Thank you, Mr Hartley!

I hadn't intended to write a blog this week, but somehow needs must.  Let me begin with a pictue:

Here's my lounge ... or a corner of it.  You'll see I live amidst quite a large collection of books: this is only one section of it!  When I exchanged my computer for a new laptop this autumn, I retained the screen as an extension display.  It now sits opposite my armchair, from where this picture was taken.  I have no TV, but watch catch-up programmes through the computer, so this makes watching them more comfortable.

Many of the books, I confess, I haven't read.  One of these is one that I bought because it is one that we studied at school, L P Hartley's 'The Go Between'.  It's a romantic drama, set in Edwardian times, and a dramatisation of it appeared on TV earlier this year.  The book's opening words came home to me with some force this week, prompting this blog-post,  "The past is a foreign country: they do things differently there."

I've spent much of the last two weeks going through two drawers of my filing cabinet, reviewing, sorting, removing stuff that either is no longer required or relevant to current life, or which should never have been kept in the first place.  I hadn't intended to do it in the run-up to Christmas, but it became a necessity when something I do want to keep couldn't be squeezed into place!

As the exercise has progressed I've found myself re-living past times, discovering things I'd totally forgotten, and drifting back to events that happened ten, twenty ... in one case almost forty years ago!  And out of it all has come a sense of perspective.  I now see many situations that, had they been met by the present me, would have been dealt with differently ... or might not have been confronted at all!

When I was briefly working in the USA at the millennium, I learned a deep truth, that any attempt to re-create an English way of doing things in California is doomed to failure from the outset.  It is a different country, with its own culture, ways of living, and doing all sorts of things.  As a complete set of behaviours they work, just as the corresponding complete set of English behaviours work in and of themselves.  As the saying goes, 'when in Rome, do as the Romans do'.  (Sorry for the geographical confusion there!)

Another thing that I attempted this week was to scan onto my computer a two-page document that I'd found in one of those files.  I haven't needed to use OCR software for many years, and the program on my laptop is not the same as the one I used long ago.  However I tried, a single page was all I could get it to cope with.  I even tried removing the program completely and re-installing it!  Still only one page could I manage.  I gave up, copied page one, copied page two, and added one to the other through the word processor.

I woke up this morning with a sense of contentment.  As I look back through the lens of this week at the past year, I realise that the plans I had a year ago for the next two years will never be fulfilled as I saw them then.  The same ends - more or less - have been achieved in a shorter time frame.  Life as I imagined it over twenty years ago just didn't happen.  Things turned out dramatically differently from the way I had expected.  And while I wouldn't want to go through some of those experiences again, the me that has emerged is more rounded, more capable in many ways, with a greater sense of achievement, although in ways that didn't even cross the horizon of my imagination then.  I realise that there are many things I'm not able to do, but I know there is contentment in those that I can.

So today I say 'thank you' to Mr Hartley and his century-old wisdom, and my Christmas prayer for all my readers across the world is that they may find the same contentment in their own lives that I know today.

Remember, Remember ...

Yesterday I listened to last weekend's Irish History Show on podcast.  There was a feature about TV viewing in Ireland before the momentous occasion on 31st December 1961 when Telefís Éireann broadcast for the first time. With BBC and ITV receivable in many parts of the country, it was reported that - I think in 1957 - there were more TV sets in Ireland than in Norway, Sweden or Denmark!  My mind drifted back through the years, and I recalled the arrival of the first TV set in our home.  What year was it?  How old was I at the time?  My memory was hard pressed to come up with a definite - let alone accurate - answer.

My powers of recall had already received a shock earlier in the day.  I'd spent most of it trawling through the contents of the third drawer of my filing cabinet, having discovered a day or two ago that it was so full I couldn't squeeze another single sheet of paper into it.  Happily, after the removal of quite a pile of unwanted archives, this is no longer the case.

The exercise brought to light early copies of a newsletter I used to circulate to a small number of close friends on a monthly basis ... a forerunner to this blog in some ways.  I remembered a time (the year could have been 2002 or 2003 ... or even 2004!) when I offered a short course in a local adult education group, and after learning something of the admin required, I was very thankful that there were no takers!  During the morning I learned that it did indeed take place in the autumn of 2002.  What I had completely forgotten was that the idea came from my acceptance of an invitation the previous winter to deliver two talks to a history group in my home town!

So, how reliable is my memory?  How reliable is anyone's memory?  I shall soon be boring my friends with stories of missions from the now completed archive of my courier career ... but how accurate will they be?  Just how many times did I try to sleep in the back of my van on a cold night ... and then give up after an hour and drive on in the dark?  ... which brings me to why I was up at 5.15 yesterday morning sorting out files all over the lounge floor.

