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!
Showing posts with label work. Show all posts
Showing posts with label work. Show all posts
Saturday, 21 November 2015
Saturday, 14 November 2015
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?
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?
Saturday, 7 November 2015
Fireworks!
Today I'm looking back at the week through the ashen haze of November 5th and all the significance of that day. Some have suggested that, had the Gunpowder Plot not been detected, the ensuing explosion could have wiped out not only the King and the Commons, but such a large slice of the country's higher society sitting in the House of Lords that the vacuum left could have given rise to complete anarchy. At least one public voice has forsworn marking the occasion because of the burning of catholic effigies; ... the event still causes comment and controversy after 410 years!
For me the week began with an emotional 'banger' when, on Monday afternoon, I made a delivery to the Tata steelworks in Corby. The present activity is but a small percentage of what once went on at the site, and in some ways it was like driving through a graveyard, with vegetation creeping over almost every piece of concrete and brickwork. Even the occupied buildings are dismal, and this was matched by the demeanour of the few people I encountered. The storeman's hi-viz jacket looked as if it hadn't seen a laundry for a year or more, and after he had torn himself away from a conversation with two others, similarly attired, his attitude to me - while not offensive - was at best desultory. I got the impression that he would have preferred to be anywhere but there, but that there was no choice for him ... which is probably not far from the truth. I was reminded of some factories where I have worked in the past, and I wondered what it must have been like to work there, say, thirty or forty years ago.
Contrast this sad scene with the catherine wheel that was the delight of Tuesday afternoon. This was, I think, the second time I've driven past the Ouse Valley Viaduct near Balcombe in Sussex, and it was no less surprising and spectacular than previously. Wikipedia tells me that it's 96 ft high, and its 37 arches stretch for a distance of 1,475 ft. ... well over a quarter of a mile! Made of 11 million bricks in 1841, the viaduct is still in use, carrying over 100 trains a day between London and Brighton.
Wednesday began with a handful of sparklers: a trio of local jobs, before the day's squib, a trip to Cheshire. However, it was more like a damp squib because, by the time I arrived at Mottram St Andrew it was dark, and I discovered that the delivery point was an executive dwelling in a road where each house had a name rather than a number. I was very glad that my job had been updated to provide me with a phone number, but even so there was a little confusion about where in the road I had parked to make the call, and my mission was only successful because the householder came outside and spotted my stationery headlights along the road!
Thursday took a shape rather parallel to its predecessor; more sparklers were followed by a rocket, but one with a broken stick. I was returning from Biggleswade when a phone call invited me to consider a morning delivery in Glasgow. A quick calculation sent me home briefly, to gather a few essentials together and make a telephone booking for a room at the truckstop in Carlisle for the night before heading to Stevenage for the pick-up. The first problem was that no one knew what I was supposed to be collecting. A phone call quickly identified the person who had made the booking, but she was not at work that day. More delays and phone calls ensued. Eventually it was revealed that I had been despatched in response to what had been no more than a quotation provided some days previously: a quotation that had proved too expensive, and the goods had already been despatched by other means.
Yesterday's sequence resembled a roman candle, beginning with a couple of low-level jobs, firstly collecting for one customer from two local suppliers and then, on my way back, being diverted to the hospital in Stevenage to collect some documents for an address in Letchworth. Then came deliveries to a couple of surgeries in Buckinghamshire before the final explosion, a small parcel for a private address in Mangotsfield, just off the Bristol ring road. It seemed that half London was escaping down the M4, and my delivery time advanced almost as quickly as the traffic. What had set out as a planned 5.30 delivery finally hit the doorstep at 7.40; fortunately my fears that the consignee had given me up and gone out for the evening were unfounded!
Now I can prepare for November's usual pattern to move forward another notch, to commemorate both national and personal war dead on Remembrance Sunday tomorrow.
For me the week began with an emotional 'banger' when, on Monday afternoon, I made a delivery to the Tata steelworks in Corby. The present activity is but a small percentage of what once went on at the site, and in some ways it was like driving through a graveyard, with vegetation creeping over almost every piece of concrete and brickwork. Even the occupied buildings are dismal, and this was matched by the demeanour of the few people I encountered. The storeman's hi-viz jacket looked as if it hadn't seen a laundry for a year or more, and after he had torn himself away from a conversation with two others, similarly attired, his attitude to me - while not offensive - was at best desultory. I got the impression that he would have preferred to be anywhere but there, but that there was no choice for him ... which is probably not far from the truth. I was reminded of some factories where I have worked in the past, and I wondered what it must have been like to work there, say, thirty or forty years ago.
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| Ouse Valley Viaduct; photo credit: Joshua Dunlop, expertphotography.com |
Wednesday began with a handful of sparklers: a trio of local jobs, before the day's squib, a trip to Cheshire. However, it was more like a damp squib because, by the time I arrived at Mottram St Andrew it was dark, and I discovered that the delivery point was an executive dwelling in a road where each house had a name rather than a number. I was very glad that my job had been updated to provide me with a phone number, but even so there was a little confusion about where in the road I had parked to make the call, and my mission was only successful because the householder came outside and spotted my stationery headlights along the road!
Thursday took a shape rather parallel to its predecessor; more sparklers were followed by a rocket, but one with a broken stick. I was returning from Biggleswade when a phone call invited me to consider a morning delivery in Glasgow. A quick calculation sent me home briefly, to gather a few essentials together and make a telephone booking for a room at the truckstop in Carlisle for the night before heading to Stevenage for the pick-up. The first problem was that no one knew what I was supposed to be collecting. A phone call quickly identified the person who had made the booking, but she was not at work that day. More delays and phone calls ensued. Eventually it was revealed that I had been despatched in response to what had been no more than a quotation provided some days previously: a quotation that had proved too expensive, and the goods had already been despatched by other means.
Yesterday's sequence resembled a roman candle, beginning with a couple of low-level jobs, firstly collecting for one customer from two local suppliers and then, on my way back, being diverted to the hospital in Stevenage to collect some documents for an address in Letchworth. Then came deliveries to a couple of surgeries in Buckinghamshire before the final explosion, a small parcel for a private address in Mangotsfield, just off the Bristol ring road. It seemed that half London was escaping down the M4, and my delivery time advanced almost as quickly as the traffic. What had set out as a planned 5.30 delivery finally hit the doorstep at 7.40; fortunately my fears that the consignee had given me up and gone out for the evening were unfounded!
