Heavy, but Balanced

I had issued a warning on Sunday that I wouldn't be at bell-ringing practice this week.  When our church started a 'traditional' choir during the summer - not for regular but occasional involvement in our varied range of worship - the leader very wisely decided that, while some practices would be held on a Sunday morning after the service, others would rotate from one weekday evening to another.  The latest one was to take place this Monday, and I had decided that it should take precedence over bell-ringing.

The week has proved yet again what I've been saying for years, that the life of a courier is not one that can be blended with, or lived alongside a conventional social life.  Work-wise, Monday started tamely with a job to Leamington Spa; I hadn't left home for the pick-up when a second job was added to it sending me first in the opposite direction to collect in Stevenage for Bolton.  When I left Leamington I decided that, unless I should be delayed, I ought just to make choir practice at 8.0pm.  I was still on the M6, not far beyond Birmingham, when the phone rang: when would I be likely to get to Bolton?

When I answered, 'about 3.10,' there was a brief pause before I was asked to collect something in Manchester on my way back, to be delivered next morning in Letchworth.  I hadn't even said yes, before the controller continued, "... and while you're that way, would you like a 5.0 pick-up to go to Liverpool before you come home?"  The very fact of the first foray into Manchester had threatened my singing, so it seemed little further sacrifice to express gratitude for the extra work, and turn a possible 'yes' to choir practice into a definite 'no', and promptly called the leader to tender my apologies.  It was 6.0 before I left Liverpool's Albert Dock after making my delivery, and this set the pattern for the week: financially beneficial, but socially disastrous.

Once the collected item had been delivered Tuesday proper began with a visit to the garage.  I had noticed that my indicator appeared to need a new bulb, but this turned out to be a relay fault which can (hopefully) be fixed when I take the van in for service next week.  By mid-afternoon I was returning from the second of two local jobs when I was sent to 'that' engineering firm, whose vans have provided us with many rescue jobs over the years.  It's all too easy to shut the rear doors without making certain that the keys are on the person, and the slam lock spells disaster with the key shut inside the van.  This mission was to Burgess Hill where the incident had occurred - fortunately - outside a large office block.  As I pulled up in front of his van, the driver scampered across the lawns to greet me.

In a gabble made scarcely intelligible by the tension of his afternoon, he explained how he had turned his back on the van for only a moment; the wind caught the open door and ... slam!  He was left outside in the rain, and his coat, with the precious key was locked away.  Luckily he had his phone in his pocket, and the firm had allowed him to shelter in their reception area.  I have never been accorded such profuse gratitude for one of these missions as on this occasion.  My hand was shaken with such warmth that I had difficulty in getting away.  While I had been dealing with this, my phone had been busy.  There were two missed calls from the Brighton office and, as I got into the van, it rang a third time.  Would I be able to do a job for them from Hayward's Heath into Brighton before heading north?  It was already past 5.30 and, after a long day on Monday followed by a short night, I was whacked, so I apologised and made for home.

After returning the keys on Wednesday morning, I enjoyed a lull, during which I was able to catch up with some of the desk stuff I'd had to shelve in two late evenings.  About lunchtime came the only job of the day, a drive up to West Yorkshire, to collect some laminate from a factory in Morley.  By the time I had got there and collected the goods, it was clear that I wouldn't return before our customer would have closed for the day, resulting in the third 'carry-over' of the week.  This time, however, the office were on the ball, and before I had reached Newark, I received a phone call, after which I experienced a great sense of calm.  Two jobs had been assigned to me for the following morning.  I would deliver the laminate at 7.30, collect in Royston for Southampton at 8.0, and then make for Stansted airport for another pick-up at 8.30, this to go to Bournemouth International Airport.  It worked almost to plan and I was loaded and on my way shortly after 9.0.

I recalled on my way south-west that, even in the early years of the last century, Hampshire was referred to officially as 'the county of Southampton', and found myself wondering why its current name wasn't accorded to Northampton instead.  My idle mind clicked into gear in time to make my deliveries and, clear by 1.0, I began to look forward to a more leisurely evening.  I forgot the 'spy in the cab', however, and made the fatal error of leaving the M25 because of traffic, only to be spotted by the Heathrow office, who asked me to perform a transfer from Feltham to Willesden, which is only 13 miles but at rush-hour took at least two hours, so yet another evening was foreshortened by work!