For a couple of weeks now, sleep has been something of a challenge.  I'll wake up in the early hours and then find it difficult or impossible to get back to sleep again.  It could be the unusually warm winter nights; it could be the constant list of things on my mind to be achieved in connection with the transition from a semi-working van-owner to a fully-retired car-owner; or it could be some kind of 'cabin fever' the result of having no need to go out and cope with the traffic on the highways of our land, but instead to occupy myself all day at the desk and keyboard.

Cabin fever?  Somehow my mind wandered - it's been doing a lot of that lately - to Noah, cooped up in that smelly ark for weeks on end.  He must have suffered from a very severe bout of it!  And thinking further along those lines (although I realise that here I'm straying into the province of my 'other' blog), I thought of a smelly stable 2,000 years ago, where a young woman was forced by an accommodation problem to give birth to her firstborn child ...

At which point, it's time to wish all my readers Nadolig Llawen, Fröliche Weinachten, Milad Majid or whatever is your preferred term: Happy Christmas!  There may well not be a blog next week, but I'll be back in the New Year.

The End is Nigh!

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.

Becalmed ... with a Cough!

I'm sure you'll forgive the fact that there are no long journeys to report this week, only a couple of medium ones to be implied from the following narrative, and lots of local running about.  A few years ago, it was my habit to work during the holiday period ... or more precisely, be available for work: there was usually very little over these two weeks.  Then I would go along to the Society of Genealogists for their 'closed week', as a volunteer to assist in those library tasks that could only be done in the absence of browsing members.  Sadly this took a toll on the muscles of my thumbs, which are unaccustomed to lifting a number of volumes single-handed, and I decided against this strategy.

You could argue that the later policy of taking two complete weeks off at the turn of the year is simply going with the flow of much of the country's workforce.  This year, I'm undecided whether the reason is this compliance with everyone else, or because I'm feeling the need of a rest, or that this is the beginning of the 'semi-retirement' plan that I've been trumpeting for some while now.  However, the fact remains that I wasn't working last week, and I shall begin again tomorrow morning ... coinciding with the resumption of the early Monday breakfast group at the church.

Cutting the birthday cake

Meanwhile, I paid an extended visit to my cousin and her family; at least part of it, with her son also present, enjoying part of his long break with his parents.  It was here that I celebrated my birthday, since my cousin had expressed a wish to host a party for the occasion, and although some of the expected guests were unable to make it, the atmosphere - and the cake! - was excellent.

Some weeks ago, I finally took the decision to buy a motorhome in which I can 'amuse myself' in my retirement.  On the basis of a number of incidences through my life, I was fighting against the temptation to snap up the first one I looked at.  However, three weeks after looking at this particular vehicle, and allowing its attraction to crystalise in my mind just what it was I was seeking, I happened to pass by in the course of my work, and notice it standing there, still unsold.  One of the other dealers I'd visited had said that the weeks before Christmas were the ideal time to buy, before they stocked up with newer models for the new season, and I began to wonder whether some external Force might be working for me, and if this very one was the motorhome for me after all.

To cut a long story short, a number of factors came together that weekend, and on the Sunday afternoon I put down a deposit on it, on the condition that the dealer was content to await my receipt of a lump-sum from my pension before I would be able to complete the purchase.  He was, and so the deal was agreed.

Going nowhere!

While I was making my Birthday-cum-New-Year visit, I learned that my bank had received the cash, and so my return home was the start of two hectic days, arranging membership of a caravanning organisation, negotiating insurance cover, extending my existing breakdown recovery provision, sorting out the vehicle tax, and the ultimate acquisition of the vehicle, which finally took place yesterday morning.

Now I'm on a steep learning curve, getting to grips with all the features of a motorhome, which far exceed any boasted by the three smaller campers that I've owned before.  Alongside this, the vehicle is quite a bit bigger than my regular van, and in some aspects, I shall need to 're-train' in order to drive it safely on the roads, not least in respect of knowing which gaps will now be too small for me to pass, and where I must now be prepared to give way to other drivers!

Sleepless nights of anticipation have now given way to sleepless nights of list making, as I become aware of all the 'extras' that I now need to get to equip the motorhome, from kitchen utensils to mats and brushes, and supplies like gas to heat the water and the living area, and the chemicals for the toilet.

This morning dawned cold ... in fact there was ice to scrape off the van before I could go for my usual bell-ringing exercise.  The journey was hampered by freezing fog, which didn't lift until lunchtime, and common sense told me that my afternoon shopping trip would have to be postponed until a day of better weather.  In the meantime, the motorhome sits idly peering out of its rear window over the wall that surrounds my car park, fully dressed up in the legality of its new ownership, but with nowhere to go!

