significant than a couple of screws. I will explain.
A few weeks ago, I had just plugged in the electric hook-up to my motor-home, ready to do a little job that needed power inside the vehicle. Before leaving it for a while, I decided to tidy the lead neatly underneath, rather than leave it untidily across the lawn. As I did so, my arm happened to nudge part of the trim beside the rear wheel-arch, revealing that this was loose. Closer inspection showed that, at some time in the past, it had been knocked, and what should have been a firm joint was in fact quite loose. It was nothing really serious, but I felt it ought to be attended to and, since the motorhome is still within its warranty, I made the journey back to its supplier for the purpose. However satisfying, however much it might boost my confidence, a 40-mile round trip seemed a bit over-the-top just to have two small screws expertly fitted. I decided, therefore to make a day of it, and visit nearby Grafham Water as well.
 |
| A gull stands bravely before the threatening waves |
The day wasn't ideal. There was rain from time to time between the sunny intervals, and the wind ... well, that's best not spoken of! I have to admit that the power of the waves on what is, after all, just a small inland lake, was certainly humbling. Apart from a brief stroll by the waterside, I contented myself with typing and reading and eating my picnic snugly inside the saloon. It was interesting just to watch the birds trying to make headway against the air currents, or finding scraps to eat on the side of the dam in the face of quite a strong tidal wash. It wasn't until I got home again, and prepared to go out in the evening, that I realised just how relaxed and satisfied I was feeling ... in an ideal frame of mind, in fact, to take part in a Bible study group.
Then came election day. I was so taken by the sunshine to which I awoke, that I decided to walk round to the polling station before breakfast. It took no more than twenty minutes, but it set me up for a day poring over figures at the desk, setting up my accounts for the new financial year, and wondering - but no more, at this stage - about my tax return.
Yesterday, by contrast, seemed a non-day. Like many, I suspect, I was overcome by curiosity when I awoke during the night, and couldn't resist switching on the computer to learn of some of the early results. I returned to bed around 4.15 am, thinking no more than 'oh, the nationalists are doing well', only to return to wakefulness a few hours later to discover the full extent to which post-election shock-waves had hit. I confess to - as I described it to one of my fellow bell-ringers in the evening - 'wasting the day' working on a spreadsheet to explore the possibilities of re-arranging the results of the constituencies nearest me in some form of Proportional Representation.
Yes, bell-ringing on a Friday! Being 8th May, we were ringing to celebrate the seventieth anniversary of the end of the european war, and Mr. Churchill's radio broadcast at 3.0 pm that day, during which he announced that, 'Hostilities will end officially at one minute after midnight tonight, but in the interests of saving lives the "Cease fire" began yesterday to be sounded all along the front, and our dear Channel Islands are also to be freed today.'
Saturday, 2 May 2015
Pluses and Minuses - the Arithmetic of Life
It seems that there are pluses and minuses, ups and downs, to every part of life ... certainly that's true of being taken over by a nationwide company. Nowadays we're far more likely to get 'back-loads' (another job that will pay all or part of the cost of returning from a distant destination) than we were under the 'ancien régime'. On the other hand, whereas we used to get paid from base, wherever we collected the goods, now we only get paid from collection to delivery, wherever our base might be. Because we often get another job while still on the way back from the previous one, much less time is spent at the office, and consequently there is much less interaction with other drivers. Some people find this distressing, to the extent that they have left; since I have been working from home for some while, this doesn't bother me at all, although I do wonder whether this will be allowed to continue when we are fully and finally under the jackboot of the new methodology.
Some of these factors figured in this week's to-ings and fro-ings. Take Monday for example. I collected a single very fragile item in Letchworth at 9.0am to be taken to the university in Nottingham. It seemed fairly unlikely that I would get anything very productive after an immediate return, so I rang the office there, and gambled half an hour waiting to see if anything might come from them. Meanwhile I listened to a podcast while parked in a sunny side street and ate my lunch. I'd just given up and begun to make my way out of the city, when the call came. A pick-up not three miles away, to be taken to Cambridge ... and there was another job - albeit fairly local - afterwards as well, so the week was off to a good start.
Good start it might have been, but it went gradually downhill after that. So much so that, at the end of the week, the average length of all 23 jobs was only 27 miles! I continue to be amazed at the way my mood swings from buoyancy to despondency according to the demands upon my time. On a day when I leave with one job early in the morning and enjoy a succession of others non-stop through the day, I feel good, even if tired, at the end of it. Contrariwise, if I return from such an early job, to sit at my desk for two or three hours in anticipation of a further call, I can feel quite unwanted. Sometimes a day might consist of half a dozen jobs totalling perhaps 200 or 250 miles, but with obvious gaps between them; at the end of such a day I often feel as if I'm being used as the 'odd-job' man, although I've never decided whether this is simply the 'roll of the dice', or the result of an imagined conspiracy because of my semi-retired status. That said, it only takes one 'good' (i.e. 100-mile-or-so) job, or maybe two half-decent ones together, to snap me out of the black mood again.
