More Interest!

I described last week as 'interesting'.  This week was possibly more so; I leave it to my readers to decide which meaning they apply to the word this time.  Monday was a good day.  When I received a mail order delivery on Tuesday evening, the driver saw my uniform as I answered the door and asked me about working for CitySprint.  'How many jobs do you get in a day?' he asked.  He has to take well over 100, as a multi-drop driver, and only gets paid for the ones he actually delivers.  I told him 'anything from one to eight', and used Monday's experience as an 'average' illustration.

I began with a visit to a tiny village near Oundle, where all the houses are in 'Main Street', and have names instead of numbers.  As usual, I found the right one on my way back through the village, and delivered to the man who had waved to me as I went past on my first pass.  On then, to Grantham and District Hospital, a neat and modern place, much of which is on a single floor.  By late morning I was almost home again, and given two more jobs, one from Letchworth to Welwyn Garden City, and the other from Stevenage to High Wycombe.  I think it was while driving round the M25, that I was asked to collect some white goods in Hemel Hempstead on my way home, for delivery in Hereford for 8.0 the next morning.  I had nearly got to High Wycombe when a change of plan was announced.  In my present location, I was the only chance, the controller decided, of achieving a collection that afternoon from the John Radcliffe Hospital in Oxford, to be returned that evening to our depot in Letchworth.  Any fear of an early start the next morning was cast aside, and I went to bellringing practice as usual, where there were many old faces, some of whom hadn't been there for a considerable time.

Tuesday started off in fine form, as I hoped for a long job to make up for losing Hereford.  A collection from Bedford for Milton Keynes was complemented by a pick-up in Flitwick on the way back for exchange at Elstree film studios, and return to our customer.  Now, Tuesday morning was subject to sporadic but heavy rain showers, and as I passed Toddington Services on my way back to Flitwick, my windscreen wipers decided to take a holiday.  In fact one part beneath the surface had had enough, after going to and fro for a quarter of a million miles.  I completed my delivery and then made my way to the garage, seeking restoration of rain-shifting services. Sadly, the required part couldn't be delivered until the following morning, but one of the staff was able to arrange a temporary 'fix', using the wiper mechanism from his own car to keep me going.  Wednesday, therefore started on time in the morning, but consisted only of a handful of very local jobs, until I attended the garage in mid-afternoon for the job to be completed.

As I reported to the office my status as once more available, I was asked if I'd like an 8.0 am collection in Letchworth on Thursday.  This was a job to Gloucester that had been requested by the Swindon office.  I accepted this, and duly presented myself at a factory opposite my home at the required hour.  Unfortunately (the job having been arranged by their customer), they weren't aware that I would be calling so early for the goods; these were already packed, but I had to wait some while for the paperwork to be completed.  Once this job had been delivered, I called Swindon, with a fair hope, I thought, of getting more work from them.  I wasn't disappointed, and a few minutes later they called me back with a pick-up in Bishop's Cleeve near Cheltenham, for central Birmingham.  In the afternoon, the triangle was completed by a job from the Warwick office, collecting in Nuneaton, for delivery in Harlow.

I had called the office on my way home to explain my situation, because this delivery couldn't be made until the following morning.  However, the message wasn't passed on in its entirety, because when I received a call about an hour later, it was to ask if I fancied a trip to Wales ... that evening! I pointed out that, while this would be quite acceptable (it would compensate nicely for the work I'd lost through the wiper malfunction earlier in the week), I wouldn't be home early enough to contemplate an 8.0 delivery almost thirty miles from home the next morning!  "Leave it with me." I was told.

When there's a willing driver to do a potentially awkward job, there's usually a way, and someone was coerced to make the Harlow delivery yesterday morning.  I took the goods to the depot and made my way to our customer in Hitchin.  Since venturing to North Wales in my motorhome in June, I've decided to pick up once more the Welsh tutorial that I'd abandoned some forty-five years ago and, as I drove up to the customer's premises, I realised that I could now form an appropriate sentence.  There are building works going on in the yard, so I stopped where I could be seen some distance from the door, and got out of the van.  As the customer walked over with the expected lightweight parcel, I greeted him with "Yr wyf i yn mynd i Gymru!"  I had to stifle my smile at the man's face: something between shock and amusement.  "Are you Welsh, then?" he asked.  I explained, but decided not to translate, leaving him to think that it was something more elaborate than 'I'm going to Wales.'

The job itself was not difficult, although it would have been easier in daylight.  It was to a private house in a one-street village, where a group of new houses have been given a separate name.  SatNav - misguidedly helpful as ever - decided that this was another street, running parallel to the real one.  It tried to find me the right lane to use to get there, as a result of which I now have an intimate knowledge of several inapplicable garage drives. Fortunately the parcel's recipient had heard a slow-moving van passing to and fro, and opened her door!  The rest echoes the history of many previous late-night jobs; I was home and snug in bed by about 3.30 am.

The protracted nature of Thursday meant that Friday began at lunchtime, and I confess I was not expecting anything exciting.  Au contraire, the controller was most relieved to take my call.  He was runned off his feet, and didn't even need to call me back to request a collection in Hitchin for a hospital in Nottingham, and a pick-up in Biggleswade for a factory in Newark on the way.  A leisurely drive to places I'm familiar with, on a sunny afternoon at the end of the week was ... delightful!

Today has seen a bit of tidying up, before going to watch a football match. We all stood in silence for a minute before the start in memory of players Matt Grimstone and Jacob Schilt of Worthing Utd. and the others killed in the Shoreham Airshow tragedy last weekend.  In keeping with the last match I saw, two weeks ago, the team I support - in this case Biggleswade Town - was one goal down soon after the start, but on this occasion things livened up in the second half.  There were four more goals, at least three yellow cards, two sendings-off, one saved penalty, and the result was a 3-2 home win.  Oh, and the man sitting next to me won a prize in the raffle ... the nearest I've been to a prize in years!

Now for another 'retired week', beginning with a family visit for the Bank Holiday.

Two Halves, and lots of Changes!

I think I may have used that idea of a 'game of two halves' before, but I make no apologies, for the week I'm about to describe has been definitely lop-sided.  It started very sluggishly, since I was out late last Friday evening, and drove straight from the delivery to arrive slightly late for the first event at church in what was to be a busy - almost 'festival' - weekend, with a visiting speaker and lots of activities.

The working week therefore began with a phone call to say I was available, and it was some while later that I was sent to Cheshunt, with a collection in Harlow on the way back.  A couple of hours at home preceded a later collection in Milton Keynes, for delivery in Hitchin the next morning - and that not until 8.30!  This was followed by a trip to Colchester to deliver just off the A12, near the football ground, and Tuesday finished with a journey to Northampton General Hospital, and a letter to Luton County Court en route. Two action-packed not-very-ambitious days, with the usual bellringing practice in between.

Wednesday began in the same vein, with a trip from Luton to Cambridge, to take some electronic equipment that had been repaired, and then a return trip with more items for the next repair cycle.  After another wait at my desk at home, came a collection in Letchworth for Ware.  Just as I was beginning to despair of getting my teeth (or, more accurately, wheels!) into something exciting, things began to change in my favour.  As I was about to pull into the gateway for this collection, came a phone call, announcing an alternative plan.  In the next street was a consignment for a hospital in Grimsby!  At half-past Wednesday, the week was about to kick off!

Grimsby is a place I haven't visited much in this career - only three times, in fact.  But it certainly hasn't proved to be grim.  My recollection is of sunshine, and this was no exception.  When I was nearly there, a call outlined my work for the following morning, with a collection at 9.0 in Coventry.  As I turned for home, came the next change of plan.  The bad news, I was told, was that the Coventry job was too big for my van; the good news was of two other jobs that would definitely go together.  One was an envelope for Bristol, and the other some equipment to be collected in Bedford at 8.30 for 'Newport'.  Unsurprisingly, I discovered that this didn't mean Newport itself, but one of the many places that are unpronounceable (at least on first sight) with an NP postcode.  In this case it was Coedkernew.

I was up in good time, and almost to the pick-up point.  "All change!" again. The customer now required delivery to a CH postcode instead ... which would rule out the Bristol job for me, of course.  I'd just come to terms with this amendment, when further phone calls announced that this change was being reversed.  A casual comment when signing for the goods revealed that someone had read the invoicing address and reacted over-swiftly to an apparent error that wasn't.  So by 9.0, I was on my way to the delights of the M4 and the Severn Crossing.  It's the first westbound crossing I've made for some years, and was aghast at the toll charge of £13.10!  Having an inkling of the answer, I decided to ask the attendant about the charge for a motorhome.  "Is this a motorhome?" he asked.  I couldn't decide whether he was serious or not ... and perhaps this was his view of me, too.  "No, I'm just asking the question." "£6.50," he said.  "... And it's twice as big as this, and a bigger engine as well" I offered.  "Yes," he said, "some of them are as big as a battleship.  I don't make the rules, though.  A van is a van is a van; it's £13.10, but if it's a motorhome, however big, it's £6.50"  Having enjoyed this little banter, I bade him 'diolch' and went on my way.

