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?
Showing posts with label management. Show all posts
Showing posts with label management. Show all posts
Saturday, 4 October 2014
Saturday, 6 September 2014
Serving two Masters
... or more accurately, over thirty masters!
As I indicated here a few weeks ago, the business that has provided my courier work for the last dozen years has been taken over by a nationwide organisation. I'm sure this has brought greater efficiency for our customers (initial 'bedding in' problems apart), and it has certainly been different for us drivers, if only in respect of the uniform and electronic means of recording our work.
One aspect that isn't quite so obvious has become apparent to me in the last week or so. The man I loosely term my 'boss' was one of the founders of the company many years ago and, without consciously thinking of it I'm sure, he has always regarded the business, the office and the work provided by the customers as 'his', and the drivers as his employees ... even though, as self-employed contractors, we weren't.
Occasionally other work has cut across this domestic picture, like the time when I diverted after making a delivery in Durham, to collect an engine that a friend had bought on e-Bay from someone in Morpeth. I was called with the eternal question, 'whereabouts are you?' when I was still on the far side of Newcastle, and was treated to a puzzled, 'what on earth are you doing up there?' There was no obligation, of course, but I think he did expect to be told when we weren't going to be available. And, in fairness, such a courtesy would have been diplomatic, even if not a requirement. Sadly, diplomacy is not my style ... as I have realised to my cost in a number of ways in the past.
Under the regime that now prevails, serving a business catering for the demands of thousands of customers from a network of (I'm told) 39 centres across the country, it is accepted that, to maximise our earnings, we can legitimately contact another centre for work when we're free in their area. Equally, as happened to me on only the second day of working this way, another centre, seeing an 'incomer' on their screen in a convenient place (I believe the system also allows them to determine whether we're on a job or empty) can contact us to offer an attractive assignment to a distant destination. It was just such a call that led me the other day to go out with jobs to Radlett and Greenford, and end up in Chelmsford!
On Thursday, I left home early with goods I had collected the previous afternoon for the distribution centre just off the M1 at Crick. No sooner had I set off than I received another job to collect locally for Risley, Derbyshire. (I'm now wondering whether this came from our own night controller, or from a neighbouring centre ... the PDA makes no distinction.) Thinking no further than about the time it would take me to get from one location to the other, off I went. Once I had gathered my thoughts, however, it made sense to me to contact the office in Nottingham when I was available, and my day was completed with two jobs for them, from which I arrived home at about 5.50pm.
I was about to touch my phone to let the local office know I would be available for work the next day, when it rang. It was 'the boss', calling to give me a job for the following morning. I said that I had been about to ring him, and was treated to a line of 'banter' to the effect that he'd been watching me on the screen all day, wondering where I was going, and bemoaning the fact that I was doing work for other people. I'm still not sure whether or not he was serious, but I take heart from the fact that there was a job for me at the end of it. It does underline, however, the extent of the change that faces him in this new environment.
The Bible story that prompted today's title warns against trying to serve two masters; this situation is different, in that we're now all trying to serve one - new - master!
As I indicated here a few weeks ago, the business that has provided my courier work for the last dozen years has been taken over by a nationwide organisation. I'm sure this has brought greater efficiency for our customers (initial 'bedding in' problems apart), and it has certainly been different for us drivers, if only in respect of the uniform and electronic means of recording our work.
One aspect that isn't quite so obvious has become apparent to me in the last week or so. The man I loosely term my 'boss' was one of the founders of the company many years ago and, without consciously thinking of it I'm sure, he has always regarded the business, the office and the work provided by the customers as 'his', and the drivers as his employees ... even though, as self-employed contractors, we weren't.
Occasionally other work has cut across this domestic picture, like the time when I diverted after making a delivery in Durham, to collect an engine that a friend had bought on e-Bay from someone in Morpeth. I was called with the eternal question, 'whereabouts are you?' when I was still on the far side of Newcastle, and was treated to a puzzled, 'what on earth are you doing up there?' There was no obligation, of course, but I think he did expect to be told when we weren't going to be available. And, in fairness, such a courtesy would have been diplomatic, even if not a requirement. Sadly, diplomacy is not my style ... as I have realised to my cost in a number of ways in the past.
