I remember when, many years ago now, I got engaged. I wasn't sure how it had happened, but happen it had, and I was now living with the con- sequences. Similar considerations apply to two later events in my life, and this week brought with it another one for the collection. It all started on Saturday morning, when I took my van to the tyre centre to have the pressures checked. It was noted that the front tyres were showing signs of uneven wear, and the forecast was that they would probably only last another few thousand miles. On Monday I had the van serviced, and asked for a second opinion. They decided that to swap front for rear would be a good idea, since the forces are different, and envisaged a further 10,000 miles from them.
For a number of weeks now, I've been toying with the idea of curtailing my phased retirement plan, but had come up with no firm decision. From the outset the plan had been circumscribed with the caveat that it would only be fulfilled so long as the van should last, but the question has thus far been unanswered, 'how - apart from an almighty explosion - can one tell when the van has had enough?' A further complication was that, whenever I were to stop work, I should need the van to be still roadworthy enough to effect an exchange with a replacement vehicle. After paying the garage bill - hefty, the same as last time, because other bits had needed to be replaced - my future course suddenly seemed clear. I would bring forward my planned two weeks' work in January, and finish for good on the 15th.
Next day, I followed up recent investigations into the availability of a suitable car, and arranged a test drive. I had a family engagement to fulfil on Wednesday, so it was Thursday morning when I got to try out my chosen car. Being basically the same controls and layout as the vans I've been driving for many years, the outcome was virtually predictable. I loved it, and we began filling in forms and making arrangements.
The big snag came when I asked for a completion date in the middle of January. The vendors didn't like the idea of a sold vehicle clogging up their yard for nearly a couple of months, but would entertain it provided I paid for it up front, and agreed to a hefty penalty clause should I change my mind in that time and ask for a refund. From their viewpoint, this made sense, but I said that, if I had to pay for it, then I'd take it before Christmas, thank you very much!
This was much more acceptable on both sides, so in Suetonius' words to Julius Caesar, 'iacta alea est' - the die is cast. I have three more weeks to work, and then on 21st December I shall collect the true symbol of my retirement ... the first saloon car I've owned for over ten years. Yesterday was our church's monthly day of prayer and fasting so, in between three gatherings there, I spent the day tying up loose ends. I re-arranged my finances, and made a payment to the car showroom; organised the insurance for the car and instructed the cancellation of the policy on the van ... timed to allow me to use it on the day for the exchange.
Today has offered a distinct contrast to the high excitement that has gone before, helping to clear the fallen leaves from around the church, and this afternoon gets the Advent and Christmas season under way as we see the decoration of the tree in the church hall, accompanied by the singing of the first Christmas carols.
Saturday, 28 November 2015
Saturday, 21 November 2015
Heavy, but Balanced
I had issued a warning on Sunday that I wouldn't be at bell-ringing practice this week. When our church started a 'traditional' choir during the summer - not for regular but occasional involvement in our varied range of worship - the leader very wisely decided that, while some practices would be held on a Sunday morning after the service, others would rotate from one weekday evening to another. The latest one was to take place this Monday, and I had decided that it should take precedence over bell-ringing.
The week has proved yet again what I've been saying for years, that the life of a courier is not one that can be blended with, or lived alongside a conventional social life. Work-wise, Monday started tamely with a job to Leamington Spa; I hadn't left home for the pick-up when a second job was added to it sending me first in the opposite direction to collect in Stevenage for Bolton. When I left Leamington I decided that, unless I should be delayed, I ought just to make choir practice at 8.0pm. I was still on the M6, not far beyond Birmingham, when the phone rang: when would I be likely to get to Bolton?
