Two by Two

It's been a Noah's Ark of a week.  Everything, it seems, has been coming in pairs.  Well, I admit 'everything' is an exaggeration, but let me give you some examples.  In my prayers on Monday morning I thought of two particular ladies with whom I had been in communication in the past week or so.  I had e-mailed one, asking about a particular matter that needed an answer ... there had been no answer.  I had had an exchange of text messages with the other, whose daughter's illness might have prevented a family holiday.  My final comment had been, 'let me know how things progress, if you're able, before you go'.  Again, I had heard nothing; was I to presume that all was well, and they'd departed as planned on Saturday ... or had the holiday been cancelled?  No obligation was due to me, of course, but I would still have liked to know.

As I mentioned last week, I had an early delivery at Shepperton Studios, so those prayers were indeed early in the morning!  After my return I was sitting at my desk, reading e-mails and so on, when within minutes, text messages arrived from each of those ladies.  The first gave me a four-word answer to my e-mail, with the explanation that family illnesses had delayed a proper response; the second told me that last-minute efforts had procured a doctor's certification of the daughter's safety in flying, and secured an alternative flight, enabling a foreshortened holiday to commence on Tuesday.

In recent weeks I have been dealing with some investments.  I had some money left over from buying and fitting out the motorhome that I'm now getting familiar with in readiness for some travel in the early years of my retirement.  This had been 'parked' in a savings account ready for the new tax year to begin, and last week I decided that I really ought to do something productive with those funds, and took the first step towards that end.  On Tuesday I discovered that this money had landed in my bank account so, in a gap between jobs, I issued the on-line instructions for its investment.  As I did so, I discovered that another matter I'd set in motion some weeks ago, the transfer of my pension from one firm to another where its growth is more likely and more firmly in my own control, had now progressed to a stage where I must take some action.  Another metaphorical 'heap' on my desk!

Wednesday afternoon, workwise, found me in Luton.  I'd picked up some goods in Hertford, and although I know the road where they were to be delivered, this was the first time, I think, that I'd arrived there from that particular direction, so I was content to let SatNav direct me.  I was just thinking surprise that I was going by what, even in my supposed ignorance, seemed rather a circuitous route, when I found myself being directed onto the new busway that has been built in the last year or so on the route of a former railway line.  It was then that I realised that SatNav had been misled by the fact that the busway actually passes above the road I would normally turn off, close by the small industrial estate I was making for!

By this time, as I quickly re-routed myself for the right destination, I had been spotted by another office, and had been given a pick-up in Luton, to take to Brentwood.  The collection point was only a few streets away, and I was soon there, knowing the familiar name of the firm I was collecting from, and that it was at unit 20.  I quickly identified the sequence of unit numbers, following 14,15,16 and 17 up a little side turning, and noticing 18 at the far end as I turned around.  On the next corner was a sign directing deliveries to unit 21, and the unit beyond that was clearly marked 22.  19 and 20 were not to be found.  As I drove up and down, looking at the numbered units and the names outside, I finally spotted 'member of the W...... group' - at last the name I sought.  I parked and went inside, only to be told, 'Yes, but it's not us you want - it'll be the other W...... company ...'.   Naming it, he directed me to another side turning in the far corner of the estate, beyond unit 23!  I began to protest about the numbers.  'Yes, I know, they're all over the place round here.  We're always getting people in, asking about them.'

This placid acknowledgement did nothing to soothe my demeanour.  Nor did the fact that, when I did eventually find the place, tucked away in the corner as the man had said, I was told that the job had been cancelled!  More frustration, and lots of phone calls to and fro, established that a previous job from the same place had indeed been cancelled, but that my job was definitely there.  I should return, and go to the side of the building.  Having previously enquired at the collections desk as is normal for these places, I now did as instructed, and found a small pallet waiting by a fork truck, to be loaded by someone wearing a totally different livery, bearing a name that had hitherto not been mentioned to me by anyone!  Within minutes, I was on my way.

While all this had been unfolding in Luton, my own office had called to ask me travel to Brentwood via them, because they had another job going to the same place.  In point of fact, neither was to Brentwood itself, but one to Warley and the other to Childerditch, from which as I drove away in the late afternoon haze, I was treated to a wonderful vista of the Thames valley.  The trials of Wednesday thus assuaged, I was happy to be asked to collect a consignment from the office before going home, for delivery by 8.0 the following morning in Sheffield ... the first of two annoying Thursday twosomes.