Under the regime that now prevails, serving a business catering for the demands of thousands of customers from a network of (I'm told) 39 centres across the country, it is accepted that, to maximise our earnings, we can legitimately contact another centre for work when we're free in their area. Equally, as happened to me on only the second day of working this way, another centre, seeing an 'incomer' on their screen in a convenient place (I believe the system also allows them to determine whether we're on a job or empty) can contact us to offer an attractive assignment to a distant destination. It was just such a call that led me the other day to go out with jobs to Radlett and Greenford, and end up in Chelmsford!
On Thursday, I left home early with goods I had collected the previous afternoon for the distribution centre just off the M1 at Crick. No sooner had I set off than I received another job to collect locally for Risley, Derbyshire. (I'm now wondering whether this came from our own night controller, or from a neighbouring centre ... the PDA makes no distinction.) Thinking no further than about the time it would take me to get from one location to the other, off I went. Once I had gathered my thoughts, however, it made sense to me to contact the office in Nottingham when I was available, and my day was completed with two jobs for them, from which I arrived home at about 5.50pm.
I was about to touch my phone to let the local office know I would be available for work the next day, when it rang. It was 'the boss', calling to give me a job for the following morning. I said that I had been about to ring him, and was treated to a line of 'banter' to the effect that he'd been watching me on the screen all day, wondering where I was going, and bemoaning the fact that I was doing work for other people. I'm still not sure whether or not he was serious, but I take heart from the fact that there was a job for me at the end of it. It does underline, however, the extent of the change that faces him in this new environment.
The Bible story that prompted today's title warns against trying to serve two masters; this situation is different, in that we're now all trying to serve one - new - master!
Friday, 4 July 2014
On the Brink of ...
The other week I had a very lopsided week that balanced out overall, through a particularly demanding Friday. This week has been totally different, but merited the same headline, "Mustn't Grumble". Having used it so recently, though, I felt I couldn't be so boring, so instead, I'm looking forward to my holiday, which is why this post is published just a little earlier than usual.
The boss has been on holiday this week, so a different mind has been controlling my activities. Though equally efficient, this chap has a totally different way of working, and in many ways this week has shown me just how 'typecast' one can become to he who is doing the casting! Certain jobs that come up regularly and which have often been my lot have disappeared from my job sheet, although I'd be willing to bet (if I were a wagering sort) that they've been done, but by someone else. Instead, I've had a varied and interesting, if demanding, week, in which I've earned more in four days than in many a five-day week.
The week began with the men's breakfast at church, which I've had to miss for two weeks because of an early start. I had been given a job, but it was a 9.0 collection in Cambridge for Luton, so I was able to make it in good time after leaving my friends. As soon as I was back from this, the change of controller was obvious. Instead of the customary comfortable wait until the next job should come along, I was immediately whisked off to collect, with the instruction, "ring when you're loaded", which usually carries the implication that, if there's room in the van, another job will be forthcoming to accompany it. Thus it was that I then set off for Maidenhead and Dorchester, from which I returned just too late for bellringing practice.
This set the pattern for the next day, which started with a job to Milton Keynes, followed quickly by Eaton Socon with Lichfield. Wednesday began with a couple of regulars, that haven't come up for a few weeks, firstly to Haverhill, and then on to collect at West Suffolk Hospital in Bury St Edmunds for the laboratory in Royston. Following that came what was the event amusement of the week; when I reported in detail to the office, the response was only half intelligible through the laughter, "I won't tell a soul about that ... only everybody!" It seemed quite a normal job when I collected it: a heap of equipment piled onto a pallet and shrink-wrapped. It was just light enough for two burly men to lift onto the van manually, although when I tried to adjust its position, I couldn't budge it.
It was going to an address in Horley, Surrey, but when I got there I discovered that this was in fact not an industrial estate as I'd expected, but an ornamental office block on the outskirts of Gatwick Airport. Suspecting trouble, I announced to the receptionist that I had a pallet of equipment for such-and-such a firm, and was told, "That's OK, bring it in, please." I explained patiently that this was a pallet, and although two men had loaded it, so it wouldn't require a fork-truck, it would need a couple of men to get it off the van. The receptionist called her supervisor, an equally slim and smart young lady, who immediately took charge. Stepping boldly forth on her high heels, she came out to look at the problem. "Can we get it off together?" she asked, almost daring me to suggest that we couldn't. I eyed her business suit, but agreed that this was worth a try. I stayed outside with the van while she went in to change her shoes.