When I answered, 'about 3.10,' there was a brief pause before I was asked to collect something in Manchester on my way back, to be delivered next morning in Letchworth. I hadn't even said yes, before the controller continued, "... and while you're that way, would you like a 5.0 pick-up to go to Liverpool before you come home?" The very fact of the first foray into Manchester had threatened my singing, so it seemed little further sacrifice to express gratitude for the extra work, and turn a possible 'yes' to choir practice into a definite 'no', and promptly called the leader to tender my apologies. It was 6.0 before I left Liverpool's Albert Dock after making my delivery, and this set the pattern for the week: financially beneficial, but socially disastrous.
Once the collected item had been delivered Tuesday proper began with a visit to the garage. I had noticed that my indicator appeared to need a new bulb, but this turned out to be a relay fault which can (hopefully) be fixed when I take the van in for service next week. By mid-afternoon I was returning from the second of two local jobs when I was sent to 'that' engineering firm, whose vans have provided us with many rescue jobs over the years. It's all too easy to shut the rear doors without making certain that the keys are on the person, and the slam lock spells disaster with the key shut inside the van. This mission was to Burgess Hill where the incident had occurred - fortunately - outside a large office block. As I pulled up in front of his van, the driver scampered across the lawns to greet me.
In a gabble made scarcely intelligible by the tension of his afternoon, he explained how he had turned his back on the van for only a moment; the wind caught the open door and ... slam! He was left outside in the rain, and his coat, with the precious key was locked away. Luckily he had his phone in his pocket, and the firm had allowed him to shelter in their reception area. I have never been accorded such profuse gratitude for one of these missions as on this occasion. My hand was shaken with such warmth that I had difficulty in getting away. While I had been dealing with this, my phone had been busy. There were two missed calls from the Brighton office and, as I got into the van, it rang a third time. Would I be able to do a job for them from Hayward's Heath into Brighton before heading north? It was already past 5.30 and, after a long day on Monday followed by a short night, I was whacked, so I apologised and made for home.
After returning the keys on Wednesday morning, I enjoyed a lull, during which I was able to catch up with some of the desk stuff I'd had to shelve in two late evenings. About lunchtime came the only job of the day, a drive up to West Yorkshire, to collect some laminate from a factory in Morley. By the time I had got there and collected the goods, it was clear that I wouldn't return before our customer would have closed for the day, resulting in the third 'carry-over' of the week. This time, however, the office were on the ball, and before I had reached Newark, I received a phone call, after which I experienced a great sense of calm. Two jobs had been assigned to me for the following morning. I would deliver the laminate at 7.30, collect in Royston for Southampton at 8.0, and then make for Stansted airport for another pick-up at 8.30, this to go to Bournemouth International Airport. It worked almost to plan and I was loaded and on my way shortly after 9.0.
I recalled on my way south-west that, even in the early years of the last century, Hampshire was referred to officially as 'the county of Southampton', and found myself wondering why its current name wasn't accorded to Northampton instead. My idle mind clicked into gear in time to make my deliveries and, clear by 1.0, I began to look forward to a more leisurely evening. I forgot the 'spy in the cab', however, and made the fatal error of leaving the M25 because of traffic, only to be spotted by the Heathrow office, who asked me to perform a transfer from Feltham to Willesden, which is only 13 miles but at rush-hour took at least two hours, so yet another evening was foreshortened by work!
Yesterday I felt rewarded for having learned all my lessons, when I was given two complementary jobs, one from a firm of structural engineers in Letchworth to an isolated business development near Salisbury, and the other from Hertford to Chertsey on the way. Neither caused me any problems and I had completed them both by about 2.0. Since I'm not working next week, there was no need for me to remain in contact so I logged off and made my way home completely away from the dreaded M25, travelling up towards Oxford. Unfortunately, I realised just too late that I'd missed the turning I'd planned to take off the A34 to go through Abingdon, and had to go round the Oxford ring-road. As I did so, going even further away from the direct route home, I found myself unable to escape feelings of guilt. Common sense told me a) that no one would know; and b) it was entirely up to me which route I used since, having signed off for the day, I was no longer at the beck and call of the office. Yet I still felt uneasy because I was going a longer way round than necessary, and would be late as a result. Was it the uniform? ... the van? ... or simply habit?