If I'm honest, it has worked out just right, because I've managed to catch a cold, and the experience - however unwelcome - of sitting indoors in the warm is much better for me than scrabbling about outside in a vehicle that has no heating until I can buy some gas.  Sometimes patience can be learned; at other times pressure has to be applied!

Christmas Cheer!

This is the time of year when weeks take on a different shape.  Since my childhood, this week has always been made up in this fashion: Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Saturday, another Sunday, 'Someday' and then Saturday again.  Someday?  Well, Boxing Day is like no other.  It's not a Sunday, because there are no church services (except for those really devoted people who celebrate the Feast of St. Stephen) and, legally speaking, if 26th December falls on a Sunday, it isn't Boxing Day anyway, because a Sunday can't be a Bank Holiday.  And it's not a Saturday either, because ... well, it just isn't.  Yet there is sport; for many years, it has been a definite full programme day for the world of football.  Even at the level that I watch, there were quite a number of matches to choose from today; although I decided to stay at home in the dry rather than venture out and get soaked.

"Chicken!" I hear you shout.  And you would be quite right - there was chicken for dinner today, after lashings of turkey yesterday. (I've lost count of the wonderful accompaniments that filled the remainder of the plate as I shared the festive meal at the home of a generous and welcoming family from our church, who made a last minute invitation that I just had to accept.)  And of course, the season wouldn't be complete without all the other special foods that only come out at this time of year, like the dates and candied fruits, the iced fruit cake decorated with sleds, santas and snowmen, and the tasty stollen (now easily obtainable from the nearest Lidl!)  Then there's the booze, of course, (more of that anon.) and the chocolate ... loads of it, on its own in all shapes and sizes, or coating biscuits or a variety of nuts and cremes; even some in square blue boxes imitating fruit!

But before all that, you'll no doubt be wondering about the Monday, Tuesday and 'Saturday' that came before the feast.  Monday began in routine fashion, with the regular delivery to Pinewood Studios, and then I went over to Thatcham to make a collection there for a customer in Luton.  After that came a sequence of three local jobs that filled up the day nicely, allowing me to join my friends in the tower for the final ringing practice of the year.

Tuesday reversed this pattern, with odd jobs first.  In fact, after a pre-booked collection of air-conditioning equipment in Welwyn Garden City for a house in Cambridge, it was so quiet that I thought maybe things had shut down already for the festival.  No so, however, for I was then sent to a farmyard workshop in a tiny village in rural Hertfordshire that I'd not heard of in my fifteen years as a resident. (Although I'm sure there are many more such places!)  On my way back, I took a detour to collect a package that was to be forwarded from our office to an address in Lancashire, and then a second detour to collect another job, from a customer in Hitchin.

I've often 'name-dropped' about the unique occasion quite early in my driving career (records aren't clear whether it was 2004 or 2006), when I found myself passing just inside the hallowed black door of no. 10 Downing Street, SW1; this particular job could have reached an even greater pinnacle of achievement.  The parcel I collected in Hitchin was for no less an address than Windsor Castle!  Although Her Majesty would not have been in residence, security was no less severe, and my instructions were clear.  I rang the number I'd been given, and the recipient met me on the roadside outside the gate, where I obtained the necessary signature under the gaze of the guards.  I wonder what action might have been taken had I not then promptly turned my van and driven off!

Once I'd returned, and agreed that I would be willing to do another job that evening, matters returned to normal ... or as normal as the day before Christmas Eve can be.  I loaded as many cases of drink as would cover the floor of the van (more than half its permissible payload in weight!) and set off for the fens.  As I entered the Red Lion in March, two customers were leaving.  One said to the other as they passed me, "Santa's early this year ... and he's not wearing red, either!"  The lady behind the bar saw my white beard and looked rather embarrassed.  "Seasonal joke," I said, putting her at ease before I determined where I should park in order to transfer some of my load to her cellar.  On then, to discharge the remainder of my consignment to the Three Tuns in Wisbech, where a willing customer offered to help, carrying some of the cases across the road to the rear entrance for me.

I was expecting work to be very quiet on Christmas Eve, but I usually offer to be available because it relieves the obligation on others who have families to think of, and often the work itself is not very demanding.  I had only one job, which I rather enjoyed, because it took me to the rural byways of southern Suffolk, delivering a case of wine to an isolated farmhouse in Stoke-by-Nayland.  I was reminded of a delivery I made some Christmas Eves ago, to a Victorian house in a terrace somewhere in London, about two streets from the Thames - I can't recall whether it was Chiswick or Wandsworth, or somewhere else in that general area.  What I do recall was that the occupants were the wife, and two children under ten, who were playing by the open fireside.  As I walked through their lounge a number of times to deliver several cases of wine to the kitchen, I thought what a charming picture they made, almost Dickensian, from the location, and yet not so, because of their dress and the toys ... and the TV in the corner.  I was very glad that this was my last job before Christmas.  It made my day, and in many ways made my festival complete!