She emerged a moment later accompanied by the receptionist, similarly shod in 'flatties', and a older woman, who was quickly instructed to "hold the door open." While she held one door, and I held the other, these two un-amazon-like athletes grasped the offending consignment as if it were no more than a single plank of wood, and in a trice had deposited it on the floor of the reception area. As I waited for a signature, one of them told me that the company whose goods they were was no longer there, but had phoned a few hours previously to say they were expecting a delivery, and would these good souls receive it for them? I think that may be the last time such a favour is granted!
After an evening delivery of some medicine to Papworth hospital, I managed a few hours' rest before the busiest Thursday for many a month. I had been given a gentle 'circuit' of three jobs before leaving for Papworth, starting with a 7.30 collection in Stevenage for Milton Keynes, to be followed by Nuneaton to Foxton and then Cambridge to Royston. I rang in once I'd had five minutes to cool down after this (suspecting, quite correctly, that there would be little respite otherwise), and was promptly sent to collect two deliveries in Northampton before meeting another driver to be given one for Wigston on the outskirts of Leicester. One after another, I presented these goods to someone about to leave for home, finally making Wigston by 5.55 pm! Twice this week, I've enjoyed an evening meal at the truckstop; the first time for several weeks, yesterday's making a fitting end to this half of the year.
Today has seen me up almost at work time, in order to have my tyres and steering checked over, get the van cleaned inside and out, and generally prepare to spend a week flitting between the Channel Islands.
The boss has been on holiday this week, so a different mind has been controlling my activities. Though equally efficient, this chap has a totally different way of working, and in many ways this week has shown me just how 'typecast' one can become to he who is doing the casting! Certain jobs that come up regularly and which have often been my lot have disappeared from my job sheet, although I'd be willing to bet (if I were a wagering sort) that they've been done, but by someone else. Instead, I've had a varied and interesting, if demanding, week, in which I've earned more in four days than in many a five-day week.
The week began with the men's breakfast at church, which I've had to miss for two weeks because of an early start. I had been given a job, but it was a 9.0 collection in Cambridge for Luton, so I was able to make it in good time after leaving my friends. As soon as I was back from this, the change of controller was obvious. Instead of the customary comfortable wait until the next job should come along, I was immediately whisked off to collect, with the instruction, "ring when you're loaded", which usually carries the implication that, if there's room in the van, another job will be forthcoming to accompany it. Thus it was that I then set off for Maidenhead and Dorchester, from which I returned just too late for bellringing practice.
This set the pattern for the next day, which started with a job to Milton Keynes, followed quickly by Eaton Socon with Lichfield. Wednesday began with a couple of regulars, that haven't come up for a few weeks, firstly to Haverhill, and then on to collect at West Suffolk Hospital in Bury St Edmunds for the laboratory in Royston. Following that came what was the event amusement of the week; when I reported in detail to the office, the response was only half intelligible through the laughter, "I won't tell a soul about that ... only everybody!" It seemed quite a normal job when I collected it: a heap of equipment piled onto a pallet and shrink-wrapped. It was just light enough for two burly men to lift onto the van manually, although when I tried to adjust its position, I couldn't budge it.
It was going to an address in Horley, Surrey, but when I got there I discovered that this was in fact not an industrial estate as I'd expected, but an ornamental office block on the outskirts of Gatwick Airport. Suspecting trouble, I announced to the receptionist that I had a pallet of equipment for such-and-such a firm, and was told, "That's OK, bring it in, please." I explained patiently that this was a pallet, and although two men had loaded it, so it wouldn't require a fork-truck, it would need a couple of men to get it off the van. The receptionist called her supervisor, an equally slim and smart young lady, who immediately took charge. Stepping boldly forth on her high heels, she came out to look at the problem. "Can we get it off together?" she asked, almost daring me to suggest that we couldn't. I eyed her business suit, but agreed that this was worth a try. I stayed outside with the van while she went in to change her shoes.
She emerged a moment later accompanied by the receptionist, similarly shod in 'flatties', and a older woman, who was quickly instructed to "hold the door open." While she held one door, and I held the other, these two un-amazon-like athletes grasped the offending consignment as if it were no more than a single plank of wood, and in a trice had deposited it on the floor of the reception area. As I waited for a signature, one of them told me that the company whose goods they were was no longer there, but had phoned a few hours previously to say they were expecting a delivery, and would these good souls receive it for them? I think that may be the last time such a favour is granted!