Today brought excitement of a different kind. As part of the prayer ministry team at church, I had received an invitation to a birthday party for a little girl for whom we have been praying for some while. She is gradually overcoming a combination of health difficulties that have beset her first year of life and, although not the size of a normal one-year-old, she was clearly happy and at ease in the arms of her loving parents. It's not the sort of occasion that I'm used to, but fortunately others from our church were also there and, by the end of a couple of hours of watching and chatting, I had to agree that it had been an enjoyable occasion, as much for me as for everyone else.
Next week I have the usual list of outstanding tasks to be attended to, but I expect to be able to relax considerably more than in recent days!
The week has proved yet again what I've been saying for years, that the life of a courier is not one that can be blended with, or lived alongside a conventional social life. Work-wise, Monday started tamely with a job to Leamington Spa; I hadn't left home for the pick-up when a second job was added to it sending me first in the opposite direction to collect in Stevenage for Bolton. When I left Leamington I decided that, unless I should be delayed, I ought just to make choir practice at 8.0pm. I was still on the M6, not far beyond Birmingham, when the phone rang: when would I be likely to get to Bolton?
When I answered, 'about 3.10,' there was a brief pause before I was asked to collect something in Manchester on my way back, to be delivered next morning in Letchworth. I hadn't even said yes, before the controller continued, "... and while you're that way, would you like a 5.0 pick-up to go to Liverpool before you come home?" The very fact of the first foray into Manchester had threatened my singing, so it seemed little further sacrifice to express gratitude for the extra work, and turn a possible 'yes' to choir practice into a definite 'no', and promptly called the leader to tender my apologies. It was 6.0 before I left Liverpool's Albert Dock after making my delivery, and this set the pattern for the week: financially beneficial, but socially disastrous.
Once the collected item had been delivered Tuesday proper began with a visit to the garage. I had noticed that my indicator appeared to need a new bulb, but this turned out to be a relay fault which can (hopefully) be fixed when I take the van in for service next week. By mid-afternoon I was returning from the second of two local jobs when I was sent to 'that' engineering firm, whose vans have provided us with many rescue jobs over the years. It's all too easy to shut the rear doors without making certain that the keys are on the person, and the slam lock spells disaster with the key shut inside the van. This mission was to Burgess Hill where the incident had occurred - fortunately - outside a large office block. As I pulled up in front of his van, the driver scampered across the lawns to greet me.
In a gabble made scarcely intelligible by the tension of his afternoon, he explained how he had turned his back on the van for only a moment; the wind caught the open door and ... slam! He was left outside in the rain, and his coat, with the precious key was locked away. Luckily he had his phone in his pocket, and the firm had allowed him to shelter in their reception area. I have never been accorded such profuse gratitude for one of these missions as on this occasion. My hand was shaken with such warmth that I had difficulty in getting away. While I had been dealing with this, my phone had been busy. There were two missed calls from the Brighton office and, as I got into the van, it rang a third time. Would I be able to do a job for them from Hayward's Heath into Brighton before heading north? It was already past 5.30 and, after a long day on Monday followed by a short night, I was whacked, so I apologised and made for home.
After returning the keys on Wednesday morning, I enjoyed a lull, during which I was able to catch up with some of the desk stuff I'd had to shelve in two late evenings. About lunchtime came the only job of the day, a drive up to West Yorkshire, to collect some laminate from a factory in Morley. By the time I had got there and collected the goods, it was clear that I wouldn't return before our customer would have closed for the day, resulting in the third 'carry-over' of the week. This time, however, the office were on the ball, and before I had reached Newark, I received a phone call, after which I experienced a great sense of calm. Two jobs had been assigned to me for the following morning. I would deliver the laminate at 7.30, collect in Royston for Southampton at 8.0, and then make for Stansted airport for another pick-up at 8.30, this to go to Bournemouth International Airport. It worked almost to plan and I was loaded and on my way shortly after 9.0.