Whatever Next ...?

... Or, put another way, 'a week not without incident'.

It began with an uninspiring visit to the office, where my PDA was unjammed, during which time I joined a new driver and completed my official training in the handling of medical samples.  At the end of this I was allowed to sign a certificate, which will be kept in the office, and was presented with more 'essential' equipment, a home for which must be found in my already over-crowded van.  The day proper continued with jobs to Harwich and Cambridge.  Despite being home soon enough, I missed my ringing practice because of an instruction to be in Stevenage for a 6.0 collection the next morning.

I confess, I was late, and didn't get there until about 6.15, but it made little difference.  No one at the warehouse knew anything about what I was supposed to collect, and I had to wait until the day shift arrived at 7.0 before I could collect the fresh produce that I took to Norwich to be photographed for publicity materials.  Upon my return, I was sent north again, this time to exchange nine cooker hobs on a building site in Manea.  There was then just time to clean the van's carpet and my boots before darkness fell, and I was about to settle down for the evening, when another call sent me off once more, this time to a medical practice in rural Essex.

Wednesday morning's fruitless exercise took place in Hertford.  As a matter of interest, it was at the very same building (although this time for the host company) where a few weeks ago I managed to set off the security alarm (see the full story here).  This week's job was to take 36 boxes to a retail park near to the Dartford river crossing.  We tried loading them one way and another, but there was no way this quantity of fairly large boxes would fit into my van.  The sender gave up, rang the office, who said they'd sent out a bigger van, and I left to make my way back home.  I got as far as the last junction up the motorway before mine, and was then turned back to visit a white goods firm in Hemel Hempstead.  The job was to collect two items, one for a hospital in Colchester, the other for a building site near Sudbury.

After a long wait, it transpired that I would only be collecting a large oven for the second of these, since the other job had been taken by another driver earlier in the day.  Once I was loaded, and about to depart, I rang the office to advise them of the change, whereupon the next phase of the saga unfolded.  It seems that the other driver had been 'persuaded' to take this Colchester job, notwithstanding that he was actually going to central London - not a combination that would normally be entertained!  By this time he was on his way back with it, and I was asked to meet him to collect my second job (which would actually be the first one) from him.  I set off for South Mimms services.

It was there that I learned the sorry truth.  The Colchester job was not one item but two and, with the oven already on board, there wouldn't be room in my van for both these additional items.  After some further discussion, I left for Suffolk with the one item I had collected, surprisingly unfazed by the fact that, after a completely wasted morning, this was the only job I would do that day.  This time it was too dark when I returned to clean the van a second time in as many days.

Thursday was a better day; possibly the best of the week.  It started with a large envelope to be taken to a converted granary office on a Norfolk farm. I'd woken up that morning with a strange feeling of regret that I had no pictures of the graves of my immediate family.  No sooner had I crystalised this thought, than I realised that this very day I could do something about that fact and, once my delivery had been made, it added only a couple of miles to my return journey if I diverted via the cemetery in my native Diss. Upon my arrival, I went straight to the oldest of the graves I sought, that of my paternal grandmother, for I remembered its prominent position, and found it neatly trimmed - a contrast to the last sight I had had of it, covered in long grass, with the headstone barely visible.

My father's grave

One by one, I found all the others.  My father's, a rugged York stone, that I had chosen myself to match his rugged life on the land, next to my mother's grave, unmarked save for a strange marker I didn't recognise and can't explain, thrust down into the site of a long-removed flower vase.
My maternal grandparents', neither of them marked by a stone, were surprisingly easy to find, because I remembered many a visit made with my mother in my teens, when we always recognised them by the adjacent stone which bore an unusual surname, Wass.  The last one took longest to locate.  It was that of my paternal grandfather, who died in 1950. I knew the rough area, but when I looked there, all the graves were much, much older, and somehow as I progressed with the dates, I then found myself amongst far newer ones than that which I sought.  At last, I explored in the opposite direction, and struck gold, as it were.  This particular plot may have initially been occupied by a garden or perhaps was a later addition, for here were several of this 'intermediate' age, as if positioned here as 'infill', long after the cemetery had been started in the mid-nineteenth century.