After effecting my delivery, I decided that I'd had enough of motorways, so when I reached junction 24, I turned off towards Monmouth ... forgetting completely that I needed diesel!  SatNav did its best, found me an Esso near Abergavenny, but a) it was about 5 miles beyond the town, and b) the post code was clearly incorrect, because it fetched me up on a narrow lane with not a house in sight, let alone a filling station.  I headed for Hereford, where I was successful, with my gauge just on the edge of the 'pink-light' zone, and then made for home.  I hadn't gone far before I was spotted by one of the many City Sprint offices ... Birmingham, I think ... who gave me two jobs out of Worcester, one for Birmingham (easy once I'd found the place), the other for a beautiful residential school for the disabled at Mirfield.  Doing these was well worth my while, but I had to question whether M6 & M62 was really the best route from Birmingham to West Yorkshire!  By the time I got home it had been an almost 18-hour day, of which an hour was taken out for a meal at Hartshead Moor services, and half an hour for a snooze at Gonnerby Moor services.  The total circuit was 619 miles!

I heard something today about the mind being fatigued more readily than the body, and I had to agree with this contention.  Yesterday's experience was typical.  While I listened to the test match commentary I found myself tiringly frustrated by the lack of action, but in the evening, when my accompaniment was a succession of podcasts, and I was able to follow the sequence of thought in these, my fatigue was much less noticeable, although I slept well once I was home!

This afternoon, once I'd surfaced and caught up with the administration of the long day, I presented myself for 'light duties', and did little more than 100 miles in three short jobs, including collecting work for other drivers.  Now, after three weeks on the road, I can plan for another week of R&R, the tale of which I shall share next weekend.

Too Much of a Good Thing!

Holiday weather ... it's always the same - the good weather greets your return, rather than accompanies you for the vacation.  But this time, I think - even despite a wet Monday in the motorhome - I got it right.  This week has certainly been hot for driving, but it would have been unbearable for sightseeing.  I clocked 34.5 degrees at Heathrow on Wednesday afternoon, and 29 yesterday.

Workwise, it's been a good week, although it got off to a rather unsteady start when I drove round town to pick up my first job only to be told that it wouldn't be ready for an hour, so I had to return home again.  The highlights came mid-week, with a delivery in Stranraer on Wednesday morning, and on Thursday afternoon a trip to Newbridge, about 11 miles from Newport.   In the thirteen years I've been driving, it's the first time I've been to both Scotland and Wales in the same week - let alone on consecutive days! - and I found it quite exhausting.  The worst part, by far, is the 100-mile trek from the M74 across to Stranraer, although it is relieved by glimpses of the Irish Sea in places, and on this occasion by a relaxing breakfast stop at a roadside cafe that has far more to offer when circumstances are different!

When driving, I hear far more news bulletins than otherwise, and it was noticeable to experience things in my week that reflected the news.  Last summer, I did a delivery and a collection in Northern Ireland and, bearing in mind my comments above about the road to Stranraer, I made my journey there by way of Holyhead and Dublin.  I had forgotten the detail of that trip until this week, when I recalled spilling my change in the van after paying the toll on the motorway.  What brought it to mind was listening to the news reports of Greece's Euro-problems and looking down to see a 1-cent coin that had suddenly shaken into view beneath the passenger seat, having been lost since last summer's journey.

Yesterday, as I made my way back from a sweltering visit to a building site in Farnborough, I was given a job by the Heathrow office, which proved most beneficial, because it meant that I could find my way through the villages of Middlesex rather than sit for ages on a hot and crowded M25.  In order to collect this job, I had to visit the office.  This is in the village of Harmondsworth, which has been in the news this week because of the proposed expansion to Heathrow airport.   If this goes ahead as planned, the village would disappear from the map!

Of course, you will be pleased to know that the Repeating Genie is still alive and kicking!  It's some while since I'd been to Kent.  In fact, since the introduction of the Dart Charge in November, I've only just had to replenish my account for the second time!  This week saw me visiting Rochester for two separate deliveries, on Monday and Thursday.  Similarly, Heathrow has escaped my attention for some while, and the collection yesterday was the second visit in three days.  I had been spotted by the Leeds office on my way back from Scotland and was diverted to RAF Dishforth, where I collected a small parcel to take to an international freight depot in Hayes.  It's certainly useful when these other offices keep a close eye on their screens to spot someone else's vehicle passing through their area!

This afternoon's activities will include participation in the annual striking competition.  Our team is drawn to ring at 5.15pm, so I'm hoping it will be a little cooler by then.

Slices of Life ... and Death

It's been strangely symetrical, this holiday week ... and I do call this one a 'holiday' week, rather than simply one when I've been retired rather than working, because in many ways it has been my summer holiday ... even if I may have one or more such trips before the end of the season.  It began with the news that, early on Sunday morning, one of the stalwarts of our church had died.  She had been ill for some while, so it was not unexpected, but even so, it came as a shock to many of us when the announcement was made.

All my preparations were made, and all I had to do after the service was to return home, swap vehicles and within an hour I was setting off on my travels.  The week took me to three caravan and camping sites, each different from the others, carrying with it its own atmosphere and experiences for me.  I had planned that, staying two nights at each site, I would make an excursion during the full day there to some other place of interest.  In the event, two of these extra visits were made on the way to the respective sites, and the third was simply abandoned.  Coincidentally, all three site names begin with 'B'.

From Blackshaw Grange, near Leek, Staffs., I had planned to use two bus services to get to Leek and then to Ashbourne, but I realised that since time was on my side, it would be just as easy to make my visit on the Sunday afternoon.  My aim was the Airfield Industrial Estate, to see whether there were any remaining evidence of the former airfield, since it was there that my cousin was based during the Second World War, and he had left there as a volunteer for the mission that claimed his life on D-Day.  Since the airfield was closed about sixty years ago, and has since been slowly but surely taken over by industry, relics were few and far between.  It was as well that I did go on Sunday, because Monday was wet all day, and I got to know the inside of my motorhome very well indeed!

A pitch beneath the trees

The site at Blackshaw Grange is a small one run by the Camping and Caravanning Club, within sight of the open moorland.  The facilities are in stone-walled buildings which look authentic, but are probably purpose-built in sympathy with the countryside around.  It felt homely, the staff were helpful, and the only problem was picking a pitch under the trees, so that it sounded as if it were raining, even when it wasn't!

Haymaking at Llanuwchllyn

On Tuesday morning I set out for my second 'B' - Bwch-yn-Uchaf, at Llanuwchllyn, near the southern tip of Llyn Tegid, also known as Lake Bala.  This is part of a working farm, and when I arrived haymaking was in progress.  It's situated between river and railway line, with Afon Twrch on the left, and the Bala Lake Railway on the right.  I was the only visitor at that time, and was sited back to the fence of the station, so I could see and hear all the comings and goings with no effort at all.  It was interesting, too, to chat to the proprietor of the site and hear of all his plans for the future, to maximise all the attributes his land has to offer.

I had planned while there to drive round the lake to see a new development at Llanycil on the northern side, but like Sunday, I realised that I would be passing this on my way, with time to stop, so to do so would avoid the need to secure everything in the motorhome in order to drive round the next day. The place I visited was called Mary Jones World, and I shall be writing about this in the next few days on my other blog, Gospel Around Us, so to find out more, visit http://gospelaroundus.blogspot.co.uk/ and look out for "So who was Mary Jones?".

The site at Bwch-yn-Uchaf (the name means 'The Highest Buck', I think) was a little more primitive than the bespoke club sites, but the facilities were clean and adequate, and on reflection I think it was, for me at least, the most pleasant of the three locations.

Thursday found me at the other end of the spectrum, as I arrived at a large club site on the outskirts of Kidderminster, a place with rolling neatly-trimmed grass slopes, dotted over which were caravans and motorhomes, great and small, with the occasional tent hidden amongst the awnings.  I chose a pitch back to the hedge, but made sure I wasn't under a tree!  This wouldn't have mattered, because the weather was fine and for the most part sunny, too.  The site, called Brown Westhead Park, while busy and commercial, boasting information and recreation rooms as well as all the expected facilities - which were spotlessly clean! - wasn't at all impersonal, as I found when I had a couple of small problems, which were dealt with both promptly and thoroughly.