I recalled on my way south-west that, even in the early years of the last century, Hampshire was referred to officially as 'the county of Southampton', and found myself wondering why its current name wasn't accorded to Northampton instead. My idle mind clicked into gear in time to make my deliveries and, clear by 1.0, I began to look forward to a more leisurely evening. I forgot the 'spy in the cab', however, and made the fatal error of leaving the M25 because of traffic, only to be spotted by the Heathrow office, who asked me to perform a transfer from Feltham to Willesden, which is only 13 miles but at rush-hour took at least two hours, so yet another evening was foreshortened by work!
Yesterday I felt rewarded for having learned all my lessons, when I was given two complementary jobs, one from a firm of structural engineers in Letchworth to an isolated business development near Salisbury, and the other from Hertford to Chertsey on the way. Neither caused me any problems and I had completed them both by about 2.0. Since I'm not working next week, there was no need for me to remain in contact so I logged off and made my way home completely away from the dreaded M25, travelling up towards Oxford. Unfortunately, I realised just too late that I'd missed the turning I'd planned to take off the A34 to go through Abingdon, and had to go round the Oxford ring-road. As I did so, going even further away from the direct route home, I found myself unable to escape feelings of guilt. Common sense told me a) that no one would know; and b) it was entirely up to me which route I used since, having signed off for the day, I was no longer at the beck and call of the office. Yet I still felt uneasy because I was going a longer way round than necessary, and would be late as a result. Was it the uniform? ... the van? ... or simply habit?
Today brought excitement of a different kind. As part of the prayer ministry team at church, I had received an invitation to a birthday party for a little girl for whom we have been praying for some while. She is gradually overcoming a combination of health difficulties that have beset her first year of life and, although not the size of a normal one-year-old, she was clearly happy and at ease in the arms of her loving parents. It's not the sort of occasion that I'm used to, but fortunately others from our church were also there and, by the end of a couple of hours of watching and chatting, I had to agree that it had been an enjoyable occasion, as much for me as for everyone else.
Next week I have the usual list of outstanding tasks to be attended to, but I expect to be able to relax considerably more than in recent days!
Saturday, 14 November 2015
Elephants by the Motorway?
Not for the first time, this has been a week of ups and downs. Monday was a good example of the way the national network is favourable to us drivers. It began with a very small consignment for Market Harborough, and I was invited to wait a short while to see what else might be going that way. In a very few minutes I was sent to Royston for a couple of boxes going to Derby. Once these had all been delivered, I phoned the nearby Nottingham office, collected an envelope for them from Castle Donnington, and then took another small load from Loughborough to Birmingham on my way home.
Tuesday and Wednesday brought only two jobs apiece, with Wednesday being one of this year's leanest days. On Thursday morning my thoughts turned to income once more, and my prayers included an earnest reference to a cup filled to overflowing. The spiritual effort wasn't in vain for, within the hour, I was on my way to Kempston to collect some metalwork for a firm near Wakefield. This time it was the Leeds office who provided the complement to the day, with a collection in the middle of Sheffield for a factory out in the countryside not far from Coventry.
But the day was not yet finished. On my way home I was invited to make three deliveries of prescription medicines to old people's homes in Hitchin, and then - with some hesitation after last week's disappointment when a Scottish job had failed to materialise - I was offered an early pick-up from a national company at the other end of the county, for delivery to two of their other plants, one on the outskirts of Liverpool and the other in North Lanarkshire.