Thoughtfully I continued my journey home, and back to the world of work. A local job appeared on my screen just before I got home, and following this a hospital transfer that proved to be non-existent as both I and another driver sought it to no avail.  Someone had apparently got his wires crossed! Then came that crucial late-afternoon question, 'are you available for more work this evening?'  I decided that I was, and was persuaded to make another trip to Norfolk, to deliver some wine to a night club in the centre of Norwich.

The return journey was more exciting than I either expected or desired.  As I drove down the A11, delighting in the new dual carriageway through Suffolk at about 65 mph, with dipped headlights out of consideration for drivers coming in the opposite direction, suddenly the blackness of the road surface was broken by blood and gore.  I remember thinking that this stretched further than usual along the road but, since it was all between my wheels, I dismissed it as a larger-than-usual badger that had met its end.  No sooner had I done so than my lights picked out a large white object.  LUMP! I'd hit it and was up in the air.  CRASH! in a split second I was down again, and - amazingly - still travelling smoothly along the road.  It must have been a full-grown deer that had been killed by a passing lorry.  This morning my first call was at the garage, where I sought to confirm that nothing serious had befallen the van.  The staff there were only too pleased to run it onto one of the ramps before the work of the day got under way.  It was concluded that my alignment when I'd hit the beast was about as fortunate as it could have been.  A few inches either side and the result could have been serious. As it was, the only damage was to a few fuel-pipe clips that had been twisted a little out of position, the radiator grille needed re-fitting where it had been knocked loose, and I'd lost one half of the front skirt.

I think I can say that's the first time in my motoring history that I've hit an animal - alive or dead - and I'm quite content for it to be the last!  After that, the rest of the day pales into insignificance, with nothing more venturous than two loads of printing, one from Stevenage to Ampthill, the other from Hitchin to Barking, and in between some fibre-glass moulds and products from Bedford to Letchworth.

Tomorrow sees yet another rehearsal for our annual carol service the following day, and this intense weekend will be the opening phase of the festivities, with only three more days before the start of the long Christmas and New Year holiday.  No doubt there will be some account of the procedings here, but timing might be a little uncertain!

A Rewarding Pre-Christmas Week

The week began with something of a splendid Monday - not a record, perhaps, but a level not often achieved without a visit north of the border!  It began with a collection near Potters Bar of some plants for an establishment in Poole.  I stopped for early refreshment at South Mimms services, and just as I left there came advice of another job to be collected from Hertford before I did battle with the M25.  This was going to Swindon, and I diverted to deliver it first before heading for the seaside.  I had just returned to the van after making the Poole delivery when a call from another branch sent me just three miles down the road for a pick-up going to Heathrow.

The shine was knocked of an otherwise glorious day as I realised that I was getting cold.  Somehow the heating in the van was off.  I had encountered this problem a few weeks ago, and recalled feeling rather sheepish when the chap at the garage simply filled the cooling system with water.  I have water with me, so tried this remedy.  It worked, but only for about a hundred miles before needing to be filled again, and the third occasion came even sooner. Clearly something was wrong, and getting worse!  Next day I appeared early on the doorstep of the garage, and spent my day at home before it had been fixed.  The problem was a component hidden deep within the engine, and its replacement was most demanding of labour, patience, and the fruit of my wallet!

Two comparatively modest jobs on Wednesday in my toastie-warm van brought the week back into equilibrium, before Thursday began with a sequence of three, collecting in heavy rain from a customer in Hitchin, on a regular journey to the business park at Swavesey; over to the West Suffolk Hospital for another regular collection for a laboratory in Royston, and then a short run from Letchworth to Luton & Dunstable hospital.  I had time to get halfway through my weekly bookwork before being summoned to collect two jobs from Sandy.  The first was a batch of flower samples for a national supermarket, and the second a small package to be delivered not far from Gatwick Airport.

The lady who had provided the flowers was in generous - or festive - mood and (not for the first time) offered me some of the cast-aside blooms that had just missed being included in the premier displays I was to deliver.  So on my way home from Gatwick I diverted to share my good fortune between two lucky ladies in my home town.

The working week was rounded off by a day that sent me in succession to three of the four points of the compass.  I started with an 8.15 print collection for an estate agent in Colchester, followed quickly by some technical equipment for an address in Farnborough, and just as I left there I was asked if I could do another job in the early evening.  When I said I could, I was told of a delivery that would be ready for collection soon after 4.0 in Houghton Regis for Thame.