While there, I had planned to take a look at the Severn Valley Railway, whose terminus is next to the main line station at Kidderminster, but in the event, realising that the bus tmes were somewhat inconvenient, I decided to walk into the town.  Having done so, my thoughts were elsewhere than on the railway, my first purpose being to locate the departure point of a bus back to the site, since I had no desire to walk back again!  I found the centre somewhat characterless in its newness, but clearly a good place to shop.

On my way home today, I planned to visit my cousin in Birmingham, the sister of the one who had been based at RAF Ashbourne.  On leaving Brown Westhead Park, I made my way through the Worcestershire countryside to the southern suburbs of the city, to the last address I had for my cousin.  A strange face met  me at the door, and this lady explained that, not only had my cousin and her husband moved into a care home some while ago, but also that, since then, they had both died!  We had not been close - the distance and lack of transport had meant that no one else from Norfolk had visited them, although they had made the trip in the opposite direction many times over the years - but this would have been my fourth visit in twenty years, and I was quite fond of her.  She was only a few years younger than my mother and, being my father's eldest neice, she had provided some interesting insights into the family's life between the wars.  I now have an address for her son, and this might be a source of more information in the months to come.

Rolling, neatly-trimmed grass slopes:
Brown Westhead Park

Mixed Fare

Everyone has two sets of grandparents (in theory, at least), and most people have countless cousins of one degree or another.  However, in my childhood there was one grandad, since the other one had died scarcely a year after I was born, and I never knew him.  Likewise, there was only one cousin, to my early knowledge, she being the daughter of my mother's sister, for I had never met any others.  So, when I talk of 'my cousin', with no supplementary description, it is this one to whom I still refer.

My cousin has a habit of tackling puzzles.  She claims - and I believe her - that to use the mind and keep it 'sharp' will prolong its usefulness as we advance into old(er!) age.  So it was, prompted by I know not what, that I was doing mental arithmetic in my bath this morning, and have determined that, on 17th April, i.e. in just under three weeks' time, I shall have reached the precise age that the aforesaid grandfather had on the day that I was born.

I thought I'd share these musings, dear reader, because there is little to tell of the working week that preceded them.  It was good, and reasonably productive, but there were few highlights.  The traffic was so bad on the M25 on Monday morning, that the week got off to a very bad start.  I had thought that an extra half-hour ought to be enough to allow me to get to Camberley for 7.30, but I eventually arrived at 8.35!  As I made my profuse apologies, my ears seemed to hear music, for I was kindly, but promptly told that had I arrived at 7.30, there would have been no one there!  This was followed by a puzzled enquiry what it was that I was hoping to collect, for they had not requested a collection.  Eventually all was made clear, that I was there to correct an error made by another courier company on the previous Friday, by picking up a parcel they had delivered by mistake, and take it where it should have gone.  Why people can't correct their own mistakes, I don't understand!

On Tuesday came a job that I was determined would not be late!  Last time I did this run, from Baldock to Slough, I had been diverted to another job, and then delayed by an accident along the way, so that delivery had come a massive five hours after collection.  So, I was on the doorstep promptly at 8.0, had no holdups at all, and had remembered that the entrance to the destination building was on a different road, which had added a further five minutes to my time on the last occasion!

The biggest job of the week - nay, of the year, I think - came to me on Wednesday, when I was given a box to be delivered between 8.0 and 9.0 the following morning in a tiny place called Cwmfelinfach.  You will have already concluded that this is in Wales; in fact it's not far from Newport, but is more easily reached from the north than by going into the town.  This justified, if justification were necessary, my normal decision to go to south Wales via the M1 and Ross-on-Wye rather than the M4 and the Severn tolls.

Somewhere in the distant past, I've heard a saying about sleep and late night habits, 'one hour before eleven is worth two after.'  This certainly proved true on this occasion.  I had made my preparations and was into bed on Wednesday evening by about 8.0, only to wake up just before 10.0.  As is often the case when I try to shunt my night's sleep forward a few hours, I was awake again by 1.0am, and only really dozed after that.  By 2.50, I decided to get up rather than toss and turn for another half-hour until the alarm should go off.  When I did leave, at about 3.30, I didn't stop at all until I got to Monmouth, and didn't need any delay for a doze.  Although unnecessary for financial reasons (the toll is payable going into Wales, but not coming back to England), I decided to return the same way, and stopped at the High Noon services on the A40 just north of Monmouth for breakfast. I've been there before, and enjoy the tranquility and the super view of the hills between the road and the Wye.

Amazingly, I was spotted on my way back by the office at Warwick, who invited me to choose between two jobs for which they would like to enlist my help.  These were two of a whole cluster to be picked up at a warehouse near the A5 in Lutterworth, going to a variety of destinations across a swathe of the midlands.  The choice I had was either Derby and Mansfield, or Nottingham, so partly because of the distance, and partly because I know the place better, I chose Nottingham, and was rewarded in that what appeared on paper to be two deliveries, were in fact to the very same building.

As if to bear out the truth of that saying, I arrived back in Letchworth about 4.30, and wasn't even feeling tired!  Sadly, the same can't be said of today, however, after a day's bell-ringing.  In our annual spring outing, we visited six churches, none more than a dozen miles from home, but with bells either heavier or harder work - sometimes both - than our own, it proved quite an exhausting, if enjoyable day.

Now for a work-free week in which to recover!

Slow, Quick, Slow, Slow, Quick

I think it was the dance-band leader Victor Sylvester who coined the original phrase, or at least who was the subject of it.  Slow, slow, quick, quick, slow, was the time theme to one of the popular dances of his era.  Not being a dancer at all, I have no intention of embarrassing myself by suggesting which one!  Nevertheless, the idea of two of one sort and three of the opposite does characterise the past week in my working life.

After my usual early start on Monday for the men's breakfast at church, I returned home for quite a long wait, before I was given two jobs, one from Letchworth to Burnham (near Slough), and the other collecting on the way from Luton for an address not far from Heathrow airport.  I'd just delivered this, when my onboard computer told me there was another job to interleave with the one I was left with, collecting from Colnbrook and delivering in Slough.  That left me an almost complete afternoon to myself.

Tuesday was much better, with an early departure with a small box I had collected on my way home on Monday, to be delivered at Loughborough University by 8.30.  I was home late morning, and there was just time to make a cup of tea - but not to drink it - before the second job of the day came, to take some luxury bathroom parts to a village not far from Portsmouth.  Again I collected a job on the way home for the next morning, this time from nearby Stotfold, for a firm in Haverhill.  This was the start of a busy but not very productive day, just returning home from one job to be given another one, and all of them quite short.  I finished up at Stansted airport, at which point the vigilant Brentwood office (to whom I owed most of my Essex tour last Friday) spotted me, and offered me a run to Cardiff that evening.  Ordinarily, I would have snapped this up, but having been up since 5.30 am, and now not in the habit of long runs, I was certain that I would need to stop for an essential sleep at least on the way home, if not on the outward leg!  I quickly added to this the fact that, from Stansted, the logical way to Wales would be via the Severn bridge, with its associated toll, and decided against it.

Instead, on my way home I was asked to collect the regular run to Pinewood Studios, and this week I was in no mind to argue with that.  Thursday morning, therefore, found me almost home, but turned around at one of the Stevenage junctions to collect from Hertford for Milton Keynes.  I was back by 12.45pm, but by then the day had - almost literally - finished.  I learned the next day that the phones hadn't rung at all after 2.0 pm!  In a way this was a blessing in a completely different direction, however, for I found a crie-de-coeur in my inbox when I checked my e-mails, from a friend who was feeling quite swamped by pressures from a number of different sources, and sought advice and prayer.  With no interruptions from incoming jobs, and yet tied to my phone and desk by still being 'on call', I was able to give considerably more time and thought than might otherwise have been the case, to devising my response.

Friday began with a regular Lenten prayer meeting at church, during which I was asked how my week was going.  I suggested a long job would ease my situation greatly, and someone suggested 'perhaps Lincoln ... that's a nice peaceful direction'.  A couple of hours later I was sent first to Bishops Stortford, and was almost back from there when two jobs appeared.  One was to Huntingdon, the other to Hull, so the prayer was rather answered more than 100%.  I returned via the truck stop near Peterborough, and was home soon after 8.30pm.