So it was that yesterday morning, with unexpected calmness, I set out on a more unusual route into Scotland. I had decided that it wouldn't be clever to consider sleeping in the van at this time of year, and particularly in view of some recent problems with a shoulder, so on my way I phoned ahead to book a room at the truckstop in Carlisle. I made the Liverpool delivery by about 1.0, with little bother. Then came the interesting part of the trip. It was interesting not, for once, because of any difficulty, but simply literally. That middle section of the M6 is one that I rarely use; if I'm going to Scotland from home the better route is up the A1 to Scotch Corner, so I don't usually hit the M6 until Penrith. This time, though, there was no choice and, although it feels a long way and the radio signal is intermittent, the scenery is magnificent. Perhaps irreverently, I decided that the rolling slopes of the fells to the east of the motorway required only a few strategically-placed fir trees to resemble closely a number of retreating elephants!
One thing that did concern me, however, was the weather. This was the day after storm Abigail had caused a number of electrical outages, and had attacked the west of Scotland with extremely high winds. The matrices on the motorways were cautioning about side winds and lots of spray, but apart from just a short burst of rain there was no appreciable problem until I was well into Scotland. The last few junctions along the M74, however, disappeared in deep concentration as I stuck to my course with only intermittent visibility between the deluge of spray thrown up by the lorries.
Although I've made that trip to Motherwell a number of times before, I found that my route this time was longer, owing to the constant development work on the road system in the area; while memory told me that I needed go only a couple of miles from the motorway, this time it was at least ten, having left it at a different junction, which was itself in the midst of a very muddy re-construction. My delivery completed by 5.0, I began the slow return home. To my utmost pleasure, the rain had stopped by Lockerbie, and the roads almost dried up by the time I was back into England. After over 500 miles and more than eleven hours of almost constant driving, I was ready for a break, a meal and a restful (if not luxurious) evening.
This morning I was greeted by the awful contrast of dry roads and a gentle dawn, accompanied by the ghastly news of the bloody events last night in Paris. By Scotch Corner, I was glad to stop and find some comforting normality in breakfast at the Moto services there. From then on, accompanied by a couple of CDs I'd brought along for the purpose, the journey was plain sailing, and I was home, even after stopping for some shopping, by 12.15.
Now to fit all the usual weekend essentials into what's left of the weekend; ... what was that about an easy way into retirement?
Tuesday and Wednesday brought only two jobs apiece, with Wednesday being one of this year's leanest days. On Thursday morning my thoughts turned to income once more, and my prayers included an earnest reference to a cup filled to overflowing. The spiritual effort wasn't in vain for, within the hour, I was on my way to Kempston to collect some metalwork for a firm near Wakefield. This time it was the Leeds office who provided the complement to the day, with a collection in the middle of Sheffield for a factory out in the countryside not far from Coventry.
But the day was not yet finished. On my way home I was invited to make three deliveries of prescription medicines to old people's homes in Hitchin, and then - with some hesitation after last week's disappointment when a Scottish job had failed to materialise - I was offered an early pick-up from a national company at the other end of the county, for delivery to two of their other plants, one on the outskirts of Liverpool and the other in North Lanarkshire.
So it was that yesterday morning, with unexpected calmness, I set out on a more unusual route into Scotland. I had decided that it wouldn't be clever to consider sleeping in the van at this time of year, and particularly in view of some recent problems with a shoulder, so on my way I phoned ahead to book a room at the truckstop in Carlisle. I made the Liverpool delivery by about 1.0, with little bother. Then came the interesting part of the trip. It was interesting not, for once, because of any difficulty, but simply literally. That middle section of the M6 is one that I rarely use; if I'm going to Scotland from home the better route is up the A1 to Scotch Corner, so I don't usually hit the M6 until Penrith. This time, though, there was no choice and, although it feels a long way and the radio signal is intermittent, the scenery is magnificent. Perhaps irreverently, I decided that the rolling slopes of the fells to the east of the motorway required only a few strategically-placed fir trees to resemble closely a number of retreating elephants!