To corrupt a well-known axiom, it's the season for the reason for the season. In the run-up to Christmas the diary is so full there are definitely some things that just can't be fitted in.  Music practices for the annual carol service at church are being slotted in left, right and centre, with the hope that as many as can will turn up when we are available.  I think I've missed four now, but am gradually getting to grips with two delightful modern pieces that none of us had seen before.  Although home too late to sing last night, I knew the supermarket would be open, so the shopping at least could be crossed off.  In contrast, today's diary page is blank, and I was glad of a time for 'catch-up'.  By about 11.0 I was ready to go out, and in view of the glorious sunshine I decided on walking into town, where I had intended to rectify three items I noted had been missed from last night's shopping.

I was late enough to check my post before leaving home, and it was good that I was.  A few weeks ago I had had a letter from DWP enclosing a one from a famous life assurance firm, who were trying to trace me in order to secure my instructions regarding a company pension from the mid 1970s. It was one I'd been unable to trace when I sorted out my pensions early last year, and I had consigned the minuscule amount, generated by only about a year's contributions, to that big bin that is labeled 'Experience'.  Today, however, after a simple letter of acceptance, I received the cheque for the entire sum, which, if left intact, would have provided me with a magnificant annual pension of £9.01 for life!

As I passed through the town I couldn't resist the stall outside the bookshop! I came away with three small volumes ... which, as I paid for them, I described to the manager as 'forbidden fruit'.  Now I have to find space on my crowded shelves for a book of Suffolk remembrances, one of agricultural statistics, and a beautiful Folio Society edition of Parson Woodforde's Diary.

Even on Holiday ...

Well, it's still holiday so, although it's nearly over, there are no exciting travel stories with which to enthral my readers this week . . . and only one that wasn't exciting!

At holiday times things are different - no work means no alarm clock, so I could get up when I woke up ... though there was no compulsion, and I flatly refused to do so one morning at 5.0 am!  It's not only been a season of celebration, but of tidying up loose ends.  Just before Christmas I checked my premium bonds, as I did some time mid-year (it's clearly not one of my priorities).  I discovered that, back in July, when I was busy getting angry about a couple of prizes that I'd never received, and making declarations and arrangements for payment to be made - at that very moment - I was winning another small prize that, in its turn, wouldn't arrive on my doorstep!  I wonder where they go.  Is there an attractive home somewhere for misguided Bond prizes? Today, after the same catch-up procedures, (and fortunately missing hailstones as big as peas) I paid the warrant into my bank.

I've had a chance to look back and note other things that happened during the year.  One of my friends spoke of carrying out a formal A to Z review, and I commented that E was for Enniskillen, where I was sent on a job during April. (You can read about it here.)  This was the town where my great-uncle settled in the late nineteenth century, and when I've finished the particular slice of family history that's gripping me at the moment I intend to assail the difficult peak of on line research into Northern Irish records.  The Republic is fine, and there are many pre-partition resources that cover the whole of Ireland, but the six counties post-1923 seem a closed book . . . so far as I've learned up to now, at any rate.

Today, as I walked to the bank, I reflected that there's another letter I could have added to my alphabet of 2013.  W is for walking-stick, for it was last summer that I started using one.  It's not that I'm really disabled, and in some ways it seems very embarrassing - almost play-acting - to carry it, but it does make walking just that bit more comfortable, and I can go to places that I'd no longer consider walking to without it.  I recall my mother complaining endlessly about an ankle that had been a trouble to her as long as I can remember.  Whether the problem was caused by some external assault in her youth, or had always been there I know not, nor do I know whether, if the latter, such problems can be inherited - I rather doubt it.  However, there is definitely a weakness in one of mine that is difficult to describe with the kind of precision that would warrant specific treatment.  It just aches if I walk very far, and with the stick I can walk further before that point is reached.

Things are different at holiday times, I said.  Church on Sunday was different, too.  The day began with breakfast in the church hall, where I was asked politely across a bacon roll whether I'd had a good Christmas.  After affirming that I had, and replying to the next question that, yes, I had stayed at home, I added that I would be going away the next day, in order to spend the New Year with my cousin.  "How far will you have to travel?"  I was amazed at the precision and the casual air with which I said, "Only 105 miles!"  Even in holiday mode the driver in me comes to the fore when called upon.  So too, I found do traffic problems abound at holiday times.  My homeward journey yesterday was somewhat in excess of that 105 miles, owing to a hold-up on the M1 that sent me halfway around Leicestershire to find a quicker route home than sitting in a traffic queue.

Am I pleased, then, that things will be back to normal on Monday?  Yes, on the whole, I think I am.  While all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy (they say . . . and who are 'they', to know?), I'm sure the reverse is also true - it certainly is in my case, as you can tell by the foregoing waffle!

Waiting ...