Today - apart from joining with some other men from the church making posies for tomorrow's Mothering Sunday services - I've been digging into my past, via an old photo album. Just over 25 years ago, I took my children on a camping holiday in France, and when this came up in an e-mail exchange with my daughter the other day, it revealed how different our memories were of what had taken place.

The barrel-maker's house in beautifully
medieval Riquewihr, Alsace

That's not to say either's recollections were in error, but simply that each of us recalled different incidents.  It was the work of a little longer than I had anticipated to scan some of the pictures to send her, since this isn't something I do every day, but at last a successful transmission had been achieved, and I was able to turn my attention to the usual Saturday chores.

All in all, I think I have danced through the week quite well.  It's worth trading a bow for a courtsey, anyway!

Triangles

There are many ways of looking at the variety of work, payloads and destinations of this business, but I've never thought of geometry before. However, if you consider the geography of this week, it's quite true: just look at Monday for a start.

The week began with a collection of some air-conditioning equipment in Welwyn Garden City for Wooburn, from which I turned anti-clockwise into London, for a NW10 collection.  This went to Abingdon in Oxfordshire and just before I arrived at my destination came a phone call offering me a collection in Thatcham for Bell Bar in Hertfordshire.  Two more anti-clockwise movements completed this task and a third brought me home, covering each side of an approximate triangle twice over.

Monday was rounded off by an amusing 'offer'.  As I sat at my desk, wondering if the phone would ring, it sprang into life and brought me a choice.  Having confirmed that I was willing to go out again - it was almost 5.0 pm - Dave said I could either go to Amersham or 'RG27, wherever that is'.  I opted for the further destination (which turned out to be a hotel near Hook), to make losing my bellringing practice for the second Monday running really worthwhile, to which he replied, 'I hoped you'd take that one, because C----- <the only other driver available> won't know where S------ <name of our customer> is.'  To me, this implied that she wouldn't be able to find it in the dark, either! - and before you condemn me for being sexist, I can think of at least one male driver of whom he would have said the same thing!  To be fair, this particular customer's premises are in open country, some distance away from both the village that provides their address, and the nearest main road, some nineteen miles from our office, and both of these drivers live almost the same distance in the opposite direction!

Welcome to England (picture: flickr.com)

Tuesday was taken up by one long run to St Helens, with a delivery in Northampton on the way, and after two separate jobs on Wednesday, to Royston and Coventry, a third one to Hemel Hempstead primed me for the geometric theme again.  Only a few hundred yards from my delivery, I collected a full load of kitchen equipment to be delivered the following morning in Bridgend.  Once this had been successfully completed - getting there via Ross-on-Wye, of course, to avoid the toll - I made for the eastbound Severn crossing, amused as ever as I left the bridge behind me, to be welcomed to England in Welsh.  After a collection just off the M5 in the north-west corner of Bristol, I made a broadly 'left turn', to deliver in Derby, and after a welcome rest at Donnington Park services, my homeward journey completed a very large triangle.

Friday, too, began with two independent journeys, one to Northampton again, and the other to Pinewood Studios, and then came another triangle, this time clockwise, as I travelled to South Mimms to meet another driver. Here I was given a small package that he had collected in central London, which I took on to its final destination in Abingdon.  Once more, my homeward journey completed the third triangle of the week.  Incidentally, the astute reader may have noticed the hand of 'the genie' at work this week, too!

I wonder how next week will 'shape up'?

Where Were You?

It's become something of a cliché in the last fifty years.  Where were you when Kennedy was shot/Elvis died/war was declared/whatever?  Until quite recently, there were only two of those questions to which I could provide an answer.  I remember where I was when I heard the first news of the Seven Day War in 1967 - sitting in the school library, talking to about five others, of whom I can remember only one by name.  And I remember where I was when I heard the first news of the 9/11 bombings - sitting in my office in Royston, when a colleague returned from lunch, having seen the live newsreel on TV.

I realised this week that I can add a third momentous event to that catalogue.

It's funny, isn't it, how one thought leads to another and that one to another and so on until, as a friend said after reading one of my magazine articles, "I had to go back and read it all again because I just couldn't believe how you'd got from the opening comment to the final conclusion!"

Yesterday morning, I had to make a collection from an industrial unit in Walsall.  It was one of those estates that is divided into blocks, presumably according to the original stages in the development of the site.  The address I had was 'Unit 2A' so, quite reasonably, I thought, I'd look for unit 2, and would find it divided into two or more parts.  There was no sign of unit 2. Eventually I came upon a map: an essential component of every industrial estate in my experience.  Here I discovered that there were five parts of the estate - A, B, C, D and E.  I had already passed the entrance to part A, assuming incorrectly that it was all one large premises, and noticing that it didn't bear the name of the firm I was looking for.  By the time I'd back-tracked and located unit 2 in this area, I was about five minutes behind my scheduled arrival time.

As I approached, two men were wrapping a pallet of goods more thoroughly than I think I've ever seen before, not only horizontally, but vertically too, with the pallet perched on the tines of the fork truck, and the men passing the roll of wrapping film from one to the other over and under it.  Having confirmed that it was this pallet that I had arrived to collect, one of them promptly loaded it into my van, and ushered me inside to wait for the paperwork.  As he did so, I commented on their thoroughness, referring to a very badly wrapped consignment I'd carried earlier in the week.  In this case, the wrapping was applied very skimpily, once the goods had been piled on the pallet inside the van.  "You're not going far," said the man, "you won't be braking suddenly, will you?"  I had agreed that I shouldn't, but it wasn't the braking or not that was important.  As I steered around the first roundabout, at only 8 mph, a 'whoosh, clunk' came from the rear of the van: the goods had already slipped off the pallet!

I stood in this Walsall unit, and looked around me.  The whole place exuded that same care that those men had shown in their wrapping.  The floor was clean, and the walls, too, apart from a few cobwebs far too high to be either reachable or any threat to what was going on beneath.  The operator at the far end of the workshop, carrying on his task oblivious to my studious eye, seemed to be applying the full attention to detail to meet the requirements of the most fussy customer.

As I waited, taking in all around me, I considered just what management skills might be required to run a business in these difficult times, provide work for and appropriate rewards to at least two employees - perhaps more - and make a profit at the end of it all.  Still the paperwork hadn't appeared, and my attention turned to the radio that was playing in the background.  It was tuned to BBC Radio 2; by then it was coming up to 9.30 am, and Sara Cox, sitting in for Chris Evans this week, was handing over to Ken Bruce. Suddenly something flashed in my mind, and I remembered clearly where I was at 9.30 am on December 18th 2009.

I had just come to the end of one of those tricky, overnight jobs where you pick up the goods during the evening, and you know it's not really worth going home, because you'll only get a couple of hours' sleep before you need to be up to leave to drive across the country in order to make your delivery time.  So you drive, slowly at first until it seems ridiculous, then normally; and you stop at an amazing number of services in order to get coffee, use the toilet or choose an attractive chocolate bar.  You find a lay-by where you can grab a few minutes' sleep to keep safe for the rest of the night, and by 7.0 you get to your destination when there's no one about.  You run the engine to keep warm, hoping that you don't disturb nearby residents.  In between dozing, you see people going about their business as the town wakes up. Eventually someone comes and opens the shop ...

That morning I made my one and only ever delivery to a chemist's shop in Caernarfon, having purposely driven all the way up the A5 from Milton Keynes, knowing that it would take far longer than any normal route.  And I listened to Radio 2 as I began the next leg of my 565-mile assignment, to collect from Liverpool for the same customer.  I think that was the last morning I listened to Radio 2 - it just had no more appeal without that soft Limerick voice.

So, where were you when Sir Terry Wogan signed off for the last time?

Mustn't Grumble!

I've heard it said that, when Ivan met Ygor in a Moscow street some thirty years ago, one asked the other, 'How's it going?' and received the response, 'I can't complain.'  In that apocryphal exchange there was, of course, a subtext about the restrictions of a totalitarian regime.  There is no subtext about my description of this week as one about which I don't feel I can complain.

The first four days were, to say the least, spartan.  By Thursday night I reckoned that my activities had not met the expectations of three days. Yesterday's demanding schedule, however, was both pleasant and productive. The first challenge was to take some radiator covers to a care home being refurbished in a Hampshire village.  Once the delivery had been completed, I took great delight in refuelling at nearby Dibden Purlieu.  Apart from the picturesque name - according to my reference book, it means 'deep valley on the outskirts of a forest' - it seemed quite a pleasant little town too.  Then came breakfast at Rownham services, sitting on the car park in the sunshine with the van door open and a refreshing breeze outside . . . the only drawback was the constant whoosh of the motorway only a few yards away.

