Two by Two

It's been a Noah's Ark of a week.  Everything, it seems, has been coming in pairs.  Well, I admit 'everything' is an exaggeration, but let me give you some examples.  In my prayers on Monday morning I thought of two particular ladies with whom I had been in communication in the past week or so.  I had e-mailed one, asking about a particular matter that needed an answer ... there had been no answer.  I had had an exchange of text messages with the other, whose daughter's illness might have prevented a family holiday.  My final comment had been, 'let me know how things progress, if you're able, before you go'.  Again, I had heard nothing; was I to presume that all was well, and they'd departed as planned on Saturday ... or had the holiday been cancelled?  No obligation was due to me, of course, but I would still have liked to know.

As I mentioned last week, I had an early delivery at Shepperton Studios, so those prayers were indeed early in the morning!  After my return I was sitting at my desk, reading e-mails and so on, when within minutes, text messages arrived from each of those ladies.  The first gave me a four-word answer to my e-mail, with the explanation that family illnesses had delayed a proper response; the second told me that last-minute efforts had procured a doctor's certification of the daughter's safety in flying, and secured an alternative flight, enabling a foreshortened holiday to commence on Tuesday.

In recent weeks I have been dealing with some investments.  I had some money left over from buying and fitting out the motorhome that I'm now getting familiar with in readiness for some travel in the early years of my retirement.  This had been 'parked' in a savings account ready for the new tax year to begin, and last week I decided that I really ought to do something productive with those funds, and took the first step towards that end.  On Tuesday I discovered that this money had landed in my bank account so, in a gap between jobs, I issued the on-line instructions for its investment.  As I did so, I discovered that another matter I'd set in motion some weeks ago, the transfer of my pension from one firm to another where its growth is more likely and more firmly in my own control, had now progressed to a stage where I must take some action.  Another metaphorical 'heap' on my desk!

Wednesday afternoon, workwise, found me in Luton.  I'd picked up some goods in Hertford, and although I know the road where they were to be delivered, this was the first time, I think, that I'd arrived there from that particular direction, so I was content to let SatNav direct me.  I was just thinking surprise that I was going by what, even in my supposed ignorance, seemed rather a circuitous route, when I found myself being directed onto the new busway that has been built in the last year or so on the route of a former railway line.  It was then that I realised that SatNav had been misled by the fact that the busway actually passes above the road I would normally turn off, close by the small industrial estate I was making for!

By this time, as I quickly re-routed myself for the right destination, I had been spotted by another office, and had been given a pick-up in Luton, to take to Brentwood.  The collection point was only a few streets away, and I was soon there, knowing the familiar name of the firm I was collecting from, and that it was at unit 20.  I quickly identified the sequence of unit numbers, following 14,15,16 and 17 up a little side turning, and noticing 18 at the far end as I turned around.  On the next corner was a sign directing deliveries to unit 21, and the unit beyond that was clearly marked 22.  19 and 20 were not to be found.  As I drove up and down, looking at the numbered units and the names outside, I finally spotted 'member of the W...... group' - at last the name I sought.  I parked and went inside, only to be told, 'Yes, but it's not us you want - it'll be the other W...... company ...'.   Naming it, he directed me to another side turning in the far corner of the estate, beyond unit 23!  I began to protest about the numbers.  'Yes, I know, they're all over the place round here.  We're always getting people in, asking about them.'

This placid acknowledgement did nothing to soothe my demeanour.  Nor did the fact that, when I did eventually find the place, tucked away in the corner as the man had said, I was told that the job had been cancelled!  More frustration, and lots of phone calls to and fro, established that a previous job from the same place had indeed been cancelled, but that my job was definitely there.  I should return, and go to the side of the building.  Having previously enquired at the collections desk as is normal for these places, I now did as instructed, and found a small pallet waiting by a fork truck, to be loaded by someone wearing a totally different livery, bearing a name that had hitherto not been mentioned to me by anyone!  Within minutes, I was on my way.

While all this had been unfolding in Luton, my own office had called to ask me travel to Brentwood via them, because they had another job going to the same place.  In point of fact, neither was to Brentwood itself, but one to Warley and the other to Childerditch, from which as I drove away in the late afternoon haze, I was treated to a wonderful vista of the Thames valley.  The trials of Wednesday thus assuaged, I was happy to be asked to collect a consignment from the office before going home, for delivery by 8.0 the following morning in Sheffield ... the first of two annoying Thursday twosomes.

I arrived, according to plan, at about 7.50, driving along a single road between large industrial sites, towards a retail park at the bottom end. Having been unable to identify my target as I'd slowly progressed down the road, I parked on the retail park to investigate further.  Google verified the address, but provided no better directions.  There was a phone no. however, and this connected me to a very helpful receptionist, who told me to look 'behind Homebase, but to ignore their service entrance.  We're right opposite.'  Sure enough, as I approached from the retail park, there was the gateway, clearly marked, but by one sign only, facing down the hill.  All efforts to obtain a return job from local offices having failed, I was home by lunchtime.

After a couple of local jobs, I was sent to a mailing office at Farlington near Portsmouth, with several boxes of printed matter for Chelsea FC (name-dropping again!)  I remember hoping when I left that there would still be someone there when I arrived, because it was already nearly 3.0.  The M25 was predictably slow, and I eventually discovered that there was a broken-down car in the middle lane of the five-lane stretch just north of junction 12. He had my sympathies, sitting there with his hazards on, hoping that everyone would realise in time that he was stationary and go around him. The A3 was little better when I eventually reached it.  Here I felt little sympathy when I discovered another stationary vehicle.  This one had stopped two feet or more from the road's edge, its occupants wisely obeying the security advice sitting up on the verge well away from the carriageway. On a busy two-lane road, however, everything had to squeeze into one lane to pass, causing queues for several miles back.  Why, oh why, I wondered, don't people who are breaking down use the last remnants of their motive power to position their vehicles where they can cause the least obstacle?  If these folks, for example, had run up the low kerb, getting half the car's width off the road, there would still have been room for two lines of traffic to pass carefully by.

I finally arrived at Farlington around 5.25, and began to search for the name on my delivery note.  There was no sign.  In fact, where SatNav had pointed, there was no turning from the road at all!  Up and down I searched, in at least two little side roads, but there was no trace of the name I sought.  I was thinking of the research I'd undertaken that morning, some 200 miles away ... but here there was nowhere suitable to park.  And then - on the opposite side of the road from where SatNav had pointed - was the name I wanted! Luckily, although the delivery shutters were down, there were still people about, and the delivery could be made, but as I left, relieved at having an empty van once more, I noticed that here, too, was a clear sign on its own, facing the opposite way from that whence I had approached!  There is no chance of finding a place thus identified ... unless in child-minding mode, i.e. with eyes facing to the rear!

