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!

Elephants by the Motorway?

Not for the first time, this has been a week of ups and downs.  Monday was a good example of the way the national network is favourable to us drivers. It began with a very small consignment for Market Harborough, and I was invited to wait a short while to see what else might be going that way. In a very few minutes I was sent to Royston for a couple of boxes going to Derby. Once these had all been delivered, I phoned the nearby Nottingham office, collected an envelope for them from Castle Donnington, and then took another small load from Loughborough to Birmingham on my way home.

Tuesday and Wednesday brought only two jobs apiece, with Wednesday being one of this year's leanest days.  On Thursday morning my thoughts turned to income once more, and my prayers included an earnest reference to a cup filled to overflowing.  The spiritual effort wasn't in vain for, within the hour, I was on my way to Kempston to collect some metalwork for a firm near Wakefield.  This time it was the Leeds office who provided the complement to the day, with a collection in the middle of Sheffield for a factory out in the countryside not far from Coventry.

But the day was not yet finished. On my way home I was invited to make three deliveries of prescription medicines to old people's homes in Hitchin, and then - with some hesitation after last week's disappointment when a Scottish job had failed to materialise - I was offered an early pick-up from a national company at the other end of the county, for delivery to two of their other plants, one on the outskirts of Liverpool and the other in North Lanarkshire.

So it was that yesterday morning, with unexpected calmness, I set out on a more unusual route into Scotland.  I had decided that it wouldn't be clever to consider sleeping in the van at this time of year, and particularly in view of some recent problems with a shoulder, so on my way I phoned ahead to book a room at the truckstop in Carlisle.  I made the Liverpool delivery by about 1.0, with little bother.  Then came the interesting part of the trip.  It was interesting not, for once, because of any difficulty, but simply literally. That middle section of the M6 is one that I rarely use; if I'm going to Scotland from home the better route is up the A1 to Scotch Corner, so I don't usually hit the M6 until Penrith.  This time, though, there was no choice and, although it feels a long way and the radio signal is intermittent, the scenery is magnificent.  Perhaps irreverently, I decided that the rolling slopes of the fells to the east of the motorway required only a few strategically-placed fir trees to resemble closely a number of retreating elephants!

One thing that did concern me, however, was the weather.  This was the day after storm Abigail had caused a number of electrical outages, and had attacked the west of Scotland with extremely high winds.  The matrices on the motorways were cautioning about side winds and lots of spray, but apart from just a short burst of rain there was no appreciable problem until I was well into Scotland.  The last few junctions along the M74, however, disappeared in deep concentration as I stuck to my course with only intermittent visibility between the deluge of spray thrown up by the lorries.

Although I've made that trip to Motherwell a number of times before, I found that my route this time was longer, owing to the constant development work on the road system in the area; while memory told me that I needed go only a couple of miles from the motorway, this time it was at least ten, having left it at a different junction, which was itself in the midst of a very muddy re-construction.  My delivery completed by 5.0, I began the slow return home.  To my utmost pleasure, the rain had stopped by Lockerbie, and the roads almost dried up by the time I was back into England.  After over 500 miles and more than eleven hours of almost constant driving, I was ready for a break, a meal and a restful (if not luxurious) evening.

This morning I was greeted by the awful contrast of dry roads and a gentle dawn, accompanied by the ghastly news of the bloody events last night in Paris.  By Scotch Corner, I was glad to stop and find some comforting normality in breakfast at the Moto services there.  From then on, accompanied by a couple of CDs I'd brought along for the purpose, the journey was plain sailing, and I was home, even after stopping for some shopping, by 12.15.

Now to fit all the usual weekend essentials into what's left of the weekend; ... what was that about an easy way into retirement?

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!

Slow, Quick, Slow, Slow, Quick

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

New Lamps for Old

Yes, it won't be long until the panto season!  But Aladdin and his stories bear no real relation to my tale this week.  It has been a week - more than ever before, I think - of two very different halves.

But first, why that title?  Well, there have been many new things lately.  The take-over at the end of July brought a whole new way of working, and with it not just the use of the much-grumbled-about PDA.  (When I reached a delivery the other day, my finger misjudged its stab as I tried to tell the beast that I'd arrived.  I took ages to get out of a completely alien screen; when I went inside with my package, my tale of woe met with wit as well as sympathy, "I just thought you were never going to get out of the van!")  Now that our self-billing invoices come online on Thursdays instead of a paper document on Mondays, I'm having to adjust to a new financial discipline as well.

In August and September, there seemed to be far more work, and it was easy to ascribe this to the new régime, too.  This made October's abyssmal performance feel far worse than simply a return to the mediocre levels of the spring.  Early this week, realising that in two days I'd earned scarcely more than one day's expected income, I totted up that in the last three weeks I'd done only three jobs that were more than 100 miles in length, compared to 29 in the previous eleven weeks since the take-over.  I began to wonder whether I had been singled out for punitive treatment!