This week had just such a finish, as yesterday began with the exciting challenge of taking a couple of items to a destination in Swindon, to make a 7.30 booking-in time. On this occasion, there was a cheerful welcome to my call to the local office after I'd delivered, but no resulting work, so I came back home empty. The day continued, however, with another four jobs, before I finally took my boots off at 5.50 pm, feeling quite satisfied.
I must add that there are frequently little snippets of what some would call serendipity. The week had a couple of those, too. On Tuesday evening, I opened an e-mail to find an invitation to follow a free on-line tutorial - allegedly worth £81 - and found myself absorbed for a couple of hours learning about an intricate aspect of spreadsheet analysis. Whether I'll ever need to use it is a totally separate matter!
Then, as I waited yesterday at the door of a print works in Letchworth, the afternoon breeze brought to my nose the smell of one of the chemicals being used in their processes. They say this is the most powerful of the senses; I was instantly transported through almost sixty years to the days when, over the course of a number of weeks, a gang of white-overalled men would work their way along the street where I lived, repainting all the doors and windows, first with undercoat, and then with the gloss. It was always exciting to find out what colour our front door was going to be after their visit. What I smelled yesterday was the very same as that gloss paint ... although I'm sure it wasn't paint at all that was being used!
Now I'm looking forward to the bank holiday and being 'retired' for the rest of the week. I wonder how 'useful' I'll feel on the following Monday morning!
Some of these factors figured in this week's to-ings and fro-ings. Take Monday for example. I collected a single very fragile item in Letchworth at 9.0am to be taken to the university in Nottingham. It seemed fairly unlikely that I would get anything very productive after an immediate return, so I rang the office there, and gambled half an hour waiting to see if anything might come from them. Meanwhile I listened to a podcast while parked in a sunny side street and ate my lunch. I'd just given up and begun to make my way out of the city, when the call came. A pick-up not three miles away, to be taken to Cambridge ... and there was another job - albeit fairly local - afterwards as well, so the week was off to a good start.
Good start it might have been, but it went gradually downhill after that. So much so that, at the end of the week, the average length of all 23 jobs was only 27 miles! I continue to be amazed at the way my mood swings from buoyancy to despondency according to the demands upon my time. On a day when I leave with one job early in the morning and enjoy a succession of others non-stop through the day, I feel good, even if tired, at the end of it. Contrariwise, if I return from such an early job, to sit at my desk for two or three hours in anticipation of a further call, I can feel quite unwanted. Sometimes a day might consist of half a dozen jobs totalling perhaps 200 or 250 miles, but with obvious gaps between them; at the end of such a day I often feel as if I'm being used as the 'odd-job' man, although I've never decided whether this is simply the 'roll of the dice', or the result of an imagined conspiracy because of my semi-retired status. That said, it only takes one 'good' (i.e. 100-mile-or-so) job, or maybe two half-decent ones together, to snap me out of the black mood again.
This week had just such a finish, as yesterday began with the exciting challenge of taking a couple of items to a destination in Swindon, to make a 7.30 booking-in time. On this occasion, there was a cheerful welcome to my call to the local office after I'd delivered, but no resulting work, so I came back home empty. The day continued, however, with another four jobs, before I finally took my boots off at 5.50 pm, feeling quite satisfied.
I must add that there are frequently little snippets of what some would call serendipity. The week had a couple of those, too. On Tuesday evening, I opened an e-mail to find an invitation to follow a free on-line tutorial - allegedly worth £81 - and found myself absorbed for a couple of hours learning about an intricate aspect of spreadsheet analysis. Whether I'll ever need to use it is a totally separate matter!
Then, as I waited yesterday at the door of a print works in Letchworth, the afternoon breeze brought to my nose the smell of one of the chemicals being used in their processes. They say this is the most powerful of the senses; I was instantly transported through almost sixty years to the days when, over the course of a number of weeks, a gang of white-overalled men would work their way along the street where I lived, repainting all the doors and windows, first with undercoat, and then with the gloss. It was always exciting to find out what colour our front door was going to be after their visit. What I smelled yesterday was the very same as that gloss paint ... although I'm sure it wasn't paint at all that was being used!
Now I'm looking forward to the bank holiday and being 'retired' for the rest of the week. I wonder how 'useful' I'll feel on the following Monday morning!
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