By yesterday morning, the theme for this blog was clearly in my mind, and I wondered how it would conclude.  I had to wait until the last job of the week to find out.  I had been sent to a local drinks distributor to collect a consignment for a pub in Stevenage - a nice local job to round off what had been a hot day.  Typically, as I rounded the penultimate corner, my PDA beeped, to announce that this job had been cancelled.  Before I could acknowledge this, the phone went, as the controller called to explain that he was sending me a different but more profitable job from the same customer. The pub in Stevenage was replaced by a hotel in Huntingdon and ... TWO Cambridge colleges!

Finding the delivery entrance to the hotel was a doddle, and there was no real problem making the second delivery to Robinson College, apart from reversing at an angle across a busy cycle lane and up a narrow ramp to the door nearest the bar.  Jesus College, however, was a mystery.  SatNav directed me along Jesus Lane, and as I marvelled at the eternal beauty and atmosphere of one of England's oldest collegiate cities, I debated parking on the roadside to make enquiries down a long roadway, or seeking a back entrance by driving around the block.  I opted for the latter, only to be thwarted by a dead end, separated from the college by a row of pretty cottages.  Back to Jesus Lane, then, where I chose the third option, an open driveway marked 'Master's Lodge - Private'.

I rang the doorbell.  There was no reply.  I tried the gate leading to the porter's lodge.  It was unlocked.  I entered the lodge, where I was met by a neat, possibly ex-military man, waistcoated, but unjacketed, in his late forties or early fifties.
"This is Jesus College ...?" I sought confirmation.
"It is," he replied, "and you have just entered from the Master's garden."
"That's right," I confessed, "how did you know."
"CCTV."
I explained my business: delivering a keg of Budweiser, clearly something that needed to get the van to the right place; clearly not a carryable item.
"Where are you parked - in the lane?"
"No; through there ..." I pointed to the gate.
"In the Master's driveway!  You will not be popular!"
"In my experience," I struggled to regain equality, "with appropriate apologies, that proves to be a useful way to overcome a problem like this."

I think he appreciated the humour and earnestness of my remark.  He showed me an aerial photograph of the college, and indicated that, if I were to back-track my original approach, I would find an intercom-equipped wrought-iron gate, through which he would admit me, and how I could get from there to the rear entrance to the bar.  Armed with this key information, and after expressing my gratitude for his help, making the actual delivery was a simple matter and I could make my way home, being very thankful that this didn't involve a long crawl around the M25 as last Friday had done - that would have been one pair too many!

A Gold Week, Day by Day

The biggest contrast between 'working' and 'retired' weeks for me seems to be the fact that things on my desk get started but not finished ... like the references I gathered for something last weekend, that have sat there since Sunday afternoon, gathering dust and making me feel slightly guilty every morning.  One afternoon I was home by 3.30, with no call on my time in the evening, and I felt uneasy about spending six hours or so working on a spreadsheet to understand the history of some investments I started when still in employment many years ago.  This was as a result of something that had come in the post that morning, and I felt it was distracting me from the work I'd left unfinished at the weekend.  Had this been a 'retired' week, there would have been no problem; but it's one I've made for myself, so I shouldn't grumble.

Perhaps this tension is also partially due to this week - the first of the new financial year for me - being what I term a 'gold' week, i.e. when both the actual turnover and the profitability of each mile driven have been above budget, and at the same time the total of miles driven has been below the budgetted figure.  It involved four early starts (pre-7.30), however, and on only one day was I home before 6.0pm (as noted above).

After the men's breakfast at church on Monday, the week got under way quite slowly.  It was, of course, a standing start, so I wasn't surprised not to be called until noon.  I then did just the one job, to Halesowen, and returned in time to have dinner and then go off to a crowded ringing practice.  I think word is getting around what a good teacher our tower-captain is (although he's now in his eighties!)  There was no after-ringing half-pint for me, though; I had to be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed to collect some air conditioning equipment in Welwyn Garden City at 7.30 next morning. These went to Suffolk, and then came an urgent delivery of computer parts to a technology complex in Birmingham.  Two days down; three to go before a none-too-restful weekend.

Wednesday found me heading early for Sussex, where I collected some flooring, and then over to Pirbright near Guilford, for a machine door.  After a brief rest, I was called to take some drugs across to the hospital in Luton, but even then the day wasn't over, because I was sent to Biggleswade to collect some items for a Mothercare distribution centre beside the M1 the following morning.  As usual, I didn't know exactly what I was collecting; after tracking it down, the man told me to make sure I wasn't overweight with these three cartons that he carried in one large hand.  His smile was almost as big as the cartons!

Thursday, though eventful, was a pleasant morning.  Having made my delivery on time at 7.15, and enjoyed an exchange with the Polish girl there over the pronuncuation of her name, my thoughts turned to food, and I repeated a sequence of some months ago, when I'd remembered a BP garage just off junction 22 of the motorway.  In fact, there are three BP's quite close together, but none of them has a Wild Bean Cafe, where I could get my prefered breakfast.  Step by step, I recalled my former experience, and carried on for a few miles to a roadside cafe.  The condition of this place justifies its potentially pretentious title, 'Diane's Food Emporium', for the surfaces were not only clean but had recently been renovated, and the wall of the kitchen area proudly displayed the foor hygiene certificates of both mother and daughter who run the operation between them.  I expressed my anxiety that such an attractive place boasted no customers, until I'd walked in, but was reassured that there would be a steady stream once the day got under way.  I was, after all, quite early (it was scarcely 8.0).  Having obtained sustenance, and made a donation to a local charity, CBTRC, I continued my journey, aiming for a 9.0 collection in Nottingham.

This wasn't to be, however.  A mile up the road I joined a very slow-moving queue, waiting to leave the motorway at the next junction.  I think there had been an accident, but the matrices were giving no details, simply saying that the road was closed.  I found my way through local roads to rejoin the motorway further along, and eventually made my collection about 10.30! After a local delivery following my return, the day ended with the six-hour spreadsheet noted above.

Yesterday was one of those 'start and go on until it's done' days.  I left home about 7.15, in order to beat the traffic and collect some printed matter in Welwyn Garden City at 8.0, but I forgot that Friday's traffic is usually lighter - I've never worked out why; I'm just thankful that it's so! - and by 8.0 I was on already my way to take this to Bicester.  Then I was directed to a pick-up from a hospital in Oxford for a customer in Letchworth, and on the way came the challenge of getting two washing machines into the van beside these eight items, to be taken to a building site on the outskirts of Norwich. Before I'd reached Letchworth, I had already received instructions to make another collection, this time just round the corner from delivering the hospital stuff.  This was a bundle of steel bars to be taken to a small complex in March.

I had already protested my anxiety that by the time I got there, the workers on the building site would have packed up for the weekend, and when I arrived about 4.30, I certainly feared that this was so,  The site office and canteen were both deserted, although there were clearly people around somewhere because there were cars on the car park.  Further investigation led me to the discovery that the site manager and others were by the show house, which was due to open today, and to which access was separate. Desperate for fuel, I headed for a filling station on Norwich's ring road, where I decided to also get a snack for my tea, and finally made it home about twelve almost non-stop hours after leaving in the morning.