After an evening delivery of some medicine to Papworth hospital, I managed a few hours' rest before the busiest Thursday for many a month. I had been given a gentle 'circuit' of three jobs before leaving for Papworth, starting with a 7.30 collection in Stevenage for Milton Keynes, to be followed by Nuneaton to Foxton and then Cambridge to Royston. I rang in once I'd had five minutes to cool down after this (suspecting, quite correctly, that there would be little respite otherwise), and was promptly sent to collect two deliveries in Northampton before meeting another driver to be given one for Wigston on the outskirts of Leicester. One after another, I presented these goods to someone about to leave for home, finally making Wigston by 5.55 pm! Twice this week, I've enjoyed an evening meal at the truckstop; the first time for several weeks, yesterday's making a fitting end to this half of the year.
Today has seen me up almost at work time, in order to have my tyres and steering checked over, get the van cleaned inside and out, and generally prepare to spend a week flitting between the Channel Islands.
Saturday, 5 April 2014
The Annual Fishy Week!
My actions the other night would have seemed strange to the casual observer. I put some receipts at the back of my desk, placed a paperweight upon them and muttered, "Lowestoft Fish." Readers might be interested in, or at least amused by the explanation.
Many years ago now, in the days when my accounting career began - against a rural Norfolk background - my week included a number of routine jobs that needed to be done every day. Similarly, there were other tasks that were weekly in nature, and depended upon those daily jobs being completed first.
At the end of the financial year in that pre-computerised age, one of the most boring, seemingly interminable, and yet one of the most significant challenges was the evaluation of the end-of-year stocktaking. It fell to me to insert a price on every item of every stock sheet, so that others could then calculate the cost of each line, and the total value of each sheet. Those of greater seniority would then compile the grand total and feed it into the preparation of the company's accounts.
One day my boss came into the office, spotted a great heap of stock sheets on the side of my desk, and asked, with feigned innocence, what I was doing. My reply, listing those daily and weekly tasks that comprised my normal work, was met by a firm, polite, but embarrassing reprimand, stating in no uncertain terms that my single priority had to be pricing stock sheets . . . "until they're all done!" Baulking no rebuttal, he turned on his heel, and went out.
Minutes later, his anger cooled, the boss returned, and in his hand was a flat box, rather like those seen sometimes by a supermarket check-out, having been emptied of their former contents of fruit and vegetables. He asked me to place the regular work that I'd been doing into the box, along with anything else from my desk that related to the new financial year. The box was then placed prominently on top of the filing cabinet and I, together with the rest of the office staff, were instructed that all new-year work that came into the office was to be placed there, and not attended to until the stock evaluation had been completed.
The box was white, and on its side, in bright green letters that linger in my memory even now, were the words, 'LOWESTOFT FISH'. The expression quickly became a part of office vocabulary, and the box stayed with me when I moved a couple of years later to take charge of my own department in the company, where I took great pride in passing on the lesson I'd learned.
Ten years or more later, fortunes had changed, and I found myself in another situation. Meanwhile, Keith, my former boss, had also left that company and by then was working as an accounting 'temp.' In that capacity, he came to work for me and, during the few weeks that we again shared an office, we also smiled over the history of 'Lowestoft Fish'.
Even now, although I have no box nor the need for one, and the valuation of stock sheets is a thing of the past, I recall those days with a kind of pleasure, still remembering that I have to complete last year's accounts - at least to a draft stage - before I can process transactions relating to my new financial year.
So, how has the new year begun for me? This week has felt good. It began with a planned trip to a hospital in Newcastle on Monday, and then came another (less-) early start for Sunbury-on-Thames on Tuesday, matched by a late finish, which began in the mid-afternoon with a delivery to a bar near Cambridge bus station. Afterwards came an attempt to find the main theatre in the maze of Norfolk & Norwich University Hospital, followed by unusually slow service at the nearby Little Chef. Wednesday was a relaxing day, with two deliveries to chemists' shops in south Essex, and a couple more local jobs in the afternoon.
The big drain on the week's energy stocks began on Wednesday evening, when an 8.20 call invited me to collect some goods locally to be at Hexham General Hospital for 9.0am. You can imagine how much - or how little! - sleep I had that night! An early night on Thursday was also partly justified by the air pollution caused by someone moving the Sahara Desert, but I was OK by Friday morning for an interesting pair of jobs delivering to Corby and then collecting just outside March for a promotional firm in the local village of Anstey. The week then finished with novelty.