Later, I was able to listen to virtually all of the second day's play from Lords, as I delivered a small parcel to a dental surgery in Oswestry.  Here again there was just one negative.  Although small, the box had a weight totally out of proportion to its size, and I could hardly lift it.  I was glad that there was a strong young athlete at the receiving end!  As is to be expected on Friday afternoon, the journey was fraught with traffic and roadworks, but it was worth it for the delight of being so near to Wales and yet not quite there, with signposts directing to Wrexham, Llangollen and Welshpool . . . and Four Crosses, where I delivered almost four years ago, and have ever since wondered why a Welsh village should have such an English name.  Pedwar Croesau wouldn't have raised an eyebrow.

That isn't to say that those first four days weren't busy.  I managed 13 jobs, but only three of them were 50 miles or more - to Corby on Monday, to Bracknell on Wednesday, and a collection from Bury St Edmunds on Thursday.  The rest were essentially local, and most of them one-at-a-time. The point about no cause for complaint came from what happened between them.  At the start of the week my mind was still focussed on D-Day, and - not without precedent - I found that organising my thoughts, reading and re-reading all the material that I'd collected over the years, and then finding the right words to string it all together was far more demanding than the end-product might indicate.  The result was that at teatime on Wednesday, and thanks to all the gaps between jobs, I posted my 'D-Day Special' blog here.

On more than one occasion I had just come to the end of a paragraph, or of a particular aspect of the story, when the phone rang to call me out. Amazingly, this phenomenon was still with me on Friday, as I returned from the delights of Hampshire.  I have adopted the policy with my 'other' blog of making two posts per month: one at the beginning and one mid-month.  I suddenly realized that, with a full weekend planned, another blog-post is due tomorrow. There was just time to review and tidy-up something I'd written some while ago, and schedule its publication for Sunday morning.  I pressed 'Publish' as the phone rang.

Not for the first time, I find myself amazed at the pattern of my courier work. Not only is there a repeating genie, of which I write here often, but also, when the need arises, there's time to fit in other 'stuff' as well.  And, boy - does it fit snugly, sometimes!

Ups and Downs

All weeks have their ups and downs, and this one has been no different. Somehow, though, I've been more aware of them this week.  Maybe it's just a side-effect of the new financial year.  It's not obvious, of course, just what's an 'up' and what's a 'down'.  Take an exchange I had last Friday with a friend on social media.  I was bemoaning the prospect of a late homecoming, and the knock-on effect of having to make a choice the next day between family history research and watching a football match, because now there wouldn't be enough time to do both.  It was assumed that there would be a good (financial) outcome, nevertheless, and reference was made to 'gold' and 'silver' weeks - expressions that I've already defined here.  I quashed the idea that this would be a 'gold' week, because I'd travelled nearly 2,000 miles, and answered the obvious question (what would be golden mileage?) with a lower figure. My suggestion that this mileage would probably result in a 'silver' week also proved to be incorrect, because in making it, I'd failed to take into account the fact that there had been little 'doubling-up' of jobs to increase the productivity of each mile driven.  So, ups and downs aren't easy to identify.

Another confusing factor in this general discussion, is the pleasant nature of some jobs compared to others.  For example, I always like going to Scotland because of the challenge posed by the distance, the lovely scenery, and not least the very novelty element, since such opportunities are quite rare.  The same criteria also apply, if to a slightly lesser extent, to Wales; and Ireland has the additional excitement of the ferry crossing too.  But jobs to Scotland and Wales aren't good in the sense of productivity, unless they are combined with a second job, because otherwise the rate per mile is rock bottom for all that distance, which is often a high proportion of the week.  On the other hand, a boring day taking two jobs around the M25 in the morning, and then a couple of jobs into Essex in the afternoon, might well be sufficient to meet the day's target - but would that day be good or not; would it be an 'up' or a 'down'?

So, what has this week been like?  Monday was a good day in many ways.  It started with an early collection in Royston and an unhindered run down to Ashford, Kent, and then, without stopping, four more jobs followed concluding at West Suffolk Hospital in Bury St Edmunds.  The last three of these jobs had overlapped, and so their productivity was high, too.

I was glad, too, to be back by the early evening, because our ringing practice was rather special.  The lady who, for many years, had been the verger, caretaker, and general 'go-to' person at the church where we ring, died recently and her body had been brought into the church that evening in readiness for the funeral the following day.  It had been her wish that ringing should continue as it ever would, but after our practice we gathered in the church together with the clergy, the widower and a handful of parishioners, and joined in the simple service of Compline, standing around the coffin.  It was not at all eerie, but a wonderfully solemn and quite moving occasion, for we had all known her, and it seemed a fitting opportunity for a last farewell. RIP Jean.

The only other 'good' day this week was one of those that are not so productive, but merely enjoyable.  On Wednesday I took some air conditioning equipment to an electronics firm on the outskirts of Blandford Forum in Dorset, and delighted in the drive across Salisbury Plain, and past Stonehenge.  In the afternoon, after returning home, I experienced a totally different sort of 'up and down', when I tripped as I returned to the van after paying for fuel, and fell between the pump and the wing of the van.  I'm amused, looking back, to realise that, after assessing the minimal personal damage, my next thought was for the fact that the keys that I'd been holding in my hand had scratched the wheelarch.  I told the van, 'Sorry,' and wiped the scratch with my finger, before getting to my feet.  It wasn't until Thursday afternoon that I realised that my elbow was hurting, and imagination suggested that I might have chipped a bone, because my self-examination at the time hadn't revealed any external cuts.  Later, since elbows are among the most difficult bits of the body to look at, I used a mirror, and discovered a small cut just on the bit of the elbow that I would lean on against the arm-rest in the van, or on my desk.

And finally this week, another 'up-and-down' example, already familiar to any of my readers who, like me, are keen on family history.  In a less than successful attempt to deal with the problems of increased popularity, the well-known company findmypast has now released a totally new website to enable access to its growing range of data sources for genealogists.  Unfortunately thousands of its customers, including me, have found this to be virtually unusable.  The changes seem to be geared to providing a single entry point for many different kinds of database.  The result is that they've made searches much more difficult, rather than easier.  For example, last night I spent an hour and a half trying unsuccessfully to find someone on a census - an exercise that would probably have taken a quarter of the time, and likely to have been successful too, using the old system that is now, unfortunately, irretrievable.

Grouse over - climbs down from soapbox.  More news next week, which will begin with another of those 'enjoyable unproductive jobs' . . . to Rhayader in the middle of Wales!

A 'Matchsticks' Week

There's a story - probably apocryphal, but you never know - about an American tourist who looked out of the coach window, and down at his itinerary, and then said to his companion, "It's Thursday; this must be Belgium."  It's that same fogginess through which I'm peering today, as I see filled shopping bags on my kitchen worktop and think to myself, "It's Sainsbury's; this must be Saturday!"

The week began with a kind of forced holiday.  Last Saturday as I drove to church for the regular monthly coffee morning, I noticed that my battery warning light was flashing.  I spun around the penultimate roundabout and went instead to the garage, confident that there would be someone there who could tell me how serious this was.  It was serious.  The battery wasn't charging, and the only power I had until they could replace the alternator was the fast-diminishing charge that it presently held.  I decided that I'd leave the van at the garage on my way back from church, rather than use it over the weekend and risk being stranded somewhere.  At least the garage is only ten minutes' walk from home.  Consequently I walked to church on Sunday, had a lay-in on Monday, and only ventured forth when the garage called me mid-afternoon to say all had been fixed.

No sooner had I got home and phoned the office to say that I was no longer the proverbial 'cowboy without a horse', than the week took off.  Within an hour I'd been given a job to an industrial estate on the outskirts of Peterborough, and on the way received instructions for a 7.0 collection the following morning for Norwich.  The pattern for the rest of the week was set when, on the way back from Norwich I was given a job for Reading, and before I'd picked this up a further call suggested that once I'd done so, I might like to collect three boxes from a firm of advertising agents in nearby Hitchin for Newport.  As darkness fell on Tuesday, therefore, I was delivering custom-made festive garlands to a cafe franchise in a supermarket 170 or so miles from home.