Tired but satisfied, I turned my attention to getting the weekend under way, with shopping and washing, in order to get to a church meeting this morning.  Life may be cluttered at times, but no one can tell me it's dull!

Becalmed ... with a Cough!

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

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

Cutting the birthday cake

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

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

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

Going nowhere!

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

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

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

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

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

So, what HAS changed?

It seems that 'change' is the in-word at the moment, especially in the light - and the aftermath - of the Scottish Referendum.  Since I referred to this at length last week, I'll just make one observation and pass on.  It seems that greater minds than mine had noticed the 'English unfairness'; the NO vote may have triggered some movement on this aspect.  Whether greater or lesser movement remains to be seen, but it will dominate our domestic news bulletins for months to come.

The big change in my own life - again mentioned here a number of times - has been the takeover of our operation by a national courier company.  After eight weeks, I feel I can make a fairly balanced assessment of its effects. Earlier this year, I wrote here about my 'gold and silver' analysis scheme for comparing the results of each week.  This weekend I've been comparing the seventeen weeks, from the start of the financial year in April to the takeover, to the eight weeks since.  In the longer period there were three silver weeks and one gold; in the eight weeks since the change five weeks have been 'silver' and one gold.

I think it was Disraeli who gets the blame for the comment about 'lies, damned lies, and statistics', and it's certainly true that figures can, in large measure, be massaged according to the desired message.  So I throw out these comparisons with no guarantee of their being connected or inter-related or evidence of cause-and-effect.  Rather, in my father's simple wisdom, I just 'speak as I find'.  Since the change of régime, my average weekly income has increased by almost a quarter; the average distance travelled each day is almost 14% more, and the earnings per mile driven is up by over 11%.  The number of jobs in a week has also increased, from 12.2 in the earlier weeks to 15.6 more recently.  I have explained about getting work from other depots, which is a significant departure from our previous isolated operation; such assignments account for about 12% of my income since the takeover, but even eliminating these completely, the jobs from our own area have risen to 13.9 per week.

Enough figures!

One thing that hasn't changed is the existence of so-called 'bad' days, and my reaction to them.  Let me be clear: not all 'bad' days are financially unproductive; into that category I consign any day that has seemed in any way unsatisfying.  Conversely, a day when I've done just one job that has been interesting, or which might have involved overcoming a particular problem would definitely not be a bad day at all ... such as the sunny Friday afternoon I spent at a caravan park near Skegness, trying to find out what to do with a van-load of medication for a hospital out-patient arriving for his holiday the following day!  Usually, after a succession of two or three 'bad' days, I find depression kicks in, bringing thoughts of 'being singled out for the rubbish' or 'left off the list', or simply being deliberately overlooked.

This week began with two of those 'bad' days.  On Monday I began with a journey to Bedford; next came one to Braintree, and then in the afternoon came a pair of deliveries to Hatfield and Bishop's Stortford, on the return from which I was diverted to Hertford, to collect for Witham.  If you're interested enough to check out the map, you'll see that I had to negotiate the notorious junction at Little Hadham no less than six times in the day, and didn't venture more than one county away from base all day.  Tuesday began with the exact same job to Bedford again, and then fell into a similar limited frame, as two jobs followed one after the other, with no return home until the day was done: one from Biggleswade to Milton Keynes, the other collected from Bedford with deliveries in Baldock and Harefield.

War memorial,
Churston Ferrers, Devon

Then came the day that redeemed the week.  Up long before daylight, I took some air-conditioning equipment to a shop that is being refurbished in the centre of Bath.  I was also loaded with a collection of important envelopes, the first of which had to be delivered to an office next to Temple Meads station in the middle of Bristol before 9.0 am!  Then the pressure was off, as I took the remaining envelopes to addresses in Chippenham, Torquay and Brixham.
Finishing at 1.30, I could then spend the rest of the day getting home.  I called the office in Plymouth, just in case there should be a job going in my direction, but to no avail and, after a lovely half-hour relaxing in the sunshine by this war memorial in Churston Ferrers, I made my way back to the motorway.

After such a day the rest of the week, which included trips to a remote farm near Whittlesey, Cambs., Gillingham Hospital in Kent, and Crowmarsh Gifford in rural Oxfordshire, paled into insignificance proving that (in the words of a BBC Radio 4 programme title) it's 'All in the Mind'!

Floating ... o'er Vales and Hills, I saw ...

Yesterday's annual spring outing of our bellringers was perhaps the best day of the past week.  It's been another in the sequence of uninspiring weeks that have dogged this record recently.  It certainly felt uninspiring when, by Thursday evening, my estimate for the week to date had just struggled past the three-day marker.  On Friday, forewarned by notices at each end, the road which is the only access to my Close, was closed for resurfacing.  With this in mind, I mentioned to the office on Thursday that my ideal situation for the next day would be 'a long job, early: so I can profitably stay away all day.'  With the recent history, I confess that I felt less than hopeful.

To be fair, I was offered what was described as the best of a bad job: a pick-up in Biggleswade at 8.30, for Coventry.  Out early, I relaxed in the sunshine at a local BP station before approaching the collection point on time.  Just as I reached the end of the M45, I was asked to call in once I was empty, which would be within the next half-hour.  I did so, and was sent to Knowsley, just north of Liverpool, where I collected goods for delivery in Rotherham, Luton and Broxbourne.  I was instructed to deliver those in Rotherham, and then take the others to the depot, for others to deliver on Monday morning.  The upshot of this was that, I later discovered, Friday's activity represented 37% of what, from such poor beginnings, had ended up as good a week as the last few.  Weather-wise, Friday's journey was all-embracing, from bright - almost dazzling - sunshine to the novel experience of driving through the rainbow towards the summit of England's motorways along the M62.

Whatever their commercial context, one of the delights of driving just now is the daffodils.  Everywhere it's possible, it seems, they push their chirpy faces around every corner.  They have a treasured place in memory for me as, I believe, for most people.  When I see them, I think of schooldays; trying to learn that poem by Wordsworth, sitting at the front of the church, decorated with daffodils at Easter-time; hearing about Mary Magdalene by the empty tomb, and imagining daffodils in that garden, too.  And so to the outing yesterday.  I'd been the first to arrive at one church, and while waiting for the others to turn up, I'd taken a picture of the church.  As I did so, I spotted the daffodils, and they commanded their own portrait.

Just a few of the daffodils
at Gt. Hallingbury

I was supposed to be in charge on this occasion - we take turns to run the ringing at each church - but I disgraced myself when I found it impossible to ring with new ropes that were far too long.  Instead of persevering, I gave up completely and abdicated my responsibility in favour of someone else.  It was a humiliation, but one mixed with hospitality, since local ladies had arranged coffee and biscuits down in the church, and we learned of their struggle with both finance and authorities to provide a modest kitchen in the corner of the building.  They had an on-going bric-a-brac stall, whence I was able to come away with a CD of relaxing music.