Now I can prepare for November's usual pattern to move forward another notch, to commemorate both national and personal war dead on Remembrance Sunday tomorrow.
Saturday, 24 October 2015
The Silly Season
There is a saying in the world of newspapers that summer is the 'Silly Season', because there is frequently nothing sufficiently important to capture the headlines of all the papers, and each tends to pick out something different from the mix to lead on. It may not be summer any longer, but that's the shape of the week just ending: lots of snippets, but no lead story.
Snippet number one finds me on Sunday evening, parked on a pavement in the centre of the town, assisting in the unloading of a two-seater settee to one of the early Garden City houses. The father of the occupant had secured this item on freecycle [What a boon this is to so many people in search of both the mundane and the esoteric!], and had solicited my help in collecting and transporting it to its new home.
On Monday, after a couple of deliveries in Kent, I was given a choice of two possibilities in the late afternoon. One was two drinks orders to Suffolk and Essex; the other was a medical item to be taken to a private address in Milton Keynes. I chose the latter on the basis that I ought then to be back in time for ringing practice in the evening, where I had been told there would be several regulars who would be absent this week. I returned home at 7.20, grabbed a sandwich, and was on parade as usual at 7.45. I discovered that not only were most of the supposed absentees present, but also a number of others, too. After two abortive attempts to concentrate, I decided that my time would be better spent at my desk after all, and so came home again.
Tuesday's success was to drive around Suffolk and Essex enjoying the rich autumnal colours by the roadside, while Wednesday required me to cross the Dartford Bridge for a second time in the week in order to take a parcel to a restaurant near Sevenoaks. I was spotted going around the M25, and given another collection near Hastings for delivery in Stratford, E15. I stopped at a service station on the way back, where I discovered that refurbishment had necessitated temporary toilet facilities in the corner of the car park. After marvelling at the immaculate tiling on the walls and the shiny basin, I encountered other regular features such as the ubiquitous puddle beneath the urinals, and the fellow-user who rejects the opportunity to use the adjacent urinal in favour of standing in the cubicle without shutting the door ... augmented on this occasion by an outside door that wouldn't open properly, causing a painful collision of thigh and door frame in both directions of travel!
Thursday began uncomfortably early, with a 6.30 collection in Royston, going no further than Thetford, to be followed by two local jobs. The second of these was withdrawn (thankfully!) and replaced by another, more lucrative opportunity: an envelope to be taken from an office in Welwyn Garden City to another in a beautiful park location near Knutsford. On the way came another, more conventional, delivery of some plumbing equipment to Tamworth.
Wednesday, as many will be aware, was the 210th anniversary of the Battle of Trafalgar, where Norfolk's most famous admiral lost his life aboard HMS Victory. Like me, perhaps fewer could have said that yesterday was the centenary of another death, that of the 67-year-old William Gilbert Grace, who has been described as 'the King of Cricket'. It was appropriate that I made this discovery through listening to the lunchtime feature on the second day of the Pakistan test match, while driving to a delivery in South Cerney, in the county where WG was born and spent much of his life, Gloucestershire.
Next week is another in which I play the part of 'trainee retiree', and I have no significant plans, apart from a few minor chores that have accumulated under the heading of 'when time allows'. Is this what true retirement will really look like?
Snippet number one finds me on Sunday evening, parked on a pavement in the centre of the town, assisting in the unloading of a two-seater settee to one of the early Garden City houses. The father of the occupant had secured this item on freecycle [What a boon this is to so many people in search of both the mundane and the esoteric!], and had solicited my help in collecting and transporting it to its new home.
On Monday, after a couple of deliveries in Kent, I was given a choice of two possibilities in the late afternoon. One was two drinks orders to Suffolk and Essex; the other was a medical item to be taken to a private address in Milton Keynes. I chose the latter on the basis that I ought then to be back in time for ringing practice in the evening, where I had been told there would be several regulars who would be absent this week. I returned home at 7.20, grabbed a sandwich, and was on parade as usual at 7.45. I discovered that not only were most of the supposed absentees present, but also a number of others, too. After two abortive attempts to concentrate, I decided that my time would be better spent at my desk after all, and so came home again.
Tuesday's success was to drive around Suffolk and Essex enjoying the rich autumnal colours by the roadside, while Wednesday required me to cross the Dartford Bridge for a second time in the week in order to take a parcel to a restaurant near Sevenoaks. I was spotted going around the M25, and given another collection near Hastings for delivery in Stratford, E15. I stopped at a service station on the way back, where I discovered that refurbishment had necessitated temporary toilet facilities in the corner of the car park. After marvelling at the immaculate tiling on the walls and the shiny basin, I encountered other regular features such as the ubiquitous puddle beneath the urinals, and the fellow-user who rejects the opportunity to use the adjacent urinal in favour of standing in the cubicle without shutting the door ... augmented on this occasion by an outside door that wouldn't open properly, causing a painful collision of thigh and door frame in both directions of travel!
Thursday began uncomfortably early, with a 6.30 collection in Royston, going no further than Thetford, to be followed by two local jobs. The second of these was withdrawn (thankfully!) and replaced by another, more lucrative opportunity: an envelope to be taken from an office in Welwyn Garden City to another in a beautiful park location near Knutsford. On the way came another, more conventional, delivery of some plumbing equipment to Tamworth.
Wednesday, as many will be aware, was the 210th anniversary of the Battle of Trafalgar, where Norfolk's most famous admiral lost his life aboard HMS Victory. Like me, perhaps fewer could have said that yesterday was the centenary of another death, that of the 67-year-old William Gilbert Grace, who has been described as 'the King of Cricket'. It was appropriate that I made this discovery through listening to the lunchtime feature on the second day of the Pakistan test match, while driving to a delivery in South Cerney, in the county where WG was born and spent much of his life, Gloucestershire.
Next week is another in which I play the part of 'trainee retiree', and I have no significant plans, apart from a few minor chores that have accumulated under the heading of 'when time allows'. Is this what true retirement will really look like?
Sunday, 11 October 2015
Back in at the Deep End
The week began with harvest festival at the church. A new choir had been formed during the summer, which I had readily joined, and this was our first 'outing'. The service was followed by a simple lunch for about 120 ... no small task for the catering team, who did an excellent job! In the afternoon - across the town - the bellringers attempted a quarter peal, which was unsuccessful, although not before over 1,000 changes of good ringing had been achieved. A healing service in the evening rounded off a very busy day.