It goes without saying, perhaps, that in this line of work there can be a lot of waiting.  For example, it was long understood that, if we got to the place of loading at the appointed time, and were kept waiting more than 20 minutes, then we would get paid 'waiting time'; similarly if, after arriving at our destination, we were kept waiting before the goods were unloaded and signed for, anything in excess of this magic 20 minutes would be paid for.  There are some occasions when access to a loading bay is delayed by a rigid queuing system, and we might have to wait for the unloading of other, much larger, vehicles.

Eventually, as was ever the case, the payment system became ill-used, and waiting time was regularly claimed by some drivers on certain jobs, whether applicable or not, so a ruling was made that all waiting time had to be signed for on our delivery sheets.  However, there was often no one available who was willing, or felt authorised, to do this, and in the face of all these difficulties, coupled with the fact that some customers refuse to pay it anyway, I have long since not bothered to claim it, whatever the circumstances.

In any case, this kind of waiting is small compared to the time when we can be waiting for the next job, and one bonus of my present situation, working from home, is that I can use my waiting time on something productive, from ironing to writing short stories, from reading to digging into my family history.

This week there have been a number of noticeably long periods of waiting other than waiting at home.  On Wednesday afternoon, for example, I had collected a couple of large boxes from a customer to be sent by airfreight to their clients in far-off lands.  The first had to be taken to forwarding agents in Uxbridge, where I followed the usual instructions to wear hi-viz clothing and enter a door marked 'All drivers report here!'  Inside I found myself along with two other drivers in a small wire cage, through which we could see the warehouse staff busily going about their business, and at the same time totally ignoring us.  After a few minutes, one of the others said, with characteristic irony, "They're funny things, these hi-viz jackets - they make you completely invisible!"  Eventually it became apparent that out of all the staff present, only one was dealing with incoming goods, and it was well over half an hour before I was unloaded and on my way again.

As it happened my next job was to collect something left for me at the customer services desk in a Tesco superstore.  Here both the customer services staff and I were the victims of 'Chinese whispers'.  So far as I was concerned, I was collecting an envelope, which is what I told the already very busy staff behind the counter.  Not being aware of such an item, they searched high and low for an envelope that might have been left with a previous shift for collection; phone calls were made to staff in other likely departments; the assistant manager of the store was also involved  ... all to no avail.  All I could tell them by way of assistance was the name and business of our customer, on behalf of whom I was collecting; I had no idea what was in the envelope, and therefore had no idea of the size.

An hour after my arrival, following extensive searches and enquries within the store, a phone call to my office, and others to our customer, from them to Tesco, and back down the chain, I emerged with not an envelope, but a hard, black A3 folder containing just a few paper notes.  Apparently 'folder' had been interpreted as 'manila folder', and then 'folder or envelope', and so on. Eventually I learned that our customer's sales rep, to whom I delivered the item, had left this behind in error earlier in the day, and only discovered its loss some miles away when he arrived at his next call.

Friday morning brought more 'on-the-job' waiting.  I was up early, having been deputed to arrive at a company in Waterbeach at 6.30 am to collect goods for our customer in Royston.  My arrival - at half-past on the dot - caused something of a sensation.  Yes, goods for our mutual customer had been processed during the night, but since they had no idea I was coming, let alone that early, the paperwork wasn't ready, and indeed the member of staff responsible wouldn't arrive until 7.0!  As it happened, he was early, and prepared to get straight onto the task, and soon after 7.0, I was loaded and on my way.  It gave me an unusual opportunity to admire the cleanliness and tidy organisation of a factory, and compare it favourably to those within which I've worked in the past.

Today brings me happy memories connected with a totally different sort of waiting.  Tomorrow sees the start of the Christian season of Advent: a different sort of waiting - both preparation for Christmas, and a time of looking forward to the Second Coming of Christ.  Almost thirty years ago, when I was studying German, my teacher recommended that those of us who were interested might benefit from paying a visit to St Michael's Church Hall in the centre of Cambridge.  Here, for many years, it had been the practice of the city's Lutheran community to hold an annual 'Advent Fair'.  It was, you might say, the 'original version' of the sort of Christmas paraphernalia that Prince Albert introduced to Victorian England (like our adored Christmas tree!)  I went along to it at least two years, and it was as good as she had foretold.

To visit what on any other day was just a bare church hall was, on that occasion, like stepping into a foreign wonderland.  There were presents and decorations to buy; there were pine decorations, the scent of which was quite intoxicating; and lovely cakes and sweetmeats, too. ...  Oh, the variety of fare to eat, both savory and sweet, was truly remarkable.  The event concluded with a short service conducted partly in English and partly in German, as were the carols that we sang.  I visited Cambridge again in the mid '90s with an idea of going there again, but the hall was closed.  I think the Lutherans have their own church building now, and presumably if the event still happens, it would be there.  Nothing, however, can replace for me that special atmosphere, with the medieval stonework and Gothic windows as a backdrop.