St Giles, Great Hallingbury

We had invited ringers from a neighbouring tower to join us this year, and the effect was that with more ringers, there was less demand to be constantly engaged at the end of a rope.  Instead, there was a chance to wander, take pictures, and to enjoy fellowship with the others.  It was good to sit in the sunshine and share at comfortable length the difficulties friends are coping with and, at the end of the day, to lean against a warm radiator and chew over with a local ringer the challenges of recruiting and training young folks in the skills we enjoy, only to see them all within a year, turn away to other interests.

Back to the 'Up and Down'

After mentioning the 'repeating genie' last week (the first time for a while), it confronted me in a new guise yesterday.  I'd returned home from a delivery of pharmaceuticals to a nearby hospital, only to be alerted from my perusal of social media by a call from the office.  "Now you know the way there, would you be able to do another job for <the same supplier> to <the same local hospital>?"  This time, I discovered, it wasn't just something that had been omitted from a regular order, but medication that was urgently required.  I walked along the corridor and into the ward, to find two nurses at the drugs trolley.  As I approached, one said to the other, "Oh, it's arrived!"  She turned to me, smiled, and pointed to the list in her hand.  "I need that for the patient right now!"  The third item on her list was the same as the drug named on the delivery note in my hand.

That was the conclusion to a week that for me had definitely been black-and-white.  By Wednesday evening I was feeling very thankful for those much-trumpeted gold and silver weeks at the start of the year, for in three days my earnings had only just staggered beyond the expectation for two.  With only one job on Monday, three medium-range trips on Tuesday (together making up a decent day), and only one on Wednesday, albeit a pleasant run to the Essex coast, I felt that things had bounced back to the 'old days' at the start of the recession, when we were anxious about meeting essential bills without dipping into savings.

"Trust, Brian; trust!" chided my conscience, as Thursday and yesterday each consisted of nose-to-tail sequences of medium-range work that matched Tuesday for productivity.  Thursday began with another early-morning run to Pinewood Studios, which was followed by another 'regular' safari for our customer in Royston, visiting a factory in Letchworth on my way to Daventry and back to Royston.  I was about to exchange my heavy, steel-toecapped shoes for carpet slippers, and drift into evening mode, when I was given an early evening job to Witham (the repeating genie sending me once again onto Essex roads little-used of late).

Yesterday began with two early collections in Stevenage, for delivery in Bletchley and Milton Keynes; from there I was sent to Bedford to collect four beautiful prints, newly-framed, to be taken (carefully!) to Boston.  After last week's delivery near Spalding, this again was a repeat: a pleasant drive through the flat tranquility of the fens, before those two dramatic deliveries to the hospital.

So, how has 2014 actually settled in - were those good weeks in January and February just flukes, or true green shoots of recovery?  I think the latter is more truly the case, for although there hasn't been a constant stream of lovely long jobs to occupy my time - and as I told a friend on Sunday, 'I haven't been to Scotland yet this year!" - nevertheless, these mundane, 'up-and-down' weeks have proved sufficiently consistent to be encouraging as well as modestly profitable.

As the man on my much-favoured, if illogical, Sunday afternoon radio programme (Gardeners' Question Time) says, "Onwards and upwards!"
 

Getting it into Perspective

A few weeks ago I expressed my surprise that this year has started as well as it has.  I have a system - a sort of code - by which I rate each week's activity. Each week I record the miles driven, how productive those miles have been and the total amount I've earned, and each of these is monitored against the budget I set at the beginning of the year.  If the total earned and the profitability of the mileage are better than budget, then I designate that week as 'silver'; if I've managed that with the added benefit of driving fewer miles than budget, then the week is a 'gold' one.  So two silvers and two golds in the first five weeks of the year, when things usually fall flat after Christmas, was a noteworthy achievement.

I'm not complaining; there have been a number of big expenses lately.  Some were expected, like new spectacles, and the annual tax disc for the van (I believe that, in its wisdom, our government has now changed the way this is to be administered, and this will probably be the last actual disc I buy - but the tax will, of course, continue!).   Other expenses came out of the blue, like a couple of major repair items for the van, and a new set of tyres, so the unexpectedly good weeks have been a blessing.

Now things are back to what passes for normal, not just in the level of work, but in the mixture of easy jobs and those that make you think 'why on earth can't they give me the full story at the beginning?'  I wrote a couple of weeks ago about a particularly uncomfortable time at Heathrow airport, for example.  This week has included three more bewildering jobs, and I hope I won't bore my readers with too much fine detail.  But before these depressing elements, I have to record too that Tuesday was a dream day.  I left quite soon after breakfast to collect three small but heavy wooden boxes from a firm in Hoddesdon, to go to Bolton.  On the way, in a direct line as it were, I picked up some metalwork in Luton to deliver in Smethwick.  I eventually arrived at Bolton just before the factory there was about to leave off, and enjoyed the most tasty lamb hotpot at the truckstop at Markham Moor on the way home.

If you don't like it when things go wrong, here's where you switch off.  A lot of our work involves visiting hospitals, and I've lost count of the number of different ones I've been to.  A fairly basic pattern is common to most of these jobs - either we are delivering something fairly mundane that goes to the general receiving area, sometimes designated 'goods in', just as in a factory setting, or else 'stores'; or we are delivering priority equipment required within hours for an operation, in which case this goes straight to the theatre.  In the latter case it seems acceptable, whether strictly correct or not, that we park in the 'drop-off' zone near to the main entrance, and can quickly walk through the building to the required department.

The two hospitals I visited this week proved more difficult, frustratingly so, because they were both fairly local to our base.  On Wednesday I made two separate deliveries to one that has recently undergone extensive re-modelling. My first delivery was addressed to the Treatment Centre, a new addition to its facilities.  I approached the reception desk, only to be told that they couldn't accept any deliveries: I must go to the main hospital.  I did as I was bid, and predictably got sent away with "If it's for the Treatment Centre, then you must take it to the Treatment Centre!"  I rang the office for further information or instructions, and obtained the name of the lady to whom it was supposed to be delivered.  Armed with this, I returned to the site of my first refusal, and after a phone call, was ushered to the lifts and thence to the theatre on the fourth floor.

An hour or so later, I returned to the same establishment, with goods for 'Theatres'.  More sure of my ground, I went to the theatre in the main hospital, where, after pointing to a key word on the label, 'Surgi-centre', the staff there redirected me to the theatre in the Treatment Centre - just where I'd been before!

The last job of my week was to another hospital, with a box labelled 'Central Stores'.  Unable to see a direction post for 'deliveries' as I drove onto this new-build site,  I approached reception to see where I needed to go.  "It's right round the back!" came the reply, so I followed the gesticulating arm, and drove round the back, only to find a number of patient services with their own entrances, and an even greater number of car parks, but no goods entrance of any kind.  After further instructions from reception, assisted by a phone call, I discovered an unsigned turning that took me close to the perimeter of the site, correctly to the rear of the hospital, only to find that the receiving staff had left off for the weekend some two hours previously!  Guess where I'll be headed first thing on Monday morning ....