After two weeks of 'retirement', courier work this week came as more of a shock than any time since my reharnessing after Easter. And there was no gentle easing into it, either. After a couple of hours' wait (which allowed me to marshall my thoughts about entering to my various records all the stuff I'd collected at the record office on Friday), my first job was to Pontefract. This was a repeat run of one I'd done during my last working week, albeit that had been late in the day, so the road-busy-ness pattern was different. Returning about 4.0pm, I thought the day would be at and end, but I had to think again when I realised that the job that had appeared on my screen was for delivery that day, rather than Tuesday, and a run to Greenford neatly knocked out my attendance at bell-ringing practice.
This week has included a bit of most things that have made up my courier carreer, the cancellation of my evening plans being only the first. Next came the 'single job in a day', when Tuesday's job - to Cheltenham General Hospital - didn't begin until 11.0, so once more I had a morning at the keyboard, this time setting-up my newly installed computer Bible program. Wednesday's task was pre-announced, so I had the chance to research it online first. It took me to Jarrow, a place I had first visited over 24 years ago, as part of a 'Medieval Monks and Monasteries' course at Durham University. In fact this destination - reached midway through a day best described as 'a 6-hour car-wash' - was a small engineering works only a few hundred yards from St Paul's Church, where the Venerable Bede had started his ministry towards the end of the seventh century.
Thursday's experience was at the opposite end of the spectrum. I had phoned in as usual at 8.0, but having heard nothing by 2.15pm, by which time I had entered all my family history data and finalised my budget for 2016, I decided to ring again. I was told that I was their only driver (but wondered, perhaps ungraciously, whether I might have been overlooked completely). My suspicions were strengthened five minutes later when I received a call suggesting that, if I were willing to help out with a local job then, I could get a 'decent' job for the next day. The local job was to take some printed circuits to Newmarket; the 'decent' job turned out to be from Hertford (one of two that another driver was collecting) to Manchester airport ... for 9.0 am delivery!
Not having any idea what the effect of the morning rush-hour might be, I decided to allow almost an hour, and left home at 5.0. It worked. I arrived at 8.50, found the right office and made my delivery. Returning to the van, I called the local City Sprint office. Contrary to my expectations, I wasn't told to hang around while they waited to see what might come in; my next challenge was issued immediately, a collection near Crewe for an organisation in Melton Mowbray that, although I had never been there, I had registered many years ago as being one with whom I had had dealings in a past employment. My next phone in was nowhere near so productive ... so I headed home, thinking that early start had merited an early finish.
Just as the premature counting of unhatched chickens is decried, I had looked forward too early to a lazy evening. Before I had reached even the neighbouring county, let alone home, my screen had been visited by two more jobs, one to Leicester Royal Infirmary, and the other to a major industrial site in Nottingham. By the time I had stopped at a truckstop for an evening meal I had clocked up a sixteen-hour day ... and the week wasn't over yet!
Yesterday began with a short but futile attempt to achieve the usual weekend routines. Then, shortly after lunch, I set off on a personal journey. The first destination was to attend a football match in Bury St Edmunds ... part of the annual 'Non-league Day' celebration ... and then I paid a long overdue visit to my son and his wife, the excuse for this being to hand over my old computer which he had undertaken to coax on the next steps of its career.
At last comes the weekend rest ... all too short, I fear, before an early alarm heralds tomorrow's breakfast gathering!
After two weeks of 'retirement', courier work this week came as more of a shock than any time since my reharnessing after Easter. And there was no gentle easing into it, either. After a couple of hours' wait (which allowed me to marshall my thoughts about entering to my various records all the stuff I'd collected at the record office on Friday), my first job was to Pontefract. This was a repeat run of one I'd done during my last working week, albeit that had been late in the day, so the road-busy-ness pattern was different. Returning about 4.0pm, I thought the day would be at and end, but I had to think again when I realised that the job that had appeared on my screen was for delivery that day, rather than Tuesday, and a run to Greenford neatly knocked out my attendance at bell-ringing practice.
This week has included a bit of most things that have made up my courier carreer, the cancellation of my evening plans being only the first. Next came the 'single job in a day', when Tuesday's job - to Cheltenham General Hospital - didn't begin until 11.0, so once more I had a morning at the keyboard, this time setting-up my newly installed computer Bible program. Wednesday's task was pre-announced, so I had the chance to research it online first. It took me to Jarrow, a place I had first visited over 24 years ago, as part of a 'Medieval Monks and Monasteries' course at Durham University. In fact this destination - reached midway through a day best described as 'a 6-hour car-wash' - was a small engineering works only a few hundred yards from St Paul's Church, where the Venerable Bede had started his ministry towards the end of the seventh century.
Thursday's experience was at the opposite end of the spectrum. I had phoned in as usual at 8.0, but having heard nothing by 2.15pm, by which time I had entered all my family history data and finalised my budget for 2016, I decided to ring again. I was told that I was their only driver (but wondered, perhaps ungraciously, whether I might have been overlooked completely). My suspicions were strengthened five minutes later when I received a call suggesting that, if I were willing to help out with a local job then, I could get a 'decent' job for the next day. The local job was to take some printed circuits to Newmarket; the 'decent' job turned out to be from Hertford (one of two that another driver was collecting) to Manchester airport ... for 9.0 am delivery!
Not having any idea what the effect of the morning rush-hour might be, I decided to allow almost an hour, and left home at 5.0. It worked. I arrived at 8.50, found the right office and made my delivery. Returning to the van, I called the local City Sprint office. Contrary to my expectations, I wasn't told to hang around while they waited to see what might come in; my next challenge was issued immediately, a collection near Crewe for an organisation in Melton Mowbray that, although I had never been there, I had registered many years ago as being one with whom I had had dealings in a past employment. My next phone in was nowhere near so productive ... so I headed home, thinking that early start had merited an early finish.
Just as the premature counting of unhatched chickens is decried, I had looked forward too early to a lazy evening. Before I had reached even the neighbouring county, let alone home, my screen had been visited by two more jobs, one to Leicester Royal Infirmary, and the other to a major industrial site in Nottingham. By the time I had stopped at a truckstop for an evening meal I had clocked up a sixteen-hour day ... and the week wasn't over yet!