I collected in Stevenage for an address in Redditch, with the advice that, although the firm to whom the package was going actually left off at 5.0pm, because they wanted to use it that evening, someone would stay on to receive it. Unsurprisingly, there was a hold-up on the M1, so I phoned ahead to let them know when I would arrive, and during the course of my onward journey I received two separate texts to advise alternative delivery addresses. When I finally handed over my charge, conversation revealed that I had delivered a powerful blade that would shortly be utilised in cutting a trench in the M6, in connection with a road-widening plan!
The opening story of rural Norfolk is balance by my joyful experience this afternoon. For the second time this season, I watched 'my' team, Diss Town, play football. They turned out in their away strip against Haverhill Rovers. I recalled that towards the end of last season I'd watched them play in this light blue strip and win 4-0, and wondered whether this might be a repeat performance. Not quite, but I was quite satisfied to see them win 3-0, and gain three points against a team nine places above them in the league.
Many years ago now, in the days when my accounting career began - against a rural Norfolk background - my week included a number of routine jobs that needed to be done every day. Similarly, there were other tasks that were weekly in nature, and depended upon those daily jobs being completed first.
At the end of the financial year in that pre-computerised age, one of the most boring, seemingly interminable, and yet one of the most significant challenges was the evaluation of the end-of-year stocktaking. It fell to me to insert a price on every item of every stock sheet, so that others could then calculate the cost of each line, and the total value of each sheet. Those of greater seniority would then compile the grand total and feed it into the preparation of the company's accounts.
One day my boss came into the office, spotted a great heap of stock sheets on the side of my desk, and asked, with feigned innocence, what I was doing. My reply, listing those daily and weekly tasks that comprised my normal work, was met by a firm, polite, but embarrassing reprimand, stating in no uncertain terms that my single priority had to be pricing stock sheets . . . "until they're all done!" Baulking no rebuttal, he turned on his heel, and went out.
Minutes later, his anger cooled, the boss returned, and in his hand was a flat box, rather like those seen sometimes by a supermarket check-out, having been emptied of their former contents of fruit and vegetables. He asked me to place the regular work that I'd been doing into the box, along with anything else from my desk that related to the new financial year. The box was then placed prominently on top of the filing cabinet and I, together with the rest of the office staff, were instructed that all new-year work that came into the office was to be placed there, and not attended to until the stock evaluation had been completed.
The box was white, and on its side, in bright green letters that linger in my memory even now, were the words, 'LOWESTOFT FISH'. The expression quickly became a part of office vocabulary, and the box stayed with me when I moved a couple of years later to take charge of my own department in the company, where I took great pride in passing on the lesson I'd learned.
Ten years or more later, fortunes had changed, and I found myself in another situation. Meanwhile, Keith, my former boss, had also left that company and by then was working as an accounting 'temp.' In that capacity, he came to work for me and, during the few weeks that we again shared an office, we also smiled over the history of 'Lowestoft Fish'.
Even now, although I have no box nor the need for one, and the valuation of stock sheets is a thing of the past, I recall those days with a kind of pleasure, still remembering that I have to complete last year's accounts - at least to a draft stage - before I can process transactions relating to my new financial year.
So, how has the new year begun for me? This week has felt good. It began with a planned trip to a hospital in Newcastle on Monday, and then came another (less-) early start for Sunbury-on-Thames on Tuesday, matched by a late finish, which began in the mid-afternoon with a delivery to a bar near Cambridge bus station. Afterwards came an attempt to find the main theatre in the maze of Norfolk & Norwich University Hospital, followed by unusually slow service at the nearby Little Chef. Wednesday was a relaxing day, with two deliveries to chemists' shops in south Essex, and a couple more local jobs in the afternoon.
The big drain on the week's energy stocks began on Wednesday evening, when an 8.20 call invited me to collect some goods locally to be at Hexham General Hospital for 9.0am. You can imagine how much - or how little! - sleep I had that night! An early night on Thursday was also partly justified by the air pollution caused by someone moving the Sahara Desert, but I was OK by Friday morning for an interesting pair of jobs delivering to Corby and then collecting just outside March for a promotional firm in the local village of Anstey. The week then finished with novelty.