Yesterday I felt rewarded for having learned all my lessons, when I was given two complementary jobs, one from a firm of structural engineers in Letchworth to an isolated business development near Salisbury, and the other from Hertford to Chertsey on the way.  Neither caused me any problems and I had completed them both by about 2.0.  Since I'm not working next week, there was no need for me to remain in contact so I logged off and made my way home completely away from the dreaded M25, travelling up towards Oxford.  Unfortunately, I realised just too late that I'd missed the turning I'd planned to take off the A34 to go through Abingdon, and had to go round the Oxford ring-road.  As I did so, going even further away from the direct route home, I found myself unable to escape feelings of guilt.  Common sense told me a) that no one would know; and b) it was entirely up to me which route I used since, having signed off for the day, I was no longer at the beck and call of the office.  Yet I still felt uneasy because I was going a longer way round than necessary, and would be late as a result.  Was it the uniform? ... the van? ... or simply habit?

Today brought excitement of a different kind.  As part of the prayer ministry team at church, I had received an invitation to a birthday party for a little girl for whom we have been praying for some while.  She is gradually overcoming a combination of health difficulties that have beset her first year of life and, although not the size of a normal one-year-old, she was clearly happy and at ease in the arms of her loving parents.  It's not the sort of occasion that I'm used to, but fortunately others from our church were also there and, by the end of a couple of hours of watching and chatting, I had to agree that it had been an enjoyable occasion, as much for me as for everyone else.

Next week I have the usual list of outstanding tasks to be attended to, but I expect to be able to relax considerably more than in recent days!

"Seventy Years on"

I've written here before about the three 'shifts' into which my work falls, identified by the state of work allocation at the beginning of a day.  This week has brought to my attention another kind of distinction: one that has existed as long as I've been doing this work, but which has not before been noted and classified.  I refer to the difference between 'solid' days and 'split' days.  The former, easily defined by the name, simply stretch from my departure in the morning, and involve a number of jobs - either distinct or overlapping - which fill the day until I return home for an evening - however short - and bed.  Split days, however, include a substantial period between returning from a job or jobs, during the late morning and leaving for another later in the day.

This week has given me three 'split' days, which have offered the opportunity for a variety of tasks at home, in addition to the work on the road.  Workwise, the only real highlight was on Monday, when after a mid-afternoon break, I was challenged with driving up to Knowsley (on the far side of Liverpool) with a box that would be brought to me at home at about 5.45pm.  I was thus home well after midnight, and only did one short job on Tuesday, which allowed me to catch up on a couple of items of personal correspondence, and send off a brief narrative to RTE's History Show about my two Irish first cousins, once removed, who lost their lives in WWI.

After meditative music at Sunday evening's church service, I was reminded of a tape I acquired about 25 years ago at Taizé, and I wondered whether I had ever included this in the few tapes that I'd managed (in a burst of enthusiasm that followed my acquisition of the appropriate software) to put onto my computer.  I found that it was not, but a 'split' day on Thursday enabled me to rectify this deficit, and then on Friday a similar opportunity was used to tidy up the filing of the 276 tracks that I have now computerised in this way. Given the large box of tapes that are still sitting in my bedroom, this is only the tip - and perhaps not even that - of that particular iceberg!

Friday ended the week with a double burst of emotion.  I had been sent with two kegs of ale to a pub near King's Lynn, arriving there just after 6.0pm.  On my way home, I patronised a kebab stall spotted while passing a market place, and then parked in a lay-by on the A10 to enjoy this in the sunshine.  As I did so, a wave of 'end of week' nostalgia came over me, thinking of the relaxing day ahead of me, and the general feelings of 'Friday completeness' of many weeks in my past life.  And then, as I journeyed on once more, came the BBC-Radio2 programme to commemorate the seventieth anniversary of D-Day.

Albemarle P-1442 (Picture courtesy
of the Imperial War Museum)

My own commemoration had taken place on Thursday evening, for it was during the night of 5/6th June that my eldest first cousin had died.  He was part of the crew of Armstrong Whitworth Albemarle P1442, one of a flight of four such planes that had been seconded from their Derbyshire base to take part in Operation Overlord.  They took off from RAF Hampstead Norris in Berkshire at twelve minutes to midnight.  Theirs was the only one of the four not to return.  So on Thursday evening, just before bedtime, I raised a glass to his memory.

This afternoon I have been reviewing the collection of correspondence, internet downloads and other paraphernalia that I have collected over the years, to piece together the full story of P1442 and, when time permits, I intend to provide a decent account on this blog.  It's a story that deserves a post all to itself, however, rather than swamping one of these normal weekly offerings!