Yesterday began with a short but futile attempt to achieve the usual weekend routines. Then, shortly after lunch, I set off on a personal journey. The first destination was to attend a football match in Bury St Edmunds ... part of the annual 'Non-league Day' celebration ... and then I paid a long overdue visit to my son and his wife, the excuse for this being to hand over my old computer which he had undertaken to coax on the next steps of its career.
At last comes the weekend rest ... all too short, I fear, before an early alarm heralds tomorrow's breakfast gathering!
Saturday, 12 September 2015
It's What You Get Used To
This back-to-work week has been a bit tough. I'll try to put it into context.
Some years ago, I had a brief chat with a colleague who was playing a prominent part in our company's support in (or put another way, financial benefit from) a Scottish bank's campaign to replace all its computers. For him this meant, for a number of consecutive weeks, two return journeys per week from Hertfordshire to Edinburgh and sometimes beyond. I suggested to him that a single journey of that distance - over 370 miles by the most direct route, not allowing for diversions or variety - must be exhausting, let alone there and back twice a week! Without undue modesty, he explained that, the more you did a journey, the shorter it seemed.
Put that way, I had to agree. Indeed, I remembered some of my early jobs, when to travel up the M1 to the distribution centre at Crick (just off junction 18) seemed quite daunting, and a journey to Bradford almost into another world! After a few years - months, even - the longer jobs came to have a distinct attraction for me. Partly, I think, there was the freedom ... there is always more than one way to get somewhere and, if the destination is at some distance, the choice of one road over another becomes less significant in the overall distance and time taken for the whole journey. There was also the sense of achievement ... going to the far side of the country, and we shouldn't forget the financial rewards, too ... although the profitability of a long journey for a single job is always questionable.
As time passed, I quickly became accustomed to driving an average 300 miles a day without batting an eyelid, sometimes in a single journey, sometimes split over several separate ones. In fact, it is surprising just how quickly the body accustoms itself to changes like this. In a totally different way, I had had a similar experience a few years earlier.
When I first set foot in California in July 2000, I was reluctant to step out in the sun and made quickly for the nearest shade, so shocking was the summer heat. Yet, in only three weeks, I can remember waiting for a lift on a street corner, in full sun and not feeling any discomfort.
And that's where I came in. In recent months, work has usually stretched from 8.0 or 8.30am into the early evening. When the occasional late night has seen me arrive home around midnight, I've gone straight to bed, had a slightly later start the next morning perhaps, and thought no more of it. As to early mornings, a 7.30 pick-up has been about the limit. This week, by contrast, I had agreed to be one of three who stepped in to fill the absence of someone who regularly has a 5.30am collection. The days for which I was selected to do this were Tuesday and Thursday, and on Wednesday, I had an 8.0am delivery at a hospital in Bournemouth, which necessitated leaving home at about the same time.
Those three early starts, each followed by a day of normal working, left me drained. It was a new pattern of life to which my body hadn't adjusted. It had started to do so - on Thursday morning I woke more refreshed than on the other two - but the process was by no means complete. Let me expand the picture by taking a slightly longer view. As I've mentioned here before, I examine each week's activity and classify the good weeks as 'gold' or 'silver' according to whether the results beat my budget in the criteria of income, profitability and mileage, or just the first two. The last two weeks I've worked (and because of my phased retirement plan, that means two of the last four, which may also have some bearing on the matter), have both been 'gold', with an average of 1,465 miles per week compared to an average for this year from April of just under 1,600. This week's travels have involved 1,645 miles - by no means beyond the 'normal', but well above what my body has recently been used to.
It might seem that I'm moaning, whingeing or just being grumpy. Let me reassure you, dear reader, that this is not so. I'm happy as ever with my lot. It was fascinating, for example, to drive through Cardiff - or should I say Caerdydd? - on Wednesday afternoon viewing the roadsigns in a new light as a result of the early lessons of my Welsh course: realising why on some signs 'University' was translated as 'Pryfysgol', and on others as 'Bryfysgol'. And, even as I write this, I see that this is yet another example of the whole subject of this post: what the body - in this case the brain - gets used to.
And here I'll stop, as I debate whether or not to go and watch one of today's FA Cup ties ... more miles!
Some years ago, I had a brief chat with a colleague who was playing a prominent part in our company's support in (or put another way, financial benefit from) a Scottish bank's campaign to replace all its computers. For him this meant, for a number of consecutive weeks, two return journeys per week from Hertfordshire to Edinburgh and sometimes beyond. I suggested to him that a single journey of that distance - over 370 miles by the most direct route, not allowing for diversions or variety - must be exhausting, let alone there and back twice a week! Without undue modesty, he explained that, the more you did a journey, the shorter it seemed.
Put that way, I had to agree. Indeed, I remembered some of my early jobs, when to travel up the M1 to the distribution centre at Crick (just off junction 18) seemed quite daunting, and a journey to Bradford almost into another world! After a few years - months, even - the longer jobs came to have a distinct attraction for me. Partly, I think, there was the freedom ... there is always more than one way to get somewhere and, if the destination is at some distance, the choice of one road over another becomes less significant in the overall distance and time taken for the whole journey. There was also the sense of achievement ... going to the far side of the country, and we shouldn't forget the financial rewards, too ... although the profitability of a long journey for a single job is always questionable.
As time passed, I quickly became accustomed to driving an average 300 miles a day without batting an eyelid, sometimes in a single journey, sometimes split over several separate ones. In fact, it is surprising just how quickly the body accustoms itself to changes like this. In a totally different way, I had had a similar experience a few years earlier.
 |
| Taken in 2000, long before 'selfies' were the fashion, near Dublin, CA |
And that's where I came in. In recent months, work has usually stretched from 8.0 or 8.30am into the early evening. When the occasional late night has seen me arrive home around midnight, I've gone straight to bed, had a slightly later start the next morning perhaps, and thought no more of it. As to early mornings, a 7.30 pick-up has been about the limit. This week, by contrast, I had agreed to be one of three who stepped in to fill the absence of someone who regularly has a 5.30am collection. The days for which I was selected to do this were Tuesday and Thursday, and on Wednesday, I had an 8.0am delivery at a hospital in Bournemouth, which necessitated leaving home at about the same time.