I stopped for a rest and a meal at Membury services, but not before I was asked if I'd be able to make a 7.30 collection in Letchworth on Wednesday morning.  This went to Haverhill - a regular run - and the day looked like being a tame follow-up to the previous day's exertions.  From Haverhill I returned via the office for the weekly paperwork exchange, and then home for about an hour, which neatly coincided with my landlord's agent's quarterly visit.  I hadn't met this particular member of staff, who usually admits herself with the office key.  On this occasion, with her key poised over the keyhole, she was somewhat startled by my arrival. Introductions were made and, after a brief but pleasant exchange, I bade her farewell and sat down to open the Christmas cards that we had collected from the doormat on entry.

Three local jobs then quickly came my way, the third of which was a return run from Haverhill to the place where the day had begun in Letchworth.  I had barely returned from that when dreams of an evening to catch up on admin were shattered.  Would I please visit a local company in Letchworth and collect an urgent job to go to Redditch.  When I arrived there, and found that SatNav took me to the far end of an industrial estate, trying to direct me to drive through the fence at the end, memory kicked in, and I remembered a rainy lunchtime (which later research told me was exactly a year ago) when I'd made that same discovery.  I knew where to find the correct destination, and just made it as the last member of staff was about to leave.  A meal in the truck-stop at Rugby, and the need to negotiate a local road closure for night-time maintenance, brought the day to a conclusion at about 10.0 again.

Thursday began in a more normal manner, and after a late breakfast and a little admin I rang the office as 'available' at about 9.30.  Within a few minutes I was asked to go and meet another driver across the town, who would give me a job to go to a warehouse near Ely for a well-known London store.  I had been home less than an hour when I was called to collect from a factory in Flitwick, to go to Stoke Mandeville.  I'd taken a few minutes to save what I was doing on the computer, and shut this down, so when the phone went again to ask how far I'd got, I had to admit that I'd only just finished entering the address on my sheet, and was about to start the engine.  That was perfect, as it happened, for I was asked to visit a warehouse in Letchworth first, and collect a couple of items for a hospital in Malpas, a repeat of a job I'd done less than three weeks ago.  Unfortunately, the diversion to Stoke Mandeville made it somewhat later when I got to Newport this time, and when I arrived at Magor services their restaurant had closed.

I decided to press on and stopped at the next services, Leigh Delamare, where I arrived about 8.40pm.  Good, there were still people eating in the restaurant, and as I approached the servery I could see there was food in the bins.  I did have to wait a while for a member of staff to appear, however, and when she arrived the lady said, "Sorry, we're closed; we close at 8.30."  She didn't seem aggressive in her manner, though, and I pressed my need, explaining that I'd just had a long and arduous journey to the hospital in Newport, and - I pointed to my jersey, bearing the name 'Letchworth Couriers' - I had over 100 miles further to travel to get home.  She undertook to speak to her supervisor.  I repeated my tale of woe to the supervisor, a younger and more positive woman.  I pointed to the steaming food beside us at the counter.  She explained that they were closed, and she couldn't take any money from me because they had cashed up for the day.  I offered to hand her the appropriate amount of cash to look after so that she could process it the next day.  This counted for naught, and the discussion continued.  Meanwhile the elder lady (how common sense comes with age!), realising no doubt, that the food before us would shortly be chucked into the bin, was filling a plate with sausages and chips.  "Do you want beans?" she interjected, opening the lid to reveal a gooey mess with few actual beans present.  "How about peas?"  I told her peas would be lovely.  She had clearly taken over from her supervisor, who stared, helpless, at what was going on.  I reached for my pocket to pay; they repeated in chorus, "No, we can't take any money." and the elder lady added, pushing the plate to me, "That's all right, love, go on."

After three late nights, two of them following early starts, I was glad of what seemed to be a gentle Friday.  I rang in as available around 10.0, and was fairly swiftly sent to St Albans and Hounslow, the latter resulting from a collection at a farm-workshop in a tiny Hertfordshire village I'd never heard of.  Home once more, I turned to my desk, where my printer had developed a rebellious streak and wasn't doing what it was told.  With this still unresolved, I received a call for a local job to the middle of Hitchin.  Then came the 'killer blow' of the week.  Before I'd returned from this, I was called to collect some metal from Biggleswade that was required urgently in Thame; while still on the way there came another call, suggesting that I take this via Houghton Regis, where I could collect an envelope destined for a village only five miles away from Thame, and as I was on my way between these two collections, a third call announced a job going from Letchworth to Aylesbury.  We agreed that this last one would add so much to the overall journey as to be a non-starter, and it was given to another driver.

The final job of the day, the envelope, was addressed to 'The Grange', which proved to be at the far end of a narrow lane.  The journey to find it was surprisingly easy, until I turned into the lane.  Round the first bend, I found myself face to face with a large saloon which must have emerged from one of the only two houses along the lane.  With nowhere to turn round, of course, my only option was to reverse to the corner.  Sadly my only option was to reverse to the corner, which isn't easy when the headlights of the car in front advance a yard-and-a-bit for every yard you reverse before it.  Some people seem unable to consider the difficulties of driving a vehicle whose only rear vision is in side mirrors, into which one has to look forward!

As Christmas draws near, I can expect another week of this; at least I know that it will begin with no men's breakfast at the church - I shall be on my way to Bristol!

Dipping and Dodging

One aspect of the life of a courier that appeals to me, as a seasoned 'people-watcher', is the way that I dip into and out of other people's lives.  As I do so, I sometimes find myself wondering if a system works.  Or put another way, looking back at my own experiences in business and industry, I wonder whether there is actually a system in place to achieve what common sense tells me is essential.  I mean, if you receive a delivery of goods, it seems to me two things are critical.  Firstly, the goods have to find their way from the person who receives them on behalf of the company to the person who is going to use them; and secondly the individual who will eventually initiate payment for these goods has to be told by some means or other that they have actually been received, and that therefore payment is justified.

Take last Monday for example.  I made a delivery to a hospital in Birmingham.  The box I took had been used several times for, although it bore a number of labels on it, in varying degrees of wear and obliteration, it didn't carry any indication of the individual or department to whom its present contents were consigned.  These details were written on a separate, un-headed sheet that was given to me when I collected it.  The gentleman at the receiving point signed my sheet to confirm a successful delivery, and his body language indicated that our business was then at an end.  I offered the paper I'd been given, saying, "there isn't a name on it, do you want to note who it's for?"  His smiling reply almost sent me reeling.  "No need.  I know who it's for by the shape of the box!"  Knowledge is a wonderful thing, I mused as I drove away, but what if he were to fall beneath the proverbial bus during his lunch-break?

This week I first had a Suffolk day, and then an Essex day, each of which was satisfying, because there were no hold-ups. I could go, deliver and return with no hindrance at all.  There was also a glimpse of the seaside, too, as I ended up on Tuesday morning just yards from Lowestoft's seafront.  I had gone there to collect some samples for a laboratory in Letchworth.  I'd taken a couple of big metal boxes in which to carry them, and my contact carefully - almost gingerly - brought them forth from a locked room: a number of plastic boxes that he handled wearing bright blue safety gloves.  Once they were loaded, and the metal containers securely fastened, we carefully lifted these back into my van, and I drove back very steadily, least there should be any spillage of the liquids from the plastic boxes, which reminded me of ice cream tubs or margarine cartons.  Upon arrival at our customer, the containers were eagerly removed by two members of staff and, while one signed to acknowledge their receipt, the other was already opening the first container, and then one of the plastic boxes, which he had lifted out with his bare hands.  I had to presume that he was aware of the nature of what he was handling, but I found this a distinct contrast to the care and caution of the man who had loaded them just a short time previously.  Realising that this was none of my business, just like the 'knowledge-rather-than-documentation' attitude I'd encountered a week earlier, I departed for my next job.

The next day, I found myself driving down a lane completely shrouded by trees, and narrow enough to need passing places every few hundred yards.  About three miles after leaving a 'normal' road, I turned into a farmyard that had now been converted into a trading estate, to make my delivery of labels.  There were over a dozen units, built inside (or carved out of, depending on your point of view) a number of long, low buildings accessed by wide concrete roadways.  Piles of boxes, and pallets of more boxes, stood around as if just delivered, and in the warm summer sunshine a gentle breeze was blowing a thin layer of dust over everything.  It wasn't exactly unpleasant, but I had a distinct feeling that I wouldn't like to be working on any kind of permanent basis in such an isolated and untidy location.