Earlier in the day, I'd made a collection from a hotel.  Now, more often than not - in fact, I might say, exclusively in my experience - a collection from a hotel is to recover marketing or display materials after a conference or sales gathering of some sort.  Sometimes we might meet the personnel of our customer, who are only too pleased to hand the stuff over to us, hop into their luxury limousines and drive off.  On other occasions, they have already left, after depositing the goods with reception or security staff for safe keeping until we arrive, sometimes not until the next day, according to instructions.  So, early in the morning, I bounded up to the reception desk in this large Berkshire hotel and announced that I was collecting a couple of units for our customer P---.   Blank faces abounded.  No one knew anything about it.  After a few fruitless enquiries, I was back in my van to call the person whose number I'd been given for just such a problem situation, were it to arise.

The line between the two mobiles wasn't great, but I managed to establish that I was in fact collecting two air conditioning units, and my understanding was that these were on a building site behind the hotel, where extensive renovations were being carried out, and could be found in container no. 3.  I drove round the building and did indeed find a building site, with about eight or nine containers.  One was clearly the site office, but was locked up. Enquiries led me inside the hotel to speak to someone who might know where these items were to be found.  The man didn't know; but anyway, he said, if they were in a locked container, the people with the keys wouldn't be on site until the following day.

Once more, phone calls were exchanged from me to the office, reporting this apparent difficulty, from the office to the customer to see if other arrangements could be made, and from the person I'd phoned earlier to clarify to me his earlier instructions.  It seemed that what I had understood as 'container no. 3' was actually the container that was being used as 'the canteen', where he had left these items for ease of access when they were collected.  All that remained then was to get them into the van, and off to our customer.  When I arrived, I was greeted with a smile. "I understand you've had some trouble ..."  I started to explain.  "That was Sam," said the man, as he unloaded the units onto a pallet.  "He's our customer's customer; he ... " In order to express his disapproval of the man, he then described a personal contortion that doesn't belong here, but of which he said Sam would be quite incapable.  So far as I was concerned, our customer was happy, and I drove away with a satisfaction that outweighed the foregoing frustrations.

Now all I have to do is get up early enough to get to that hospital again by start of business on Monday.  At least I know where to go now ... !

... Out like a Lion!

They say, I believe, that March comes in like a lion and goes out like a lamb.  Of course, that refers to the weather; work-wise, I can't recall its beginning, but for me March (and the financial year) has ended on a high.  Not exceptional - this age of recession doesn't do exceptional - but a week that has been financially healthy and full of activity.  Monday started inauspiciously, with a phone call to get onto the list of available drivers.  Learning that I would be in ninth position, I said that I would stay at home until mid morning at least, but in fact I was called around 10.0 to do the sort of job that isn't usually offered as a 'top-line' earner.  This means it's 'middle-distance', and isolated either because it's in a direction where it's unlikely that something else will be going the same way, or else because it's wanted urgently.  This particular job missed both sub-categories, and I found myself going to Hertford to collect two large boxes.  These almost filled the van with just millimetres to spare, and were taken to a woodworking firm in Southend.  After that, the afternoon was mostly empty until I left about 4.30 with a job to Didcot - not the easiest place to get to from any direction!

By that time, I had already been allocated an early job for Tuesday, taking a couple of items from the railway depot in Bedford to specialist maintenance consultants in Leamington Spa.  This was followed by another of those 'middle distance' jobs, this one to Oundle, where I pulled up next to the biggest yacht I think I've ever seen to make my delivery to one of a surprising number of boatyards that are to be found at this inland town.  Two more conventional jobs to Beaconsfield and Basingstoke completed Tuesday and meant that for the second time I wasn't home until mid-evening.

Wednesday, too, brought me four jobs.  My suspicions were confirmed when I arrived in the office to find that, because I had gone out quite late the previous day, I had been left on the list, so it was still quite early when I left with deliveries at a private club near Heathrow and a factory in Thatcham.  I returned to find, to my surprise, that there were no small vans in the yard.  So it was that I was soon out again, this time to take a small consignment of metal to Red Bull Racing in Milton Keynes, and some paperwork on behalf of a publicity firm in Hitchin for a conference taking place the following day at a hotel and golf centre near Daventry.  This journey was hampered by a serious accident that necessitated a diversion through tiny villages to avoid the severe queues on the main roads.

Thursday was solid, and straightforward.  I took an envelope of documents from a firm in Hoddesdon to Leeds University.  I later found that I'd been one of three of our drivers to go to Leeds that day.  One, a keen cyclist, had taken his cycle and a picnic with him as he delivered to a conference early in the morning.  He then spent the day making good use of the sunshine before returning to the venue to collect what he'd taken ready to return it to the exhibitors the following day.  The other had left soon after me, going directly to First Direct' banking offices.

Yesterday, of course, the roads were cluttered by the faux-panic over fuel supplies.  As I waited at the office for work, I had a phone call from the providers of one of my fuel cards, asking if all were well with me, since I'd not used the card for some while.  She must have been anticipating my (usual) response.  If the price offered by the card people is more than I can pay either at the same place or elsewhere using a credit card, the fuel card stays in the wallet.  She said that she'd arranged a very favourable rate for the rest of the week.  I resolved that, since I was likely to need fuel later in the day, I'd look out for an Esso station and use this.  However, the one near my home had run dry (and was still closed this morning), and before I found another, a competitor had attracted my business.  It will be interesting to see what effect this has on the price I'm offered next week!

Workwise, I took two trays of sample bread to Maidenhead for analysis, and then returned to wait for more work.  Meanwhile, my colleague John was doing another job for the bread company, which is featured here.  Again, I found myself the only small van around, and later left with a couple of fairly regular jobs that took me to a luxurious thatched cottage on the outskirts of St Albans, to a logistics firm at Heathrow and a to tiny village in the Thames valley, where documents that are taken there have to be left in an outhouse (dog-permitting!)

So one year ends, and after the weekend another will begin.  I wonder what it will hold for me and the other drivers.  One thing I'm sure we shall find will be the strange presence of the 'Repeating Genie'.  As you read this article, you might have noticed a few examples this week - Leamington Spa on Monday and Daventry on  Wednesday; two visits to the Heathrow area, and Maidenhead followed by another visit to the Thames valley yesterday.  Is it too early to wish my readers 'Happy New Year'?  I think not.

Happy New Year, one and all!

Of Boxes, Budgets and Foolish Virgins!

As I look back over this week, I see that it comprised two distinct parts.  From a standing start on Monday, I was out by mid morning, but it was only to Leatherhead and Bracknell, and I was back in embarrassingly good time to go ringing in the evening.  Tuesday's excursion into Kent was only as far as Strood, and I was back soon after lunch.  I had brought my little netbook with me, and spent the afternoon making a first stab at a budget for the new financial year.  The more realistically I tweaked the figures, the more depressed I became - especially when I realised that in those two days the results of my activity had only just exceeded one day's budgeted income! 