Those three early starts, each followed by a day of normal working, left me drained. It was a new pattern of life to which my body hadn't adjusted. It had started to do so - on Thursday morning I woke more refreshed than on the other two - but the process was by no means complete. Let me expand the picture by taking a slightly longer view. As I've mentioned here before, I examine each week's activity and classify the good weeks as 'gold' or 'silver' according to whether the results beat my budget in the criteria of income, profitability and mileage, or just the first two. The last two weeks I've worked (and because of my phased retirement plan, that means two of the last four, which may also have some bearing on the matter), have both been 'gold', with an average of 1,465 miles per week compared to an average for this year from April of just under 1,600. This week's travels have involved 1,645 miles - by no means beyond the 'normal', but well above what my body has recently been used to.
It might seem that I'm moaning, whingeing or just being grumpy. Let me reassure you, dear reader, that this is not so. I'm happy as ever with my lot. It was fascinating, for example, to drive through Cardiff - or should I say Caerdydd? - on Wednesday afternoon viewing the roadsigns in a new light as a result of the early lessons of my Welsh course: realising why on some signs 'University' was translated as 'Pryfysgol', and on others as 'Bryfysgol'. And, even as I write this, I see that this is yet another example of the whole subject of this post: what the body - in this case the brain - gets used to.
And here I'll stop, as I debate whether or not to go and watch one of today's FA Cup ties ... more miles!
Friday, 4 September 2015
Neither One Thing, yet the Other!
As I announced last autumn here, and have mentioned in subsequent posts on this blog from time to time, I'm going through an indefinite period of 'phased retirement'. In conversation after the church service last Sunday, I found myself explaining just what this actually means and, under a title that came to mind in an echo of how my father might have described it, I'll begin this blog by sharing my thoughts.
My plan began simply with a pattern, as I described it to my then boss, of 'working complete weeks, but not so many of them'. So began a season, lasting up to a maximum of 21 months, when worker would be sandwiched with retiree, and during which I would be neither wholly one nor completely the other.
Early into this period I took a lump sum from my pension and purchased a motorhome ... more specifically a motor-caravan, although I haven't been able to decide just where the distinction between the two terms lies. Either is a bit of a mouthful, so she is commonly referred to alliteratively as 'Mary'. Sunday's conversation began with the question, 'have you been far in your motorhome?' As I mentally reviewed my travel diary to respond, I realised that the trips I've made so far don't in themselves really justify such a large financial outlay. What's Mary all about, then?
I explained that some of the early months (alongside the continuing demands of work) had been occupied with the business of equipping the vehicle, filling up some of the many cupboards and lockers with those items that are indispensable to life on the road, on the one hand making me independent of hotel accommodation and restaurant meals, and on the other eliminating the need for a major packing and carting of 'stuff' from home to vehicle every time it's used. In addition to this, has come an increasing experience of the routines involved in using the on-board equipment, such as making sure the gas is turned off, and the fridge turned over to electric operation before moving off ... quite apart from the significant differences in driving a larger and less manoeuvrable vehicle than the van I've been used to.
In thinking this through, I realise that in some ways the same can be said of this whole business of 'phased retirement'. It's a case of learning how to live a different life. Working life - especially in thirteen years of self-employ-ment - has been very largely one of discipline. If you don't get up and go to work, you don't have money to live on. With no holiday pay, or sickness benefits, there is no question of taking a day off, or 'throwing a sickie'.
As the business world has changed its dimensions over the years, so the demands on a courier's time have also changed. At the outset, I was almost always home by teatime, and evening commitments I'd entered into during paid employment could continue unabated. Slowly one after another had to be given up as I found myself unable to attend. Soon, I now realise, there will be the opportunity to take these up again ... at least where my own interests haven't also changed over the years! In the meantime, comes a time in which - during those weeks when I'm not working - I have to learn a new kind of normal life, rather looking on such weeks as just a lot more holiday.
This week began by spending the Bank Holiday - and a half-day either side of it - with my cousin, my 'second family'. When I returned home, and life quietened down, I noticed that I had become out of touch with programmes I usually listen to on the radio, or by podcast, in the van. My pattern has been to enjoy the silence of home after the constant buzz and activity of driving. So another aspect of retirement that I have to get used to is listening to the radio at home. They're all tiny things, but each requires a habit of years' standing to be consciously overturned.
Now, with the weather having taken a turn towards autumn, all the frenetic financial activity of starting a new month completed, and an air of boredom wafting around the flat, it's time to think about another few weeks on the road. An apologetic call from the office yesterday has already hinted of a couple of early starts to look forward to.
My plan began simply with a pattern, as I described it to my then boss, of 'working complete weeks, but not so many of them'. So began a season, lasting up to a maximum of 21 months, when worker would be sandwiched with retiree, and during which I would be neither wholly one nor completely the other.
Early into this period I took a lump sum from my pension and purchased a motorhome ... more specifically a motor-caravan, although I haven't been able to decide just where the distinction between the two terms lies. Either is a bit of a mouthful, so she is commonly referred to alliteratively as 'Mary'. Sunday's conversation began with the question, 'have you been far in your motorhome?' As I mentally reviewed my travel diary to respond, I realised that the trips I've made so far don't in themselves really justify such a large financial outlay. What's Mary all about, then?
I explained that some of the early months (alongside the continuing demands of work) had been occupied with the business of equipping the vehicle, filling up some of the many cupboards and lockers with those items that are indispensable to life on the road, on the one hand making me independent of hotel accommodation and restaurant meals, and on the other eliminating the need for a major packing and carting of 'stuff' from home to vehicle every time it's used. In addition to this, has come an increasing experience of the routines involved in using the on-board equipment, such as making sure the gas is turned off, and the fridge turned over to electric operation before moving off ... quite apart from the significant differences in driving a larger and less manoeuvrable vehicle than the van I've been used to.
In thinking this through, I realise that in some ways the same can be said of this whole business of 'phased retirement'. It's a case of learning how to live a different life. Working life - especially in thirteen years of self-employ-ment - has been very largely one of discipline. If you don't get up and go to work, you don't have money to live on. With no holiday pay, or sickness benefits, there is no question of taking a day off, or 'throwing a sickie'.
As the business world has changed its dimensions over the years, so the demands on a courier's time have also changed. At the outset, I was almost always home by teatime, and evening commitments I'd entered into during paid employment could continue unabated. Slowly one after another had to be given up as I found myself unable to attend. Soon, I now realise, there will be the opportunity to take these up again ... at least where my own interests haven't also changed over the years! In the meantime, comes a time in which - during those weeks when I'm not working - I have to learn a new kind of normal life, rather looking on such weeks as just a lot more holiday.