I chewed this over during my daily quiet time next morning, and found a sort of perspective about it, realising that, as a consequence of attentions focussed elsewhere, my work had been largely absent from my prayers lately.  Now, I'm fairly sure that Dave, my controller, is not a 'God-botherer'; I'm not so sure of the extent to which he is or is not 'God-bothered'!  He rang me as I was returning from yet another local job that afternoon, to ask if I would be able to do a couple of jobs that evening.  In my acceptance, I decided to advise him of that statistic.  He sounded quite shocked, and shortly afterwards rang me back to add another hospital delivery to the one that he had already instructed, along with the relief of someone who had locked himself out of his van ... this an all-too-common occurence for this customer, of whom I've written here before!

Thursday morning began quite tamely, returning the afore-mentioned van key, and then deliveries in Hemel Hempstead and Uxbridge.  As I drove through Uxbridge, about a mile from my second delivery, the phone rang.  I was given a job I'd done a few weeks ago, collecting some computers from a training session in a hotel near Gatwick airport, and taking them to another one in the chain for a similar session the next day.  This wouldn't be until after 3.0 pm, but I was being told now since it would save my travelling if I were to go straight there.  It was about 11.0, and I received this news with mixed feelings.  A couple of idle hours, but then a good job; a good job, but overall a very long day.

I hadn't gone far after making my delivery when the phone rang again.  This time it was the Reading office, offering me a complex, but in the event an undemanding and interesting job.  I collected seven deliveries of car parts from a logistics firm in Slough, passed four of them on to other drivers, and then delivered the other three, finishing only three miles from the hotel, just on 3.0!  What better way to fill idle hours?  Then came the planned delivery of the computers to Manchester, hampered by motorway traffic, but otherwise uneventful, from which I returned home at 3.15 am.

In the last three weeks, when there was a lot of waiting time, I had begun making tentative plans for retirement.  Having seen and heard many instances of resulting torment and trauma, I've no intention of this being an overnight life change.  Instead, I'm planning a gradual transition, and incorporating within it the acquisition of a motorhome, so I've been looking at what is available within my budget.  There's a vast spectrum of possibilities, and some very attractive models which I don't feel I can justify for just one person.  As I've considered these, I've come to realise ways in which this vehicle will not be merely a 'toy' for holidays, but that its arrival will herald a whole new life-pattern.

As if to underline this train of thought, I listened this week to a sermon podcast based on the parable of new wine and old wineskins from St Matthew chapter 9, and it seems that in order to accommodate the 'new wine' of the motorhome, I shall have to renew the 'wineskin' of my lifestyle.

Time will tell, and no doubt this blog will report in due course!

Good, Better, Best!

I wrote last week about 'bad days': my definition of them, and how difficult they can be to cope with.  This week's principal story is an extension of that theme.  Monday brought me four jobs, which took me to Crawley, Bourne End, Colnbrook and, in the evening, to Ash Vale, near Aldershot: although financially beneficial, definitely in the 'bad' range.  Tuesday began with prayer for something 'generally north'.  (I like north for many reasons; not least the attraction of a number of possible eating places - aka truck stops!) In contrast, the working day began with a job to Greenford and then one around the M25 from Cuffley to Esher.

As I made my way homeward, a call came to ask if I'd like 'a trip to the Emerald Isle.'  'I would, sir,' I replied, rolling the 'r' in an attempt at an Irish burr.  A job was then described that could be collected on my way home, for delivery 'in Belfast' the next morning.  Thankfully it turned out to be to a hotel some distance away from the city, to the north-west.

Realising that there could then be an interval before the departure of the return ferry, my thoughts turned to my family history, and the problem of confirming that a will, of which I'd obtained a copy some while ago, was actually that of my great-uncle.  The name was right, George Evans, and the date was certainly possible, but this man's profession as a farmer, and his location, were at odds with what I already knew of my great-uncle's life; and his son and executor had 'acquired' an additional forename I'd not known before.  I'm fairly sure this problem can only be satisfactorily resolved in Belfast - if at all - so I left home armed with all the details in case this might be an opportunity to take the matter forward a stage.

Mary McAleese Boyne Valley Bridge
(picture - RTÉ)

I've said here before that my preference is always to go to Ireland via Holyhead, to avoid the long trek to Stranraer.  Although the M1 north from the end of the excellent Port Tunnel (only a €3.00 toll outside the rush-hour!) is now becoming familiar, I confess to not having previously appreciated the Mary McAleese Boyne Valley Bridge, although it's been there since June 2003!
Maybe my eye caught the roadside announcements of its change of name last year in honour of the former president; the last time I had passed over it would have been before that event.

As I drove on up the A1 towards Newry, my PDA bleeped, and I noticed at the same moment a text message on my phone.  These had originated from the ever-vigilant Milton Keynes office, who had spotted on their screens that I was prowling around on the other side of the Irish Sea, and had linked this with a request for a collection from a military base not far from my destination.  In my twelve years of this work, I've only been to Ireland eight times, and up to now I've neither achieved, nor heard of other drivers enjoying, a return load on such a trip.

The job proved no more difficult than to any other military establishment. The main difficulty is always identifying to the security staff just where your contact is to be located.  On the last such occasion I found myself trying to make a delivery to someone who was no longer there!  Once that hurdle was overcome, it was simply a case of sitting and waiting; the boxes were brought to me, loaded into the van, and I was on my way, all thoughts of any diversion to the Public Record Office completely forgotten.  Instead I enjoyed a drive round the country lanes of Antrim and Down, before rejoining the A1 for my journey south.