Ah, well!  Back to the twenty-first century!

Downtime

It's usual, at holiday times, for a list to be issued to all us self-employed types (each of whom is a law unto himself), to declare when we will or will not be available for work over the holiday period.  I changed my normal pattern this year.  For the last few years, I've gone away for Christmas, declared myself available over the New Year, and then had another week off in January, when I helped in the library of the Society of Genealogy during their 'working week'.

Now, you may or may not realise it, but one of the most hazardous aspects of the untrained working in libraries is the possibility of sprained thumbs as the hands are spread to their widest to lift a span of up to 5" of books at a time.  The weight of this width of books along a shelf can be as little as one pound, or as much as three or four, depending upon the size, material and age of the books concerned.  The resulting strain on unaccustomed hands of three or four solid days of this work can be quite deleterious, and last year I found my thumbs still aching at midsummer.

Taking this into consideration along with a number of other factors, I decided that this year would be different.  I stayed at home for Christmas, and have journeyed away for part of the interval before the New Year.  And then, once I've returned to work next week, if I do have time off later in the month it will be because of the seasonal downturn in the delivery business rather than to go to 'working week', much though I have enjoyed the company there in past years.  This overall decision was endorsed when I discovered that I had been selected for the privilege of reading the Christmas Gospel for the midnight service.  I had no intention of seeking someone with whom to swap!

So, what benefits have accrued as a result of this year's break?  First of all, as expected, a week away from the disciplines of work has enabled the body to relax, and I find I'm yawning a lot as a result.  The work pattern hasn't been completely cast aside, however, and I still wake up at silly o'clock in the mornings, despite retiring a little later at night.  [Yes, I know that may be a cause of extra tiredness and hence yawning, but I'm sticking to my earlier excuse - sorry, explanation!]  And then there's the matter of staying for some days in a family home. 

As one normally living alone with full control of his time and space, the challenge of sharing these facilities with two others - however welcoming they might be - is one that has to be recognised and overcome.  I have made the necessary allowances, and in return have been accorded privileges above the average due to a guest.  In so doing, I have observed the details of domestic trivia being lived out around me, and compared these to the short-cuts and half-dones that are my own equivalent arrangements - and I feel enriched.

Now for the reciprocal challenge of going home ..........

The Nose has it

It wasn’t at all unusual.  The other afternoon I took a few sips of refreshing water as I drove home after a job.  Its flavour was just as water ever tastes, but this time as I put the bottle to my lips my nose detected a somewhat unpleasant odour.  Either the neck of the bottle or the cap was distinctly tainted with stale dishcloth. Yeukk!

Thus reminded that the sense of smell is the most powerful, and most able to evoke memories, I spent the next few miles in silent, and for the most part happy, recollection of significant smells of the past.  One of the earliest I remembered was that of fir resin, as exuded by a ‘real’ Christmas tree, and as I considered those early Christmasses in the home of my grandparents, where the family gathered regularly each year, I remembered too a time only a few years back when I had sought out a seasonal wreath, simply to fill my tiny flat with the ‘right’ smell for Christmas.

The other key thing about memory is, of course, that those things longest ago are those we remember most vividly.  I’ve never got to the bottom of why this should be.  In my smell-induced reverie, I brought forth a few more from childhood.  One was the smell of freshly baked bread.  The route from my home through the town to school was past the local bakery; nowadays such places are an increasing rarity in the high street, but whenever I find one, there is a great temptation to linger and take in deep breaths of nostalgia.

Another smell that is becoming rarer with the passage of time and with anti-smoking legislation is the pipe.  A few wielders of the trusty briar remain, however, and – depending what brand of tobacco they smoke – the aromatic clouds that engulf them can remind me of my own home, where my father regularly smoked Juggler, or perhaps of family holidays - occasions when my uncle, who rolled his own cigarettes during the rest of the year, took out his pipe and enjoyed Erinmore Flake.

Other smells I remembered were more natural, and potentially healthier too.  The other day we all enjoyed a most refreshing perfume as we sat in the office with the door open – that of fresh rain falling on grass and concrete after a prolonged dry spell.  Connected with this is another that reminded me of schooldays – the scent of grass clippings as they dry in the open.  Every week or two during the summer our school field would be cut by a large device pulled by a tractor.  The clippings were never gathered up, and when we played on the field afterwards we seemed to be surrounded by this smell, which grew more pungent in dry weather as they slowly rotted on top of the new growth underneath.

Now – where did I put that bottle of bleach?