As I've explained to a number of interested friends, this inactivity at a personal level isn't entirely due to the recession or lack of recovery from it.  In part it is a simple consequence of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.  Some drivers seem to drift effortlessly from one good job to another, to another, and collect another on their way back from far places, while others have days on end with only single jobs that aren't far away at all, just because of who is available when the jobs come in or are required.  So it was that, as Tuesday drew to a close, I heard with some envy that other drivers had been given multiple jobs at some distance, while I was selected for one that used to be quite a regular a year or more ago, and often came my way - a rather tame delivery from a factory in Luton to an RAF base in Suffolk.

Knowing that this would only take half a day, and would virtually guarantee another boring afternoon in the crew room, drifting pointlessly from coffee to crossword, I was none too pleased.  In my prayers on Wednesday, I sought the willpower to trust in God's provision for my needs.  Back from Suffolk by early afternoon, I did at least have the encouraging sniff of an evening run to the midlands, but then, instead of this, I had the earlier reality of a collection in Welwyn GC for Boston, and on my way there came a phone call offering me a 7.0 pick-up in Bedford for Preston on Thursday.  Naturally I said 'yes,' and this worked out very well for me, since Thursday evening was one of those rare times when I have an engagement that I don't like to cry off (although sometimes this has been unavoidable.)  I help one of a small number of teams on a rota to read items from the local free paper, providing a 'talking newspaper' for blind people in the area.  This week it was our turn, and I was able comfortably to take my place with my friends at the microphone.

Friday was beginning to resemble the old pattern once more, as I'd been allocated an 8.30 collection in Milton Keynes for Wantage.  But then, as I prepared my tea, came another call, inviting me to return to the office and collect some railway spares that had to be taken to MK next morning, which added value to the journey.  Then, as I sat in the crew room in the afternoon, wondering if that would be the end of the week, the controller walked in and asked for volunteers for a couple of decent jobs yesterday.  No one spoke up immediately, but after a few moments I realised that the 'important' jobs I'd been planning for Saturday morning could be postponed until Monday, so I declared myself available, and by 8.30am I was delivering a box to a food processing factory just a few miles outside Launceston.


My plan, such as it was, was to make good use of the trip to see somewhere new before returning home, and I took my camera for the purpose.  It was early afternoon before I'd escaped the dull and damp weather that seemed determined to cling to the west country, but at Shepton Mallet I found a brown tourist sign for East Somerset Railway, and followed where it led.  Although it was not open to the public, the men who were at work by the trackside didn't object as I began taking pictures. 
Then disaster struck.  The camera made it clear that it needed new batteries.  No problem; I always carry a spare set in the case and - very carefully, since I was by then at my vantage point looking over the parapet of the road bridge (which you can just make out here behind the white signal) - I removed the dead batteries and replaced them.  Sadly, the replacements too seemed to be in need of recharging.  I felt like a foolish virgin (Matt. 25:3), and retreated shamefully to my van, having been unable to record half of what I'd seen.

So, what has this experience taught me?  Let me just say that, after an evening of searching for the battery charger, which has now recovered pride of place on the kitchen shelf, I now have a functioning camera once more ... AND a monthly electronic reminder to check the batteries and recharge them if necessary.  I wonder what else in life ought to be subjected to the same treatment?

Along the Ridge

After all the reflection and anticipation, the new van is here!  On Thursday morning, instead of going in to work as usual, I had a leisurely breakfast and then drove the van to the parking space that's nearest to my door.  I then made several passes from van to bedroom, and succeeded (I thought) in getting all my stuff out of the van, ready to drive the sixteen miles or so to the showroom where my new acquisition had been serviced and MOT'd, and was now awaiting the proximity of the other van to undergo a radio transfusion. 

... like moving house!

I took a final look at the bedroom, where there were boxes all over floor and bed, and bigger items strewn nearby - and hoped that I'd be back in time to remove all the clutter before the inspection lady should arrive.

The need for the radio transfusion stems from the discovery a couple of years ago that the mp3-player app on my new mobile phone could use the radio I'd bought for the last van, using a simple cable and the 'auxiliary input' socket.  I then changed my music/podcast software from iTunes to Media Go, gave away my iPod, and thenceforward have used one item instead of two.  In point of fact that should read 'instead of three', for on occasion I had forgotten to switch on my hands-free device in the van, and didn't realise until I went to switch it off at the end of a journey, and found that I switched it on instead!  After two or three such discoveries, I left it off deliberately, and have since removed it.  I can hear what people are saying to me through the radio, and they can hear me because the microphone of the phone is strong enough to hear my voice directly if I lean slightly towards it.

I had been advised the previous day that the showroom could accommodate me at 11.0 am.  As I drove there on Thursday morning I encountered unexpected roadworks, and the resulting delay made me a few minutes late.  I needn't have worried, for they weren't exactly ready for me, and there was a delay for a passage to be cleared through the yard before ever the van could get to the workshop, let alone have the work done.  I can't fault their service, however.  Not only did they offer to transfer the radio instead of leaving me to either find a new one with the same capabilities or pay someone for the transfer, but they also provided me with a new MOT, despite there being several months remaining on the old one. 

When the subject of taxing the vehicle came up, and I mentioned that my broker had e-mailed the cover note to me (and said what good job that was, because the original, posted first class in Wigan on Wednesday, hadn't arrived), he explained that the Post Office wouldn't accept an e-mailed copy (or photocopy) cover note - it had to be the original, and he offered to tax the van for me.  That meant that, once the radio transfer was complete, I could be on my way.

While I was waiting, I thought it would be a good idea to contact the recovery people and get my cover updated for the new vehicle.  Normally it's simply a case of noting the new registration no. and the type and colour of the vehicle, but this time there was an additional enquiry.  'Tell me, sir, will you be using this van for business?' 'Yes.' 'And what is the nature of the business?' 'Courier.'  'Ah! Sorry, we won't be able to cover you in that case.'  My protestations that, not only had I been covered by them for the past ten years, but had actually been recovered twice while actually on my way to make deliveries and had to get someone else to collect the goods from me, counted for nothing.  As a gesture of great magnanimity, it seemed, they took the details of the new van and said they'd 'honour the terms of the policy' up to its expiry date, but wouldn't renew it. And I was supposed to be grateful?

By the time this conversation was over, the van was ready and I departed.  Not that all was plain sailing, however.  With no SatNav, I wasn't sure how to get home again whilst avoiding those roadworks - and then I noticed a darling little pink light flashing at me from the dashboard - I was virtually out of fuel!  The nearest filling station wasn't one that would accept my fuel cards, so I had to pay the higher price for all of the 51 litres it took to fill it up!

