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!

Water, water everywhere ... and lots more besides!

I began this month by thinking about twos, and followed up last week with two hospitals.  This week, apart from another hospital to add to my collection, I can bring you tidings from no less than three airports, with their varying stories.

The week began with a fairly undemanding Monday: a regular collection from Daventry for a customer in Royston, another from Bedford, and a couple more local jobs to Luton and Cambridge, and the joy in the evening to go bellringing for the first time in about three weeks.  By Tuesday morning it was my privilege to be top of the list.

Called at about 9.30, I was despatched with a box of equipment to the theatre of Hereford County General Hospital.  The journey was straightforward, and in places quite spectacular, with only one closed road to delay me, and superb views of the flooding around Worcester and Hereford, where the Teme and Lugg respectively had covered a number of fields in each direction.  Respect for those suffering from this tragic situation combined with consideration for other road users to preclude the taking of any photos and, having left so early in the day, I was home again in time to be given a job for Wednesday morning.

On the face of it, this ought to have been a routine job.  I was sent to Heathrow airport to collect some items for our customer in Hitchin.  I'd been given the name of a contact and his phone no. - what could go wrong?  My suspicions were aroused when I examined the address on the computer the previous evening.  It appeared that terminal 2B is still under construction, and it was by no means clear where would be the point of access.  I decided that I would phone my contact while still on the M25.  It was well that I did, for instead of turning towards the airport, I was told that I needed to leave the motorway and head west!  A subsequent U-turn then brought me to a control area adjacent to the motorway, where things began to liven up.

The problem was that the point of collection was 'airside', in other words I was subject to all the normal constraints that apply to passengers travelling on an aircraft . . . and not only me, but my van as well!  After all the scanning - including the removal of boots - inspection and examination (I still haven't worked out why the contents of three bottles of plain water had to be poured out, while I was allowed to retain a container of screenwash!) I was given a sheet of driving instructions and, followed by a security vehicle, drove to another location on the airport where the same searches were carried out, this time including a body search!  Eventually the security vehicle led me to the collection point which was, as I'd expected, on a building site.  Minutes later the escorted journey was reversed, and soon I was heading back to home territory, some three-and-a-half hours after my arrival!

The week's excitement was just beginning; once this collection had been delivered (during that day's allotted downpour!), I was sent to Stansted airport, where disciplines were only a little less severe, to collect a pallet of goods that had arrived for one of our customers in Stevenage.  Once these had been delivered, some of the boxes were labelled, prepared for despatch to their customer, and re-loaded onto my van, to be taken to Rochdale for 6.0 am delivery the next day.

During the course of this journey and the two local jobs that followed, I had become aware of an intermittent noise.  Experience has taught me that noises can be expensive and shouldn't be ingored.  So, after delivering a cooker this morning to a building site on the outskirts of Oxford, I phoned the garage. The staff there have always been understanding of my situation, and the immediate reaction was, yes, bring it in and we'll have a listen.  Sadly, new brake parts were called for, but these were rapidly obtained and fitted, and I was back on the road - happily silent - within a couple of hours.  Two local jobs completed my day, including a visit to the third airport of the week, at Cambridge, the co-operation of whose security and goods-in staff was a welcome contrast to the heavier formality of recent days.

After I'd exchanged the van for the comfortable surroundings of my lounge, I realised how tiring the week had been, with only five hours' unsettled sleep on Wednesday night, and the need for another early start this morning in order to make the requested 8.0 delivery.  When the phone rang an hour later to enquire whether I'd like to match this week's hospital count to last week's, with a trip to Bristol this evening, I decided enough is enough, and echoed last Friday's positive 'No thanks.'

Now the weekend is off to a good start!