This week began by spending the Bank Holiday - and a half-day either side of it - with my cousin, my 'second family'. When I returned home, and life quietened down, I noticed that I had become out of touch with programmes I usually listen to on the radio, or by podcast, in the van. My pattern has been to enjoy the silence of home after the constant buzz and activity of driving. So another aspect of retirement that I have to get used to is listening to the radio at home. They're all tiny things, but each requires a habit of years' standing to be consciously overturned.
Now, with the weather having taken a turn towards autumn, all the frenetic financial activity of starting a new month completed, and an air of boredom wafting around the flat, it's time to think about another few weeks on the road. An apologetic call from the office yesterday has already hinted of a couple of early starts to look forward to.
Saturday, 29 August 2015
More Interest!
I described last week as 'interesting'. This week was possibly more so; I leave it to my readers to decide which meaning they apply to the word this time. Monday was a good day. When I received a mail order delivery on Tuesday evening, the driver saw my uniform as I answered the door and asked me about working for CitySprint. 'How many jobs do you get in a day?' he asked. He has to take well over 100, as a multi-drop driver, and only gets paid for the ones he actually delivers. I told him 'anything from one to eight', and used Monday's experience as an 'average' illustration.
I began with a visit to a tiny village near Oundle, where all the houses are in 'Main Street', and have names instead of numbers. As usual, I found the right one on my way back through the village, and delivered to the man who had waved to me as I went past on my first pass. On then, to Grantham and District Hospital, a neat and modern place, much of which is on a single floor. By late morning I was almost home again, and given two more jobs, one from Letchworth to Welwyn Garden City, and the other from Stevenage to High Wycombe. I think it was while driving round the M25, that I was asked to collect some white goods in Hemel Hempstead on my way home, for delivery in Hereford for 8.0 the next morning. I had nearly got to High Wycombe when a change of plan was announced. In my present location, I was the only chance, the controller decided, of achieving a collection that afternoon from the John Radcliffe Hospital in Oxford, to be returned that evening to our depot in Letchworth. Any fear of an early start the next morning was cast aside, and I went to bellringing practice as usual, where there were many old faces, some of whom hadn't been there for a considerable time.
Tuesday started off in fine form, as I hoped for a long job to make up for losing Hereford. A collection from Bedford for Milton Keynes was complemented by a pick-up in Flitwick on the way back for exchange at Elstree film studios, and return to our customer. Now, Tuesday morning was subject to sporadic but heavy rain showers, and as I passed Toddington Services on my way back to Flitwick, my windscreen wipers decided to take a holiday. In fact one part beneath the surface had had enough, after going to and fro for a quarter of a million miles. I completed my delivery and then made my way to the garage, seeking restoration of rain-shifting services. Sadly, the required part couldn't be delivered until the following morning, but one of the staff was able to arrange a temporary 'fix', using the wiper mechanism from his own car to keep me going. Wednesday, therefore started on time in the morning, but consisted only of a handful of very local jobs, until I attended the garage in mid-afternoon for the job to be completed.
As I reported to the office my status as once more available, I was asked if I'd like an 8.0 am collection in Letchworth on Thursday. This was a job to Gloucester that had been requested by the Swindon office. I accepted this, and duly presented myself at a factory opposite my home at the required hour. Unfortunately (the job having been arranged by their customer), they weren't aware that I would be calling so early for the goods; these were already packed, but I had to wait some while for the paperwork to be completed. Once this job had been delivered, I called Swindon, with a fair hope, I thought, of getting more work from them. I wasn't disappointed, and a few minutes later they called me back with a pick-up in Bishop's Cleeve near Cheltenham, for central Birmingham. In the afternoon, the triangle was completed by a job from the Warwick office, collecting in Nuneaton, for delivery in Harlow.
I had called the office on my way home to explain my situation, because this delivery couldn't be made until the following morning. However, the message wasn't passed on in its entirety, because when I received a call about an hour later, it was to ask if I fancied a trip to Wales ... that evening! I pointed out that, while this would be quite acceptable (it would compensate nicely for the work I'd lost through the wiper malfunction earlier in the week), I wouldn't be home early enough to contemplate an 8.0 delivery almost thirty miles from home the next morning! "Leave it with me." I was told.
When there's a willing driver to do a potentially awkward job, there's usually a way, and someone was coerced to make the Harlow delivery yesterday morning. I took the goods to the depot and made my way to our customer in Hitchin. Since venturing to North Wales in my motorhome in June, I've decided to pick up once more the Welsh tutorial that I'd abandoned some forty-five years ago and, as I drove up to the customer's premises, I realised that I could now form an appropriate sentence. There are building works going on in the yard, so I stopped where I could be seen some distance from the door, and got out of the van. As the customer walked over with the expected lightweight parcel, I greeted him with "Yr wyf i yn mynd i Gymru!" I had to stifle my smile at the man's face: something between shock and amusement. "Are you Welsh, then?" he asked. I explained, but decided not to translate, leaving him to think that it was something more elaborate than 'I'm going to Wales.'
The job itself was not difficult, although it would have been easier in daylight. It was to a private house in a one-street village, where a group of new houses have been given a separate name. SatNav - misguidedly helpful as ever - decided that this was another street, running parallel to the real one. It tried to find me the right lane to use to get there, as a result of which I now have an intimate knowledge of several inapplicable garage drives. Fortunately the parcel's recipient had heard a slow-moving van passing to and fro, and opened her door! The rest echoes the history of many previous late-night jobs; I was home and snug in bed by about 3.30 am.
The protracted nature of Thursday meant that Friday began at lunchtime, and I confess I was not expecting anything exciting. Au contraire, the controller was most relieved to take my call. He was runned off his feet, and didn't even need to call me back to request a collection in Hitchin for a hospital in Nottingham, and a pick-up in Biggleswade for a factory in Newark on the way. A leisurely drive to places I'm familiar with, on a sunny afternoon at the end of the week was ... delightful!
Today has seen a bit of tidying up, before going to watch a football match. We all stood in silence for a minute before the start in memory of players Matt Grimstone and Jacob Schilt of Worthing Utd. and the others killed in the Shoreham Airshow tragedy last weekend. In keeping with the last match I saw, two weeks ago, the team I support - in this case Biggleswade Town - was one goal down soon after the start, but on this occasion things livened up in the second half. There were four more goals, at least three yellow cards, two sendings-off, one saved penalty, and the result was a 3-2 home win. Oh, and the man sitting next to me won a prize in the raffle ... the nearest I've been to a prize in years!