I arrived, according to plan, at about 7.50, driving along a single road between large industrial sites, towards a retail park at the bottom end. Having been unable to identify my target as I'd slowly progressed down the road, I parked on the retail park to investigate further.  Google verified the address, but provided no better directions.  There was a phone no. however, and this connected me to a very helpful receptionist, who told me to look 'behind Homebase, but to ignore their service entrance.  We're right opposite.'  Sure enough, as I approached from the retail park, there was the gateway, clearly marked, but by one sign only, facing down the hill.  All efforts to obtain a return job from local offices having failed, I was home by lunchtime.

After a couple of local jobs, I was sent to a mailing office at Farlington near Portsmouth, with several boxes of printed matter for Chelsea FC (name-dropping again!)  I remember hoping when I left that there would still be someone there when I arrived, because it was already nearly 3.0.  The M25 was predictably slow, and I eventually discovered that there was a broken-down car in the middle lane of the five-lane stretch just north of junction 12. He had my sympathies, sitting there with his hazards on, hoping that everyone would realise in time that he was stationary and go around him. The A3 was little better when I eventually reached it.  Here I felt little sympathy when I discovered another stationary vehicle.  This one had stopped two feet or more from the road's edge, its occupants wisely obeying the security advice sitting up on the verge well away from the carriageway. On a busy two-lane road, however, everything had to squeeze into one lane to pass, causing queues for several miles back.  Why, oh why, I wondered, don't people who are breaking down use the last remnants of their motive power to position their vehicles where they can cause the least obstacle?  If these folks, for example, had run up the low kerb, getting half the car's width off the road, there would still have been room for two lines of traffic to pass carefully by.

I finally arrived at Farlington around 5.25, and began to search for the name on my delivery note.  There was no sign.  In fact, where SatNav had pointed, there was no turning from the road at all!  Up and down I searched, in at least two little side roads, but there was no trace of the name I sought.  I was thinking of the research I'd undertaken that morning, some 200 miles away ... but here there was nowhere suitable to park.  And then - on the opposite side of the road from where SatNav had pointed - was the name I wanted! Luckily, although the delivery shutters were down, there were still people about, and the delivery could be made, but as I left, relieved at having an empty van once more, I noticed that here, too, was a clear sign on its own, facing the opposite way from that whence I had approached!  There is no chance of finding a place thus identified ... unless in child-minding mode, i.e. with eyes facing to the rear!

By yesterday morning, the theme for this blog was clearly in my mind, and I wondered how it would conclude.  I had to wait until the last job of the week to find out.  I had been sent to a local drinks distributor to collect a consignment for a pub in Stevenage - a nice local job to round off what had been a hot day.  Typically, as I rounded the penultimate corner, my PDA beeped, to announce that this job had been cancelled.  Before I could acknowledge this, the phone went, as the controller called to explain that he was sending me a different but more profitable job from the same customer. The pub in Stevenage was replaced by a hotel in Huntingdon and ... TWO Cambridge colleges!

Finding the delivery entrance to the hotel was a doddle, and there was no real problem making the second delivery to Robinson College, apart from reversing at an angle across a busy cycle lane and up a narrow ramp to the door nearest the bar.  Jesus College, however, was a mystery.  SatNav directed me along Jesus Lane, and as I marvelled at the eternal beauty and atmosphere of one of England's oldest collegiate cities, I debated parking on the roadside to make enquiries down a long roadway, or seeking a back entrance by driving around the block.  I opted for the latter, only to be thwarted by a dead end, separated from the college by a row of pretty cottages.  Back to Jesus Lane, then, where I chose the third option, an open driveway marked 'Master's Lodge - Private'.

I rang the doorbell.  There was no reply.  I tried the gate leading to the porter's lodge.  It was unlocked.  I entered the lodge, where I was met by a neat, possibly ex-military man, waistcoated, but unjacketed, in his late forties or early fifties.
"This is Jesus College ...?" I sought confirmation.
"It is," he replied, "and you have just entered from the Master's garden."
"That's right," I confessed, "how did you know."
"CCTV."
I explained my business: delivering a keg of Budweiser, clearly something that needed to get the van to the right place; clearly not a carryable item.
"Where are you parked - in the lane?"
"No; through there ..." I pointed to the gate.
"In the Master's driveway!  You will not be popular!"
"In my experience," I struggled to regain equality, "with appropriate apologies, that proves to be a useful way to overcome a problem like this."

I think he appreciated the humour and earnestness of my remark.  He showed me an aerial photograph of the college, and indicated that, if I were to back-track my original approach, I would find an intercom-equipped wrought-iron gate, through which he would admit me, and how I could get from there to the rear entrance to the bar.  Armed with this key information, and after expressing my gratitude for his help, making the actual delivery was a simple matter and I could make my way home, being very thankful that this didn't involve a long crawl around the M25 as last Friday had done - that would have been one pair too many!