One thing that did concern me, however, was the weather. This was the day after storm Abigail had caused a number of electrical outages, and had attacked the west of Scotland with extremely high winds. The matrices on the motorways were cautioning about side winds and lots of spray, but apart from just a short burst of rain there was no appreciable problem until I was well into Scotland. The last few junctions along the M74, however, disappeared in deep concentration as I stuck to my course with only intermittent visibility between the deluge of spray thrown up by the lorries.
Although I've made that trip to Motherwell a number of times before, I found that my route this time was longer, owing to the constant development work on the road system in the area; while memory told me that I needed go only a couple of miles from the motorway, this time it was at least ten, having left it at a different junction, which was itself in the midst of a very muddy re-construction. My delivery completed by 5.0, I began the slow return home. To my utmost pleasure, the rain had stopped by Lockerbie, and the roads almost dried up by the time I was back into England. After over 500 miles and more than eleven hours of almost constant driving, I was ready for a break, a meal and a restful (if not luxurious) evening.
This morning I was greeted by the awful contrast of dry roads and a gentle dawn, accompanied by the ghastly news of the bloody events last night in Paris. By Scotch Corner, I was glad to stop and find some comforting normality in breakfast at the Moto services there. From then on, accompanied by a couple of CDs I'd brought along for the purpose, the journey was plain sailing, and I was home, even after stopping for some shopping, by 12.15.
Now to fit all the usual weekend essentials into what's left of the weekend; ... what was that about an easy way into retirement?
Saturday, 7 November 2015
Fireworks!
Today I'm looking back at the week through the ashen haze of November 5th and all the significance of that day. Some have suggested that, had the Gunpowder Plot not been detected, the ensuing explosion could have wiped out not only the King and the Commons, but such a large slice of the country's higher society sitting in the House of Lords that the vacuum left could have given rise to complete anarchy. At least one public voice has forsworn marking the occasion because of the burning of catholic effigies; ... the event still causes comment and controversy after 410 years!
For me the week began with an emotional 'banger' when, on Monday afternoon, I made a delivery to the Tata steelworks in Corby. The present activity is but a small percentage of what once went on at the site, and in some ways it was like driving through a graveyard, with vegetation creeping over almost every piece of concrete and brickwork. Even the occupied buildings are dismal, and this was matched by the demeanour of the few people I encountered. The storeman's hi-viz jacket looked as if it hadn't seen a laundry for a year or more, and after he had torn himself away from a conversation with two others, similarly attired, his attitude to me - while not offensive - was at best desultory. I got the impression that he would have preferred to be anywhere but there, but that there was no choice for him ... which is probably not far from the truth. I was reminded of some factories where I have worked in the past, and I wondered what it must have been like to work there, say, thirty or forty years ago.
Contrast this sad scene with the catherine wheel that was the delight of Tuesday afternoon. This was, I think, the second time I've driven past the Ouse Valley Viaduct near Balcombe in Sussex, and it was no less surprising and spectacular than previously. Wikipedia tells me that it's 96 ft high, and its 37 arches stretch for a distance of 1,475 ft. ... well over a quarter of a mile! Made of 11 million bricks in 1841, the viaduct is still in use, carrying over 100 trains a day between London and Brighton.
Wednesday began with a handful of sparklers: a trio of local jobs, before the day's squib, a trip to Cheshire. However, it was more like a damp squib because, by the time I arrived at Mottram St Andrew it was dark, and I discovered that the delivery point was an executive dwelling in a road where each house had a name rather than a number. I was very glad that my job had been updated to provide me with a phone number, but even so there was a little confusion about where in the road I had parked to make the call, and my mission was only successful because the householder came outside and spotted my stationery headlights along the road!
Thursday took a shape rather parallel to its predecessor; more sparklers were followed by a rocket, but one with a broken stick. I was returning from Biggleswade when a phone call invited me to consider a morning delivery in Glasgow. A quick calculation sent me home briefly, to gather a few essentials together and make a telephone booking for a room at the truckstop in Carlisle for the night before heading to Stevenage for the pick-up. The first problem was that no one knew what I was supposed to be collecting. A phone call quickly identified the person who had made the booking, but she was not at work that day. More delays and phone calls ensued. Eventually it was revealed that I had been despatched in response to what had been no more than a quotation provided some days previously: a quotation that had proved too expensive, and the goods had already been despatched by other means.