Now for another 'retired week', beginning with a family visit for the Bank Holiday.
I began with a visit to a tiny village near Oundle, where all the houses are in 'Main Street', and have names instead of numbers. As usual, I found the right one on my way back through the village, and delivered to the man who had waved to me as I went past on my first pass. On then, to Grantham and District Hospital, a neat and modern place, much of which is on a single floor. By late morning I was almost home again, and given two more jobs, one from Letchworth to Welwyn Garden City, and the other from Stevenage to High Wycombe. I think it was while driving round the M25, that I was asked to collect some white goods in Hemel Hempstead on my way home, for delivery in Hereford for 8.0 the next morning. I had nearly got to High Wycombe when a change of plan was announced. In my present location, I was the only chance, the controller decided, of achieving a collection that afternoon from the John Radcliffe Hospital in Oxford, to be returned that evening to our depot in Letchworth. Any fear of an early start the next morning was cast aside, and I went to bellringing practice as usual, where there were many old faces, some of whom hadn't been there for a considerable time.
Tuesday started off in fine form, as I hoped for a long job to make up for losing Hereford. A collection from Bedford for Milton Keynes was complemented by a pick-up in Flitwick on the way back for exchange at Elstree film studios, and return to our customer. Now, Tuesday morning was subject to sporadic but heavy rain showers, and as I passed Toddington Services on my way back to Flitwick, my windscreen wipers decided to take a holiday. In fact one part beneath the surface had had enough, after going to and fro for a quarter of a million miles. I completed my delivery and then made my way to the garage, seeking restoration of rain-shifting services. Sadly, the required part couldn't be delivered until the following morning, but one of the staff was able to arrange a temporary 'fix', using the wiper mechanism from his own car to keep me going. Wednesday, therefore started on time in the morning, but consisted only of a handful of very local jobs, until I attended the garage in mid-afternoon for the job to be completed.
As I reported to the office my status as once more available, I was asked if I'd like an 8.0 am collection in Letchworth on Thursday. This was a job to Gloucester that had been requested by the Swindon office. I accepted this, and duly presented myself at a factory opposite my home at the required hour. Unfortunately (the job having been arranged by their customer), they weren't aware that I would be calling so early for the goods; these were already packed, but I had to wait some while for the paperwork to be completed. Once this job had been delivered, I called Swindon, with a fair hope, I thought, of getting more work from them. I wasn't disappointed, and a few minutes later they called me back with a pick-up in Bishop's Cleeve near Cheltenham, for central Birmingham. In the afternoon, the triangle was completed by a job from the Warwick office, collecting in Nuneaton, for delivery in Harlow.
I had called the office on my way home to explain my situation, because this delivery couldn't be made until the following morning. However, the message wasn't passed on in its entirety, because when I received a call about an hour later, it was to ask if I fancied a trip to Wales ... that evening! I pointed out that, while this would be quite acceptable (it would compensate nicely for the work I'd lost through the wiper malfunction earlier in the week), I wouldn't be home early enough to contemplate an 8.0 delivery almost thirty miles from home the next morning! "Leave it with me." I was told.
When there's a willing driver to do a potentially awkward job, there's usually a way, and someone was coerced to make the Harlow delivery yesterday morning. I took the goods to the depot and made my way to our customer in Hitchin. Since venturing to North Wales in my motorhome in June, I've decided to pick up once more the Welsh tutorial that I'd abandoned some forty-five years ago and, as I drove up to the customer's premises, I realised that I could now form an appropriate sentence. There are building works going on in the yard, so I stopped where I could be seen some distance from the door, and got out of the van. As the customer walked over with the expected lightweight parcel, I greeted him with "Yr wyf i yn mynd i Gymru!" I had to stifle my smile at the man's face: something between shock and amusement. "Are you Welsh, then?" he asked. I explained, but decided not to translate, leaving him to think that it was something more elaborate than 'I'm going to Wales.'
The job itself was not difficult, although it would have been easier in daylight. It was to a private house in a one-street village, where a group of new houses have been given a separate name. SatNav - misguidedly helpful as ever - decided that this was another street, running parallel to the real one. It tried to find me the right lane to use to get there, as a result of which I now have an intimate knowledge of several inapplicable garage drives. Fortunately the parcel's recipient had heard a slow-moving van passing to and fro, and opened her door! The rest echoes the history of many previous late-night jobs; I was home and snug in bed by about 3.30 am.
The protracted nature of Thursday meant that Friday began at lunchtime, and I confess I was not expecting anything exciting. Au contraire, the controller was most relieved to take my call. He was runned off his feet, and didn't even need to call me back to request a collection in Hitchin for a hospital in Nottingham, and a pick-up in Biggleswade for a factory in Newark on the way. A leisurely drive to places I'm familiar with, on a sunny afternoon at the end of the week was ... delightful!
Today has seen a bit of tidying up, before going to watch a football match. We all stood in silence for a minute before the start in memory of players Matt Grimstone and Jacob Schilt of Worthing Utd. and the others killed in the Shoreham Airshow tragedy last weekend. In keeping with the last match I saw, two weeks ago, the team I support - in this case Biggleswade Town - was one goal down soon after the start, but on this occasion things livened up in the second half. There were four more goals, at least three yellow cards, two sendings-off, one saved penalty, and the result was a 3-2 home win. Oh, and the man sitting next to me won a prize in the raffle ... the nearest I've been to a prize in years!
Now for another 'retired week', beginning with a family visit for the Bank Holiday.
Saturday, 8 August 2015
All a Bit of a Blur
The week got off to a slow start, but boy - did it take off! I was somewhat thankful that my first call on Monday didn't come until almost lunchtime, because after last week's demands, there were still things to be 'polished off'. I went to Biggleswade to collect a pallet of metal for a firm in Basingstoke; on my way there, a second job came onto my screen to collect in a village near Bedford to take to Stevenage. When I arrived at my first collection there was some consternation because they had two pallets for me which, although I could have physically taken them, would have exceeded my weight limit. On then, to the second point, while another vehicle was organised for the first. The place was out in the wilds and took some while to find. My report of eventual success was met with an invitation to repeat the job I'd done last Thursday, which took me to Weymouth.
