The Silly Season

There is a saying in the world of newspapers that summer is the 'Silly Season', because there is frequently nothing sufficiently important to capture the headlines of all the papers, and each tends to pick out something different from the mix to lead on.  It may not be summer any longer, but that's the shape of the week just ending: lots of snippets, but no lead story.

Snippet number one finds me on Sunday evening, parked on a pavement in the centre of the town, assisting in the unloading of a two-seater settee to one of the early Garden City houses.  The father of the occupant had secured this item on freecycle [What a boon this is to so many people in search of both the mundane and the esoteric!], and had solicited my help in collecting and transporting it to its new home.

On Monday, after a couple of deliveries in Kent, I was given a choice of two possibilities in the late afternoon.  One was two drinks orders to Suffolk and Essex; the other was a medical item to be taken to a private address in Milton Keynes.  I chose the latter on the basis that I ought then to be back in time for ringing practice in the evening, where I had been told there would be several regulars who would be absent this week.  I returned home at 7.20, grabbed a sandwich, and was on parade as usual at 7.45.  I discovered that not only were most of the supposed absentees present, but also a number of others, too.  After two abortive attempts to concentrate, I decided that my time would be better spent at my desk after all, and so came home again.

Tuesday's success was to drive around Suffolk and Essex enjoying the rich autumnal colours by the roadside, while Wednesday required me to cross the Dartford Bridge for a second time in the week in order to take a parcel to a restaurant near Sevenoaks.  I was spotted going around the M25, and given another collection near Hastings for delivery in Stratford, E15.  I stopped at a service station on the way back, where I discovered that refurbishment had necessitated temporary toilet facilities in the corner of the car park.  After marvelling at the immaculate tiling on the walls and the shiny basin, I encountered other regular features such as the ubiquitous puddle beneath the urinals, and the fellow-user who rejects the opportunity to use the adjacent urinal in favour of standing in the cubicle without shutting the door ... augmented on this occasion by an outside door that wouldn't open properly, causing a painful collision of thigh and door frame in both directions of travel!

Thursday began uncomfortably early, with a 6.30 collection in Royston, going no further than Thetford, to be followed by two local jobs.  The second of these was withdrawn (thankfully!) and replaced by another, more lucrative opportunity: an envelope to be taken from an office in Welwyn Garden City to another in a beautiful park location near Knutsford.  On the way came another, more conventional, delivery of some plumbing equipment to Tamworth.

Wednesday, as many will be aware, was the 210th anniversary of the Battle of Trafalgar, where Norfolk's most famous admiral lost his life aboard HMS Victory.  Like me, perhaps fewer could have said that yesterday was the centenary of another death, that of the 67-year-old William Gilbert Grace, who has been described as 'the King of Cricket'.  It was appropriate that I made this discovery through listening to the lunchtime feature on the second day of the Pakistan test match, while driving to a delivery in South Cerney, in the county where WG was born and spent much of his life, Gloucestershire.

Next week is another in which I play the part of 'trainee retiree', and I have no significant plans, apart from a few minor chores that have accumulated under the heading of 'when time allows'.  Is this what true retirement will really look like?