Yesterday's sequence resembled a roman candle, beginning with a couple of low-level jobs, firstly collecting for one customer from two local suppliers and then, on my way back, being diverted to the hospital in Stevenage to collect some documents for an address in Letchworth. Then came deliveries to a couple of surgeries in Buckinghamshire before the final explosion, a small parcel for a private address in Mangotsfield, just off the Bristol ring road. It seemed that half London was escaping down the M4, and my delivery time advanced almost as quickly as the traffic. What had set out as a planned 5.30 delivery finally hit the doorstep at 7.40; fortunately my fears that the consignee had given me up and gone out for the evening were unfounded!
Now I can prepare for November's usual pattern to move forward another notch, to commemorate both national and personal war dead on Remembrance Sunday tomorrow.
For me the week began with an emotional 'banger' when, on Monday afternoon, I made a delivery to the Tata steelworks in Corby. The present activity is but a small percentage of what once went on at the site, and in some ways it was like driving through a graveyard, with vegetation creeping over almost every piece of concrete and brickwork. Even the occupied buildings are dismal, and this was matched by the demeanour of the few people I encountered. The storeman's hi-viz jacket looked as if it hadn't seen a laundry for a year or more, and after he had torn himself away from a conversation with two others, similarly attired, his attitude to me - while not offensive - was at best desultory. I got the impression that he would have preferred to be anywhere but there, but that there was no choice for him ... which is probably not far from the truth. I was reminded of some factories where I have worked in the past, and I wondered what it must have been like to work there, say, thirty or forty years ago.
 |
| Ouse Valley Viaduct; photo credit: Joshua Dunlop, expertphotography.com |
Wednesday began with a handful of sparklers: a trio of local jobs, before the day's squib, a trip to Cheshire. However, it was more like a damp squib because, by the time I arrived at Mottram St Andrew it was dark, and I discovered that the delivery point was an executive dwelling in a road where each house had a name rather than a number. I was very glad that my job had been updated to provide me with a phone number, but even so there was a little confusion about where in the road I had parked to make the call, and my mission was only successful because the householder came outside and spotted my stationery headlights along the road!
Thursday took a shape rather parallel to its predecessor; more sparklers were followed by a rocket, but one with a broken stick. I was returning from Biggleswade when a phone call invited me to consider a morning delivery in Glasgow. A quick calculation sent me home briefly, to gather a few essentials together and make a telephone booking for a room at the truckstop in Carlisle for the night before heading to Stevenage for the pick-up. The first problem was that no one knew what I was supposed to be collecting. A phone call quickly identified the person who had made the booking, but she was not at work that day. More delays and phone calls ensued. Eventually it was revealed that I had been despatched in response to what had been no more than a quotation provided some days previously: a quotation that had proved too expensive, and the goods had already been despatched by other means.
Yesterday's sequence resembled a roman candle, beginning with a couple of low-level jobs, firstly collecting for one customer from two local suppliers and then, on my way back, being diverted to the hospital in Stevenage to collect some documents for an address in Letchworth. Then came deliveries to a couple of surgeries in Buckinghamshire before the final explosion, a small parcel for a private address in Mangotsfield, just off the Bristol ring road. It seemed that half London was escaping down the M4, and my delivery time advanced almost as quickly as the traffic. What had set out as a planned 5.30 delivery finally hit the doorstep at 7.40; fortunately my fears that the consignee had given me up and gone out for the evening were unfounded!
Now I can prepare for November's usual pattern to move forward another notch, to commemorate both national and personal war dead on Remembrance Sunday tomorrow.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)