By complete contrast, on Thursday I was sent to an establishment to which, in a past life, I'd often addressed communications.  I'd never dreamed of one day visiting Companies House in Crown Way, Cardiff.  Whenever I'm called to go to south Wales on a job that isn't so desperately urgent that an extra half hour or so is critical, I prefer to avoid the M4.  For one thing, it's such a long and boring road, and for another, there is the ever-increasing cost of the toll at the Severn crossing.  Normally, the journey time is only a little longer, and cost of the fuel to cover the additional distance is far less than the toll fee.  On this occasion, I did question my wisdom when I found myself sitting in a queue of traffic on the A40 waiting to turn off for the Monmouthshire Show.  At last I could find cool, if brief, freedom from the sun in the Gibraltar Tunnel, and the rest of the journey proceeded unhindered.

The return journey wasn't free from hold-up either.  I had noted that there were no northbound queues at Monmouth, but SatNav had indicated that there were significant delays on the A46 near Leamington; not wanting to use the M6, for fear of further delay in traffic, I opted for a slower but shorter and at least constantly moving route through Birmingham.  Indications that the tunnels around the city centre were closed prompted further diversion, and then a wrong turning led me to the M6 I'd sought to avoid, but when I reached the M1 I felt I home sweet home would not be long now.  Wrong!  An accident near Northampton held me up yet again, before I could finally declare the day closed.

Friday was more like a normal end-of-month story, with a collection from Rushden for an engineering firm in Sandy, and then a little run over to Luton, before I finally reached the head of the list, and was despatched to an address in Hoddesdon to collect a couple of cases for a stand at the NEC.  I'd been warned that there would be no one there when I arrived, so I nearly took the longer and less likely to be congested route via the A10 and A14.  SatNav prevailed, though, but nearly went out of the window when I found myself in yet another motorway queue halfway up the M1!  When I arrived, I felt a little conspicuous pushing two bulky cases under the protective screen erected and fastened around the display area, but a reassuring smile from a security guard who had watched the complete procedure, offered me welcome relief.  It would have rounded the week off rather badly to find myself accused, however innocently, of planting explosive devices in a public place!

Yesterday, having dipped into and out of many different lives in the course of an average week, I indulged in a bit of 'third party' dipping.  One of the many football teams whose fortunes I follow is Walsham le Willows, who play with my native Diss Town in the premier division of the East Anglian League.  A couple of weeks ago they played in the extra-preliminary round of the FA Cup, and were beaten by Tower Hamlets from the Essex Senior League.  Had they won, they would have visited Southern League's Harlow Town in the next round, and I'd planned to go to nearby Harlow to watch them there.  I decided to stick to my plan, and watched the match anyway.  Rather than feeling the satisfaction of revenge, however, my sympathy for underdogs came to the fore, and I was rather sorry to see Tower Hamlets beaten 3-0 in a game that I felt was closer than the score line implied.

All up One End

My cousin recently observed that her uncle (my father) possessed a skill that neither of us has ever seen anywhere else.  He would stand the loaf on its end, butter the open surface, and then cut off the buttered slice, without changing the orientation of the loaf.  This operation would be repeated, almost mechanically, until the required number of slices had been achieved.  In this same vein, I recall an early attempt, under his tuition, to make a sandwich.  He presented me - aged about five or six - with two of the aforementioned buttered slices, together with a knife and a jar of mum's homemade jam.  After watching my efforts for a minute or so, he seized the knife and, with a mixture of amusement and frustration, commented, "Ya'r got it all up o' one ind, boy!"  And looking, I could see with shame that he was quite right, for at one end of the slice was a thick layer of jam, while at the other there was naked butter, just as it had left his skilled hand a minute earlier.

That's a fair reflection of the last week.  I have often commented that one aspect of the courier life that I enjoy is its unpredictability.  This is nearly always the case.  The exception is when a day comes when nothing happens: the phone is dead.  I commented recently on just such a Tuesday.  This week began with a standing start: after my ferry trip the previous Friday, I rang in on Monday, tongue in cheek, to say I was 'back from Belfast and could I go on the list, please.'  About an hour later, the controller rang to say that, since I was at the bottom of quite a long list, he was giving me a fairly long local job to keep me busy while I waited.  I was sent to the village of Manea, in Cambridgeshire.  More accurately, I was sent to March, but found that my destination was not even in this nearby village, but to somewhere out in the wilds of fenland, that just happened to claim Manea as its postal address.

Once I saw the address, I recalled having gone there once before, so I knew at least the nature of the building I would be visiting, instead of spending - as I had on the earlier occasion - half an hour driving up and down the road looking for an almost invisible name, before driving up to a luxurious modern house, to deliver to the garage conversion in the back garden. I can justify describing this job in some detail, because it proved to be my one job, not just for Monday, nor for Monday and Tuesday, but for the first three days of the week!

On Wednesday afternoon, I was sent soon after lunch to collect a parcel to be taken to Nottingham but, when I was within a mile of our customer, they rang to say that, in their opinion, it would be too late to get it there that day, and could they have a call at 9.0 the next morning, please.  Muttering grimly to myself about their estimate of how long it would have taken me to get to Nottingham, I returned home.

So it was that on Thursday, bright and early, I collected this parcel and sped northwards.  I won't deny my pleasure at being called when just over half-way there to be told that there was another job I could run onto afterwards, and when I called in having made the delivery, I was delighted to learn that this second job involved a cross-country journey to Cannock to collect something for one of our customers in Luton.  I was home early in the afternoon, feeling that this day at least had been quite reasonable.

After catching up on my iPlayer tele-viewing, I was relaxing at bedtime when the phone rang.  "I don't know what sort of week you've had ... ," began the night-controller.  I immediately thought, "You fibber, you know fine well that it's been a very quiet week!" but quietly waited for him to continue.  "How do you fancy going to Swansea ... now?"  I rapidly recalled Wednesday and Tuesday, and told myself there was only one answer.  I dressed once more in my uniform, and set off for this Bedford customer, who had an urgent consignment for DVLA.  Having been up since early the previous morning, I realised soon after passing Ross-on-Wye that if I didn't stop soon for a nap, I might not reach my destination at all, but not much more than an hour later, I resumed my journey, and made the delivery at 4.50 am.

Friday's breakfast was an absolute joy.  I knew there was a café somewhere on the northbound side of the A40 near Monmouth, but wasn't sure exactly where.  In fact there are two, but I stopped at the first one, bearing the unusual name 'High Noon'.  The place has just changed hands; the shop has been modernised and now it's the turn of the restaurant.  Half the eating area has been screened off, and the remainder is partly cluttered with rolled-up carpet, stacked chairs and tables.  However, the food was great, freshly cooked before my eyes, and as I sat by the window in the morning sunshine I could look at the brightly-lit hillside on the opposite side of the road.  I later discovered that this is called the Doward, and beyond it runs the River Wye, which there forms the boundary with Wales.

I returned home at midday, and went straight to bed for as long as my body needed.  Not much more than an hour had passed before I was awake again - daytime sleep is an art I've never acquired - and trying to decide whether I wanted to work again or not.  I think the fact that I was aware that there was a decision to be made was evidence that the answer was 'no'.  This was supported by the fact that, by the time I'd pottered around for a couple of hours I was feeling distinctly more awake, and decided to call the office after all.  I was asked if I would be OK for another job should one come up, to which I replied, 'nothing too far,' which was quite acceptable.  About an hour later, I was asked if I'd like to go and collect a job for delivery yesterday morning in Lancashire, which suited me fine, giving me the rest of Friday to unwind, but at the same time providing further compensation for the 'lost' days earlier in the week.  I'd just returned from this collection when another call invited me to pick up something for delivery on Monday, and gave me further instructions for a job to be collected on Monday morning as well, so next week will at least set off on the right foot.

My journey to Heywood was not without incident.  I'd been given a 9.0 - noon delivery window, and set off soon after 6.0, thinking to get some breakfast at the Markham Moor truck-stop on the way.  To my surprise, this was closed, and as I'd already noted, there were no roadside burger vans operating either.  I had spotted one café open on the southbound carriageway, and had almost resigned myself to making my delivery first and having 'brunch' there on my return, when a flag-flying burger van loomed into view at Barnsdale Bar.  Thus sustained, apart from SatNav's route not quite coinciding with what I had researched the previous evening, there were no further snags until the final crossroads, when I almost collided with a car coming at right angles to me to the junction.  Fortunately, there was no impact, no screeching of brakes, and no damage apart from to my nerves.

On my return I followed up a brown tourist sign I'd spotted as I entered the town, marked East Lancs Railway.  This proved to be a viable preserved railway, offering a public service as well as a tourist/enthusiast attraction.  Had it not been for a darkly clouded sky and a desire to catch up with things on the home front, I might well have stayed longer, and taken a £13.50 return trip to the other end of the line.  It was as well that I'd also decided against a detour to watch a football match (the new season started yesterday for most leagues), for there were road problems to contend with too.  I diverted from the A1 in order to avoid one significant delay, but a road closure on the alternative route sent me on a wild trek through the Nottinghamshire lanes before eventually regaining my route after a longer delay than I'd tried to avoid. 