I collected in Stevenage for an address in Redditch, with the advice that, although the firm to whom the package was going actually left off at 5.0pm, because they wanted to use it that evening, someone would stay on to receive it. Unsurprisingly, there was a hold-up on the M1, so I phoned ahead to let them know when I would arrive, and during the course of my onward journey I received two separate texts to advise alternative delivery addresses. When I finally handed over my charge, conversation revealed that I had delivered a powerful blade that would shortly be utilised in cutting a trench in the M6, in connection with a road-widening plan!
The opening story of rural Norfolk is balance by my joyful experience this afternoon. For the second time this season, I watched 'my' team, Diss Town, play football. They turned out in their away strip against Haverhill Rovers. I recalled that towards the end of last season I'd watched them play in this light blue strip and win 4-0, and wondered whether this might be a repeat performance. Not quite, but I was quite satisfied to see them win 3-0, and gain three points against a team nine places above them in the league.
Saturday, 1 March 2014
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 ... !
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 ... !
Friday, 17 January 2014
The Early Shift
I think I've written here before about the way our work pattern can be classified into three 'shifts'. That doesn't mean, of course, that we are divided into three entirely separate teams who rotate their hours like shifts in a factory. The business just wouldn't operate if we were, because our work doesn't naturally fall into eight-hour units to permit such a system. Nevertheless, there are three distinct patterns, and which one we fall into on any given day is mainly dependent upon the flow of jobs through the office.
For three days this week, I have most distinctly been on 'early shift'. That means that I have been allocated a job before the office closed on the previous day, and so will be on the road by the time it opens at 8.0 in the morning. As a point of information, the second shift comprises drivers who have returned from a job during the afternoon and were therefore available for work when the office closed, but were not given work. It is then their responsibility to make themselves available by 8.0 the following morning, ready to be allocated work as soon as the phones get busy. It has been known for anyone known to the night controller as one who doesn't sleep well, or who, for any other reason is likely to be up and about early, to 'jump the queue', if he gets an early call for an urgent job. And the third shift is the term I give to drivers who are out on a job when the day closes, so they simply go to the office or phone in when they consider themselves ready for work, depending what time they might have returned home.
So, to my week. On Monday, I began with a job that wasn't included in the magnificent list presented last week, which I thought offered something of every sort. I'd forgotten a delivery to a building site, but this oversight was soon to be corrected. In Wallsend they are building a sparkling new library, and I had to take some samples for the furniture supervisor. I had visions of some difficulty carrying them - one of them was quite heavy - up to the first floor, but as luck would have it, I missed my turning into the road, and so had to drive right round the block. As I drove up to the site, one of the foremen was crossing the road, and I seized the opportunity to ask him about parking, access and so on. Once he knew what I was delivering, he told me there wouldn't be anyone there yet, but that he would willingly receive it on their behalf. I did wonder why I had been asked to be there at 8.0, but that is often down to the imagination of whoever booked the job.
Tuesday found me on second shift. By the time I'd got home on Monday afternoon, I didn't feel like doing anything else, and so after an hour or so sorting myself out at home, I drove to the office to conclude the day with the weekly paperwork exchange. Tuesday morning I did a couple of local jobs, before being sent to a factory in Wednesbury. Although I only drove through a few streets on this, my first visit there, I found it quite a nice place, with many neatly tidied-up Victorian street scenes. Despite the van windows being closed, in many places was the all-pervading smell of the ironworks. I readily admit that many would find this unpleasant but to me, not having to live with it, it's a nostalgic fragrance, reminding me of the happy time when I worked in the office of a factory that had its own small foundry. I returned about 5.30, and secured a 'second shift' place for Wednesday, too.
On Wednesday I was initially sent off on a fairly regular job for a firm in Royston, whose goods are processed at a place in Letchworth and then taken on to Daventry for further work. The usual sequence therefore is to take some pieces on one leg, make a delivery and a collection, and then do the same for the second leg, eventually returning to start with a third batch. If that's not confusing enough, this week things were further muddled, and I finished up spending virtually all day on it, along with another small job to Corby which sort of fitted alongside it. When I got home and rang in, I was surprised by the question, would I be available during the evening to collect something for the next morning. I said I could be, and was promptly allocated one of two jobs for morning delivery on Thursday, that would be ready for collection in Letchworth in a few hours' time. Mine was for Darlington, and I was also given instructions for a collection in Sheffield on my way back.