As I neared my destination, pleased with a likely arrival in Dublin just before the check-in time, the phone rang.  It was Dave, my controller.  "I hear you went into an Irish church, and came out with another job," he said, with teasing geniality.  When I replied that there had been no church involved, implying simply prayer - although not expecting so generous an outcome! - he said how pleased he was that I'd been able to do the extra job, and asked whether I'd still be able to make the ferry booking, since this had been made on the basis of just the one job.  I have to confess to not a little pride as I told him, "No problem.  I'm driving through the Port Tunnel as we speak!"

The fact of a job to Ireland was 'better' than the 'something north' that I'd prayed for; the extra job was something even better, but for me, Dave's call was the icing on the cake ... the 'best' of this week's headline.  It wasn't until later that I noticed another fine detail.  Our ferry bookings are usually made showing the vehicle on the outward journey as 'laden', i.e. carrying goods, but on the return journey as 'empty'.  On this occasion, both journeys were declared as 'laden'.  A slip of the pen or ...?

After an early delivery of the goods I'd picked up, I spent the rest of Thursday in recovery mode, and yesterday was fairly normal, beginning with jobs to Haywards Heath and Hove.  When I was then offered an evening ride to Salford, I had to say no, but collected the goods from West Drayton for another driver to take north.

Today, our ringers were supposed to take part in the county Striking Competition, but had to withdraw at the last minute owing to illness, so I'm left with the opportunity to visit one of the FA Cup ties taking place this afternoon.  I'm fortunate in having little cause for boredom, the curse of so many these days!

That Holiday Feeling . . .

Although it only started with a Bank Holiday, this week has had a sort of holiday feel right through - rather like the name that goes right through the middle of seaside rock.

Tuesday started off with what has now become an 'old familiar', Pinewood Studios, settling me comfortably back into work mode.  This time, however, a new precedent was set.  As I drove round the M25 - in true car park style, as ever - came a call asking me to go up to Hemel Hempstead afterwards, to collect some air conditioning units for an address in Leicester.  A 'decent' local job completed the day, taking some paint to a furniture company Haverhill.

Wednesday began with two jobs that fitted nicely together.  First came an early collection of some veneer from Stevenage to go to a joinery company in St Ives, and then down to the little industrial estate in Little Paxton, which is easier to enter from the northern side.  Here I loaded four heavy boxes of printed matter for a direct mailing company in the West Midlands.  On the way back, I was diverted to a plastics firm in Huntingdon, where I collected a small package for Steeple Morden.  It's always good to have three jobs in a row like that because, even if they don't overlap, the 'go-to-load' mileage is eliminated, or at least reduced.

Then, after two decent and enjoyable days, the 'holiday feeling' kicked in.  On Thursday morning the repeating genie took me to the same pretty town where I'd collected Tuesday's paint, this time to deliver some items to their science park.  I'd just returned home, when I was despatched to the seaside, in particular Great Yarmouth.  "Dear old Yarmouth," the comics used to say, "you can tell that by looking in the shops!"  Well, I didn't get as far as the shops, for my collection was on the industrial site to the west of the resort. However, when I then set SatNav to find the nearest Esso station to refuel before returning with my cargo, I was sent out to the lovely broadland village of Ormesby.  I began to feel young, and on holiday again . . . almost!  But even holidays can be tiring, and I didn't really appreciate being called out in the evening to take something up to Salford.  There was apparently no one else available so, since it was a hospital, I set forth, only to be told before I'd gone a mile that they had found a source to meet their needs much nearer to them, so would I please return the goods whence I'd collected them. Willingly!

Friday started with another 'regular', from our laboratory customer in Royston to West Suffolk Hospital.  On my way back, I was re-directed to the seaside again.  This time it was to Clacton-on-Sea.  You may remember that bath of two Saturdays ago?  Just round the corner from that prestigious bathroom store is a food ingredients warehouse, where I now collected quite a lot of vinegar.  Friday had clearly been a busy day: I hadn't yet got back home to deliver the vinegar when the phone rang a second time.  On the way, would I please collect some medicine for a private hospital in Northwood, and a spare key for someone who had locked himself out of his van near Gatwick airport?

Being the last Friday of the month, it was our church's day of prayer and fasting.  I'd made the 7.0 service in the morning, but it was clear that I wouldn't be making the corresponding evening gathering.  By the time I'd withstood the M25, where the traffic was actually stationary in several places, it was almost 7.30 when I found my way to a convenient place to pull off the road in the roadworks and rang the number I'd been given for the victim of locked keys.  It turned out that the van was no further away than the roundabout in front of me, and once past the security fence, it was the work of a moment for my contact to open the door, recover the key, and I was on my way.  Strangely, I was less tired after 400 miles on Friday that I had been after 280 on Thursday.  Nevertheless, I was now happy to head for Cobham services to break my 12-hour fast: rarely has KFC been more welcome!

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?