I was glad to return to my weekend domesticity, and I'm now wondering whether the next week will be quite so lop-sided!

Fun in the Valleys

I think yesterday set a new record - the first time I've been to Wales twice in one week.  After the visit to Newport on Tuesday, yesterday morning I was given a pick-up in Stevenage for Watford, and "... then pop round to [another customer in Stevenage], and they'll give you something for (I didn't catch the name) - it's somewhere near Swansea; the postcode is SA10".  I did as I was bid, delivered the job in Watford, and then sat for a while in the car park of a nearby retail outlet to study my other assignment.  One of my earliest colleagues once told me, "five minutes with the map can save you an hour on the ground," and although I often ignore it nowadays, it remains sound advice.

The paperwork I'd been given was of little use.  It showed the recipient's name, the name of a farm and the postcode.  After the farm's name came the letters 'seve' - just like that, with no capital letter - but this meant little, for the farm's name was similarly unadorned.  I'd never heard of this but concluded that it might be a place near Swansea, so I looked in the index of my national atlas, and then in my Swansea area map.  Drawing two blanks, I also tried the West Wales map, but this was no more productive.  Almost as a last resort, I put the postcode into SatNav.  The map on the tiny screen showed a small side-turning called Tynewedd off the B4109, and I turned back to the atlas to find where this road might be.  It showed nowhere called Seve along this road, and was obviously not the right scale to show an individual farm.

I happened to look up just then, and noticed that SatNav had progressed to the stage of writing the route for the journey, and said 'Tynewedd, Seven Sisters.'  The mystery was solved - I berated the absent customer who had provided only four of the thirteen characters of the place-name, and thought back to those terribly dark days pre-SatNav, when we had to rely on maps.  I supposed that I might have been more vigilant on receiving the parcel, and would have made sure that I knew the destination before leaving.  However, off I went, with the aim of getting there before dark so I could find the farm.

It was as well that I did for, clever though SatNav was at finding the road it had identified as applicable to the given postcode, the farm I wanted was actually down the adjacent turning off that main road.  Luckily as I drove along Tynewedd, examining house names and disturbing the local dogs, a helpful resident was able to tell me where I ought to be.  I always believe in apologising for being in the wrong place and for any inconvenience caused.  It seems to help, and certainly did on this occasion.  The parcel delivered, I headed first for fuel and then for home.  This is something that I can trust SatNav for, since it has a live connection to a fuel database, and was able to pinpoint a Morrisons just by the M4.  However, as I approached this, I found I was about to pass a Texaco station, which was even more convenient.

With no further hassle, I was home before bedtime, and with the weekend to follow, could complete all my bookwork and unwind before retiring.

Quiet Times, and Changings of Mind

This may be the quiet time of the Courier year, but the jobs themselves are quite normal ... there just aren't so many.  Yesterday was typical.  I was sent to Biggleswade to collect a small parcel for delivery in Newport (S. Wales).  I debated whether there was any merit in calling the office to say I'd got it (with the implied question, 'and is there anything else I can take in that direction?') and decided against making the call.  However, I did change my mind slightly and when I left, instead of turning right to head north towards the M1, with a view to going via Coventry, Warwick and Ross, I turned left to return to the office, thinking that a half-hour wait would not only be in order, but could determine which route I should take.

I was halfway back when the call came - collect another job from Stevenage, to go to cargo forwarders in Feltham.  Having collected three fairly large items there, off I went.  The journey to Feltham was quite straightforward and, having rejected the idea of running up the M40 to rejoin my originally planned route to Newport, I set off along the M4.  Now, the whole idea of going to South Wales via Ross on Wye is to avoid the toll to go westward over either of the Severn Bridges.  At the last count this was £11.80, so the saving is well worth making, since this recognised alternative is only about 15 miles further.

This thought was still hovering in my mind when I passed the signboard that told me Cardiff was another 118 miles, and I started doing a bit of mental arithmetic.  I decided that Newport was probably about 12 miles short of Cardiff, and hence, could see what my journey's end would show on the odometer, if I were to go on and over the Bridge.  Meanwhile I set SatNav to calculate an alternative route.  When it did - suggesting a way via Swindon, Gloucester and Ross - this came out at 13 miles further, so off I went at junction 15 and by a little after 3.30 I was at my destination in Newport.

Only ... it wasn't where I was expecting to be.  SatNav had led me to the postcode I'd asked for, which turned out to be the Royal Mail sorting office.  This does happen on occasions, usually when the address we're given is a PO Box No., so we know to avoid these.  This one wasn't, however.  That said Caerleon Road and here was I, more or less on the opposite side of the city.  Finding that the phone no. on the parcel led to a 'sorry we can't take your call' message, I took the only available option - I went into the sorting office.

I'm a bit apprehensive about seeking help from the Royal Mail, since the time some years ago when I received a cheeky reply that suggested - none too politely - that, if I were a courier worth my salt, then I should know where such-and-such a place was, without having to ask the 'professionals'.  On this occasion, however, I have nothing but praise for the ginger-haired postie on duty.  I presented him with my dilemma, and handed over my map to see if he could show me just where, on the long road bearing that name Caerleon, I needed to be.

Once my ear had penetrated his thick accent, I learned that I should make my way to the roundabout he indicated, and from there go past the cenotaph and under the railway bridge.  'As soon as you get under the bridge,' he said, 'you'll see an unmarked turning cutting back on the left - that's where you need to go.'  Not only were his instructions clear and concise, they proved invaluable for, even if I'd been directed to the right place in the first instance, I wouldn't have known about that turning, and could have been going to and fro several times before I'd have found the depot I sought.

So, my job done, I turned for the long journey home, and reflected that, in addition to enjoying a very helpful exchange, I'd also learned the 'correct' way to pronounce Caerleon: to a South Wales tongue, apparently, it's "C-'leen"

The Red and the Green

Let me rehearse for you, gentle reader - with apologies to Jane Austen - the Doctrine of the Repeating Genie. "It is a truth universally acknowledged among courier drivers that, if one goes where one has not gone before, or at least has not been for quite a while, one should not be surprised if, in a comparative short while, one goes there again."

Now, this re-visiting may be only hours later, after an absence of a couple of weeks, or the scale may be something considerably greater, but the truth is nonetheless there.  Just before Easter, on the day when our dear Queen was dishing out special coins to deserving old people, I was despatched to an oil refinery near Milford Haven.  On checking my records, I find that the last time I dipped a toe into the Principality was back at the beginning of June last year, when I had been sent to Port Talbot.  And now, this week, I've had a lovely trip to a part of Wales I'd never seen before, between Lampeter and Aberaeron.

I've always been fascinated by languages, before ever learning French, and later Latin, at school.  Since leaving school I've dabbled quite seriously with German and with Dutch - but having virtually no live practice in either, the similarities between them have almost destroyed my confidence in both.  But Welsh ... right on our doorstep, as it were, has remained a mystery.  It looks almost unpronounceable for a start!  One day in my late teens, when I was planning a holiday into North Wales (incidentally, a holiday that never came about because the young lady with whom I was planning to go ceased to be my girl friend, and I opted instead for a cheap week on the south coast,) I bought a Teach Yourself Welsh book.  I abandoned the course around lesson five, and the only thing I have really retained from it is the key to pronunciation.  There are seven vowels, not the five we are used to in English; all letters are pronounced and, once you've come to terms with the fact that 'll' is a separate letter requiring its own mouth configuration, you're away!

I've found that, on the occasions that I go there, I'm intrigued by the bi-lingual road signs, which are a wonderful way to expand the vocabulary.  (I discovered the other year that the same is true in Britanny!)  On Monday evening, while stopped at some roadworks, I realised that I had correctly selected which of the six Welsh words on the bilingual sign in front of me corresponded to each of the six English words beneath them - the word order in Welsh is confusingly different, more like that in French.  I was so pleased with this achievement that the words stuck in my mind for quite a while afterwards: "Pan welwch olau coch seywch ima" - "When shows light red wait here".

This recollection yielded an important (?) revelation to me yesterday, when I realised too late that I had turned into a road where for several weeks men have been replacing a gas main.  Almost inevitably I was stopped in front of the lights, reading a similar red sign in front of me.  This one, of course, was just in English, and refered to the opposite colour, "Wait here for green light."  Until now, I had never realised that there were two schools of thought on this matter!