Thursday was therefore something of a re-run of Monday, but with the bonus of a second job, and the added benefit that, recognising that we were late in getting the goods, delivery was not expected until 10.0 instead of the expected 8.0 am. I was home mid afternoon, phoned in as available, and was quite pleased not to be sent out any more, except to collect an early job for this morning. Since this was for 7.0 am in Derby, the domestic routine paralleled Monday and Thursday, but of course I was home sooner, and fitted in three local jobs afterwards.
To round the week's story off, I now have instructions for a 10.0 am collection in Reading on Monday, so I can look forward to a complete, and so far as I know uncluttered, weekend, apart from a fund-raising lunch at church on Sunday to help our curate who's off on a missionary trip to Africa shortly.
For three days this week, I have most distinctly been on 'early shift'. That means that I have been allocated a job before the office closed on the previous day, and so will be on the road by the time it opens at 8.0 in the morning. As a point of information, the second shift comprises drivers who have returned from a job during the afternoon and were therefore available for work when the office closed, but were not given work. It is then their responsibility to make themselves available by 8.0 the following morning, ready to be allocated work as soon as the phones get busy. It has been known for anyone known to the night controller as one who doesn't sleep well, or who, for any other reason is likely to be up and about early, to 'jump the queue', if he gets an early call for an urgent job. And the third shift is the term I give to drivers who are out on a job when the day closes, so they simply go to the office or phone in when they consider themselves ready for work, depending what time they might have returned home.
So, to my week. On Monday, I began with a job that wasn't included in the magnificent list presented last week, which I thought offered something of every sort. I'd forgotten a delivery to a building site, but this oversight was soon to be corrected. In Wallsend they are building a sparkling new library, and I had to take some samples for the furniture supervisor. I had visions of some difficulty carrying them - one of them was quite heavy - up to the first floor, but as luck would have it, I missed my turning into the road, and so had to drive right round the block. As I drove up to the site, one of the foremen was crossing the road, and I seized the opportunity to ask him about parking, access and so on. Once he knew what I was delivering, he told me there wouldn't be anyone there yet, but that he would willingly receive it on their behalf. I did wonder why I had been asked to be there at 8.0, but that is often down to the imagination of whoever booked the job.
Tuesday found me on second shift. By the time I'd got home on Monday afternoon, I didn't feel like doing anything else, and so after an hour or so sorting myself out at home, I drove to the office to conclude the day with the weekly paperwork exchange. Tuesday morning I did a couple of local jobs, before being sent to a factory in Wednesbury. Although I only drove through a few streets on this, my first visit there, I found it quite a nice place, with many neatly tidied-up Victorian street scenes. Despite the van windows being closed, in many places was the all-pervading smell of the ironworks. I readily admit that many would find this unpleasant but to me, not having to live with it, it's a nostalgic fragrance, reminding me of the happy time when I worked in the office of a factory that had its own small foundry. I returned about 5.30, and secured a 'second shift' place for Wednesday, too.
On Wednesday I was initially sent off on a fairly regular job for a firm in Royston, whose goods are processed at a place in Letchworth and then taken on to Daventry for further work. The usual sequence therefore is to take some pieces on one leg, make a delivery and a collection, and then do the same for the second leg, eventually returning to start with a third batch. If that's not confusing enough, this week things were further muddled, and I finished up spending virtually all day on it, along with another small job to Corby which sort of fitted alongside it. When I got home and rang in, I was surprised by the question, would I be available during the evening to collect something for the next morning. I said I could be, and was promptly allocated one of two jobs for morning delivery on Thursday, that would be ready for collection in Letchworth in a few hours' time. Mine was for Darlington, and I was also given instructions for a collection in Sheffield on my way back.
Thursday was therefore something of a re-run of Monday, but with the bonus of a second job, and the added benefit that, recognising that we were late in getting the goods, delivery was not expected until 10.0 instead of the expected 8.0 am. I was home mid afternoon, phoned in as available, and was quite pleased not to be sent out any more, except to collect an early job for this morning. Since this was for 7.0 am in Derby, the domestic routine paralleled Monday and Thursday, but of course I was home sooner, and fitted in three local jobs afterwards.
To round the week's story off, I now have instructions for a 10.0 am collection in Reading on Monday, so I can look forward to a complete, and so far as I know uncluttered, weekend, apart from a fund-raising lunch at church on Sunday to help our curate who's off on a missionary trip to Africa shortly.
Sunday, 1 September 2013
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.
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.
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