I noted above that I thought I'd got all my stuff out of the old van.  Whilst driving to the showroom I happened to start off on a slope; the motion jerked my sunglasses out of their hidey hole, and I popped them into my coat pocket.  While I was waiting to be loaded for the only job I did that afternoon, I realised that I'd also left a set of four securing straps in the back of the old van.  I rang the showroom and arranged to visit them this morning to exchange the spare key (which I'd also forgotten) for the straps, and explained where they were.  When I got there this morning, I was told that they'd hunted all round the van and couldn't find the straps.  I went to the van and got them out straight away - from the one place they hadn't looked: the back of the van; they'd only searched the cab!

Apart from the few differences that are to be expected between one model and another that's three or four years newer, this van has a smaller engine, and is therefore expected to be less heavy on fuel.  On the one decent trip I've done so far - up to Wallsend yesterday - that seems to be the case, but not so pleasantly economical as I'd been led to believe. 

Time alone will reveal how representative that is; I can't wait to find out!

A Question of Balance

If anyone dares to claim that the work of a courier is not seasonal, don't listen to him!  This is the week I usually take as a winter holiday - see this earlier blog, and often during the week I've wished I had done so after all.  Apart from the working part of the week consisting of only four 'proper' days, my financial rewards have to show the lowest weekly total on record - holidays excepted.  The proceeds will total between one and two days' normal earnings.  Fortunately, I was able to find other satisfactions than financial ones with which to measure the success of the week.

Monday was, of course, the New Year Bank Holiday, and the office was closed.  I had elected to be available for work, but I decided that I wouldn't phone in first thing to let whoever was manning the phones know I was still alive.  This might have been favourable, but the pseudo-Quaker in me said that if I did so, I should be making a complete irrelevance of the list upon which I had declared my availability in the first place.  Consequently, perhaps, and certainly without causing me great surprise, my phone was silent and the van remained unused.

Instead, my Bank Holiday was apportioned between two tasks.  I spent the afternoon and early evening playing an audio tape through the USB converter I bought last year, and storing the product on the computer.  This was the first of a 'double tape' product, and its fellow was similarly dealt with later in the week.  The other task on Monday was to identify an internet mailing list for Co Fermanagh, and subscribe to it with a view to finding out something more about the great family I'd located for my great-uncle George, who had been discharged from the army in 1876, and settled in Enniskillen (sorry if I've mentioned this before, but it has rather overshadowed my thoughts recently, since I'd long since decided that I would never know what had happened to him.)

Tuesday began with a number of necessary phone calls, made while waiting for my van to be serviced.  I needed to order a new inhaler, and also to make an appointment for an eye test.  Just as I was beginning to feel cold and rescued my coat from the van, I noticed the rain sheeting down outside and was glad I didn't have to be out in it.  At that point the van was almost finished, but when he took it for a road test, the engineer decided there was a problem with the tracking.  By the time this had been put right, the sun was out, and it was something of a pleasure soon afterwards to be sent to Leicester and see a magnificent double rainbow as I drove up the motorway.  I'd just finished my evening meal when a phone call sent me off to Shoeburyness, so I was out until 10.40pm, and late on parade the next day.

Wednesday brought no work at all, and by 2.30 I decided to be realistic and come home.  I discovered that someone else had usurped my post to the Fermanagh mailing list and answered with what was, in effect, a completely new enquiry about something totally different, with the result that, out of eight messages headed 'Evans - Enniskillen', one was a not-very-helpful reply to me, and the others totally irrelevant.  I hastily responded caustically to this 'identity theft' as I described it, but the following day realised the error of such an action, and apologised.  I think this was much more effective, for as a result I then received lots of encouragement and some very helpful general advice and details of websites that have opened my eyes to the intricacies of Irish research.

Yesterday I did a single job to a charming village in the west of Bedfordshire, delivering hygiene materials to a 'college' which seemed to cater solely for disabled students.  Once more I took the afternoon off, since it seemed pointless to sit there at the bottom of a long list,  when the phones were hardly ringing, and the few jobs coming in were for the big vans.  Once more family history and the tape conversion took centre stage.

Numerically, today has been more productive, but the first of the two jobs was only a very local one, and the other only 50 miles away, so the excitement was little.  I returned to find that one of my colleagues was researching a job he'd just been given to deliver tomorrow morning in Falkirk.  This is the sort of job I'd normally have given my eye teeth for, but somehow I just didn't have the energy to get excited about it.  I had departed and was just returning home from my shopping expedition when I realised that, even if I had been offered it, I should have had to turn it down anyway, because of the optician's appointment tomorrow morning.

So my week has been a true balance, and has felt all the better for it, with this evening spent exploring some of those fascinating Irish websites!

To do or not to do!

It won't really matter if some items fall off the bottom of the to-do list; others stand at the opposite end of the scale of importance, and must be done by certain deadlines.  And yet others spread themselves at leisure along that broad swathe in between: any old time will do, so long as they get done eventually.  I confess that I'm a bit of a timing snob.  If something has to be done by a specific date - like submitting a tax return - I tend to jump on it as soon as it's possible to do it, and get it done out of the way.  I've just submitted my VAT Return for the quarter ending 31st October, notwithstanding that, because I do it on line the deadline for it isn't until 7th December.  As soon as I had all the figures to hand, it just had to be done!  And just in case I should forget (I've never forgotten in the nine years I've been registered!), the reminder e-mail had been sitting in my inbox for the last couple of weeks since it arrived, and has now been gleefully deleted.

As well as being punctual to extremes, I'm also lazy, and well aware of it - and the two don't make happy bedfellows.  For the most part, when it comes to domestic chores - for which there are no deadlines - the only person their execution or otherwise affects is me.  The landlord's agent comes to inspect the flat every quarter and, to be fair, so long as I don't vandalise the place, break windows, wrench doors from their hinges, etc., I don't think she's really bothered.  Nevertheless, the fact of her regular visit usually sends me on a guilt trip as I think of all the housework I haven't done, and the weekend next before the promised visitation sees me in a whirl of frantic activity which I'm sure is less than efficient, and could be totally avoided if only I were a bit more organised in that department.

Last week brought a pinprick of a reminder of things not being done when they should have been.  I say pinprick because the effect was merely that my earnings were about £10 less than ought to have been the case, although through no fault of my own.  What really annoyed me, however, was the underlying cause of this loss.  I shall explain.  In common with most self-employed courier drivers, I get paid only for the jobs that I do.  It won't surprise my readers to learn that the value of each job is determined by the distance travelled, i.e. from base to pick-up to delivery.  The advantage of working under contract to an agency is that both the procurement of work and the security of payment are handled by them - as also is that most delicate of all commercial flowers, Customer Relations.

Imagine for a moment that you are a regular customer, sending goods on a weekly basis to a single destination.  You could be forgiven for making some complaint if one week you were charged £40, the next £45, and the next £38, and so on.  Unless you had been advised of some specific change in pricing policy, you would expect the same job to cost the same amount week in, week out.  To ensure the smooth running of the business, when our jobs are charged to the customers each one is checked to see whether it has been done before, and if so, then it is charged at the same price.  The importance will therefore be appreciated that, when a new job is undertaken, it is priced correctly.

Twice last week I was sent on a particular job that I hadn't done before.  I was sent nominally to a large market town in the adjacent county, but when I collected the goods, I discovered that they were consigned to a village some ten miles further on - nearer, in fact, to the next market town than to the one designated.  Accordingly, when I returned to the office, I pointed this matter out, thinking that the price would require adjustment.  It is often the case that customers will just name the postal town as a guide to the area where the goods are going when they book a job, rather than the specific destination.  For planning purposes this is sufficient.  Most drivers recognise that, if the job takes them far from where they were originally told, it's in their interest, as well as that of the firm, to let the office staff know.  On this occasion I was told that, although it had only now fallen to me, this job has been done daily for several weeks, and no one had advised this discrepancy before!  Now, of course, a precedent has been established, and since this is one of our major customers, whose feathers are not to be ruffled, no price adjustment will be made.

My complaint had been overheard by other drivers.  There is now widespread disquiet, and some reluctance on the part of many to accept that job, now it's generally realised that it will be underpaid.  And all because the first driver to do the job - whoever he may have been - didn't highlight the error when it could have been put right!

The rough with the smooth

There are good weeks - there are occasionally excellent weeks! - but from time to awfully frequent time there are also bad weeks.  You know the sort of thing ... when someone jokes in the silence, "Come on, - it's time to turn the phone back on now." ... when there are so many people stuffed into a small space that there's nowhere to swing a newspaper, and don't even think of getting up to go to the loo or make a drink, because the seat won't be awaiting your return!

This week has been one such week.  By Thursday night I'd managed a tally worth something less than two and a half days' income.  If you take off known expenses and fuel, there would not be enough left over to pay the rent on my flat, let alone find a crust to eat (if one were daft enough to think of a week in total isolation like that, that is!)  It's on days like this that crew-room chat expresses dissatisfaction of some kind.  Sometimes it will be between drivers, alleging some underhand practice that has secured a perceived advantage over others.  On other occasions, like this week, the general undercurrent is 'anti-establishment'.

Some of us have been assigned jobs on a particular contract whose terms involve the return of packaging and rubbish after delivery, and require that this be taken back to the customer whence it came.  The price agreed for the contract is intended to include this additional work.  Because it is more than is done as part of a normal job, some drivers are looking for some clearly additional payment for it and, as an act of defiance, they have started leaving the rubbish outside our office.  When a notice was posted up threatening that they wouldn't get paid for the job unless this aspect is completed as well, some of these recusants simply said that they would refuse these jobs in future.

Since we are all self-employed, that is always our prerogative.  However, it does beg the question of to what extent their services will be used if they are not going to do all is entailed in any particular job.  I found myself engaged in endless discussion with one of these, who simply could not see (or would not!) that the price for each job is fixed, and that we either do or don't do each job - as required by the customer - for the price accorded to it.  The fact that in the vast majority of cases we simply accept what we hear as an instruction, doesn't detract from its contractual status as offer and acceptance of that job on those terms.  He could only see the situation as 'them' getting something for nothing from 'us'.

Today, by contrast to those foregoing, presented me with a different rough and smooth.  It was a full day from beginning to end.  But it started with a pair of jobs that it was impossible to fulfil properly alongside each other, because both were for 9.0 collection and 12 noon delivery.  Unavoidably, I was early to collect one and late for the other, and then late to fulfil that one as well.  And then, on the way home, came a third job that involved difficulty in locating the pick-up point, hidden deep within the uninspiring brick buildings of a former airfield, problems in first assembling and then loading the goods, and then equal trouble in finding the delivery point.   This was partly because there was no company name outside, and partly because, though the name of the building was prominent on the front of the building, it was quite small, and the wall was some distance from the road, on the far side of the car park.

Individually, each of these snags would simply be grist to the mill of daily life, but coming together like this, it's almost as if things are conspiring against me.  I'm just glad that the weekend has arrived, with the chance to rest and recover a little before the next chapter of 'Life on Four Wheels'.

Triumph at last!

I'm feeling cock-a-hoop this weekend.  Right has come out on top; the potential scammer has been outdone.  I'm just wondering ... "why?  Why?  WHY?"

It all began back in March, as I was driving along one of our less well-maintained trunk roads.  The road noise made it difficult to hear every last word of an incoming phone call, which I had thought to be from my usual mobile phone agent, offering me a new android phone with all the latest bells and whistles, subject only to taking out a 24-month contract.  It was the sort of offer that I've had a number of times over the last few years, and since the terms sounded favourable, I said, 'Yes please, send me the paperwork.'  It wasn't until the next day's post arrived that I realised that this had been a cold call from another firm who had somehow got my details.

The terms were indeed good and, since I wasn't completely satisfied with the upgraded handset I got last summer, I decided to go ahead with this new deal.  The offer included the option of transferring my old number to the new contract, and an undertaking to fund the early termination fee charged by my former provider.  When I rang Vodafone to get the code for the transfer, I was warned that this funding offer was to be treated with suspicion.  To this man's experienced ear, when the cost of the phone I was being offered was matched against the payments I would be making over the 24 months of the contract, there would be little if any money left over to refund the fee he was about to charge me for terminating the old contract - well in excess of £300!  It sounded as if the firm was offering something it wouldn't be able to afford: an offer that was indeed too good to be true!

The new phone came and I got used to it.  I paid Vodafone their charge, sent off a copy of the invoice as required, and waited for the refund.  The weeks passed, and the refund didn't come.  I protested, complained, and was given all kinds of plausible but unreliable excuses.  Finally, three months after the new contract had been signed, I issued a final ultimatum, and when this put neither a cheque into my hands nor money into my bank, I took action using Money Claims on Line (the internet version of the Small Claims Court.)  It cost me a £35 fee to do so, and I anticipated either losing this as well, or at least having a long hassle to get anything at all back.  I decided that it would be worth it for the satisfaction of claiming fulfilment of an offer that I had had in writing, and which looked genuine, and to prove that at least one of their victims was prepared to stand up for himself.

When I came back from my holiday, the cheque was on my doormat, inclusive of the fee, and a nominal amount of interest from the date it was originally due.  I banked it with some haste - almost fearing that it might evaporate before I could do so!  I have since received from the Court a Full Admission from the defendant, asking me to confirm to them my acceptance of the payment made.  After checking with the bank that the deadline has now passed, beyond which the cheque can no longer 'bounce', I shall tonight respond to the Court, and enter the amount recovered into my accounts.

It's good to know that the system works.  I just wonder how many other people were offered the same good deal; how many other people accepted it, and haven't had their refund; and with the Vodafone man's wise analysis still ringing in my ears, I'm wondering how indeed the company managed to finance the scheme if they all decided to follow the same path as I did.