Tuesday's late uprising heralded a busy, but comparatively local day, including five jobs, but venturing no further than Reading. Even so, I wasn't home until about 8.0pm. Wednesday began with another semi-local demand, to a village just beyond Newport Pagnell. In its usual whimsical way, SatNav took me there via Bedford and home via the M1, providing variety if nothing else. I was still about ten miles from home when I was diverted to Luton for the next job, going to Dudley, and with it some fabricated items for Tamworth. The customer who consigned these has a reputation for sluggishness but somehow waiting in the sunshine, knowing that two good jobs were virtually in the bag, was not unwelcome. The jobs themselves were not difficult either, and by mid-afternoon I was on the M6 heading homewards again, looking forward to a lazy evening, but just wondering if anyone would spot me on their screen. Beep! Beep! I'd been spotted. Now, the nature of this onboard computer device is such that, because of the colours and type face, I can't see the details of the job in normal light, to know whether I want to accept it or not. I'm learning the wisdom that, if I don't want more work for the moment, I can sign off. If I leave the machine switched on, I can still be seen, but the situation is clear.
So, midway through Wednesday afternoon came the second seaside job of the week, a collection in Nuneaton for Clacton-on-Sea. I made the delivery about 7.30pm, took time out to stroll briefly along the esplanade musing on former times, and then bought a 'service station salad' for tea before heading for home. Thursday repeated the same pattern, with a reasonably local job first, this time to West Horndon in Essex. I confess, I was so distracted by the cricket commentary as the first six Australian wickets fell within half an hour or so, that I missed my turning off the M25, and committed myself to an additional ten miles to make my delivery!
Next came a collection of instruments to be taken to a hospital in Worcester, but before I'd reached the M1, I'd been spotted by the astute staff of Milton Keynes, who realised that, if I were willing, I could fit in this job with one they'd just taken for the National Grid, to collect some samples in a Buckinghamshire village, for analysis at a laboratory in Ellesmere Port, needing to be delivered there by 9.0pm. They were considerate and phoned me first, rather than simply allocating the job, but I didn't see any problem with it, beyond the distance. I would be late enough to miss my evening in any case, so it seemed sensible to make it worthwhile.
I returned from what was, to all intents and purposes, a third 'seaside' mission by about 1.0 am, but didn't sleep much beyond my normal waking up time, and after a late breakfast and a bit of admin, I decided to pay my weekly visit to the office to hand in the paperwork I'd collected so far. When I walked in the door, the controller said he'd spotted me on his screen and had just given me a job. This was to collect in Royston for Trowbridge, and was complemented en route by another to pick up in Letchworth for a Reading address. Finally, since these were both small, could I fit on a pallet from Hitchin to go to Ascot on the way? These three went together well, for the 'Reading address' was along the so-called 'Floral Mile' of the A4, and the only real problem was a major incident on the M4, which threw the whole area into west-bound chaos.
After two good weeks, I felt justified in stopping at a pub just short of the M4 on my return journey to get a decent meal before continuing. Now I can look forward to a 'retired' week with some comfort and satisfaction!
Tuesday's late uprising heralded a busy, but comparatively local day, including five jobs, but venturing no further than Reading. Even so, I wasn't home until about 8.0pm. Wednesday began with another semi-local demand, to a village just beyond Newport Pagnell. In its usual whimsical way, SatNav took me there via Bedford and home via the M1, providing variety if nothing else. I was still about ten miles from home when I was diverted to Luton for the next job, going to Dudley, and with it some fabricated items for Tamworth. The customer who consigned these has a reputation for sluggishness but somehow waiting in the sunshine, knowing that two good jobs were virtually in the bag, was not unwelcome. The jobs themselves were not difficult either, and by mid-afternoon I was on the M6 heading homewards again, looking forward to a lazy evening, but just wondering if anyone would spot me on their screen. Beep! Beep! I'd been spotted. Now, the nature of this onboard computer device is such that, because of the colours and type face, I can't see the details of the job in normal light, to know whether I want to accept it or not. I'm learning the wisdom that, if I don't want more work for the moment, I can sign off. If I leave the machine switched on, I can still be seen, but the situation is clear.
So, midway through Wednesday afternoon came the second seaside job of the week, a collection in Nuneaton for Clacton-on-Sea. I made the delivery about 7.30pm, took time out to stroll briefly along the esplanade musing on former times, and then bought a 'service station salad' for tea before heading for home. Thursday repeated the same pattern, with a reasonably local job first, this time to West Horndon in Essex. I confess, I was so distracted by the cricket commentary as the first six Australian wickets fell within half an hour or so, that I missed my turning off the M25, and committed myself to an additional ten miles to make my delivery!
Next came a collection of instruments to be taken to a hospital in Worcester, but before I'd reached the M1, I'd been spotted by the astute staff of Milton Keynes, who realised that, if I were willing, I could fit in this job with one they'd just taken for the National Grid, to collect some samples in a Buckinghamshire village, for analysis at a laboratory in Ellesmere Port, needing to be delivered there by 9.0pm. They were considerate and phoned me first, rather than simply allocating the job, but I didn't see any problem with it, beyond the distance. I would be late enough to miss my evening in any case, so it seemed sensible to make it worthwhile.
I returned from what was, to all intents and purposes, a third 'seaside' mission by about 1.0 am, but didn't sleep much beyond my normal waking up time, and after a late breakfast and a bit of admin, I decided to pay my weekly visit to the office to hand in the paperwork I'd collected so far. When I walked in the door, the controller said he'd spotted me on his screen and had just given me a job. This was to collect in Royston for Trowbridge, and was complemented en route by another to pick up in Letchworth for a Reading address. Finally, since these were both small, could I fit on a pallet from Hitchin to go to Ascot on the way? These three went together well, for the 'Reading address' was along the so-called 'Floral Mile' of the A4, and the only real problem was a major incident on the M4, which threw the whole area into west-bound chaos.
After two good weeks, I felt justified in stopping at a pub just short of the M4 on my return journey to get a decent meal before continuing. Now I can look forward to a 'retired' week with some comfort and satisfaction!
Friday, 17 July 2015
Two Halves, and lots of Changes!
I think I may have used that idea of a 'game of two halves' before, but I make no apologies, for the week I'm about to describe has been definitely lop-sided. It started very sluggishly, since I was out late last Friday evening, and drove straight from the delivery to arrive slightly late for the first event at church in what was to be a busy - almost 'festival' - weekend, with a visiting speaker and lots of activities.
The working week therefore began with a phone call to say I was available, and it was some while later that I was sent to Cheshunt, with a collection in Harlow on the way back. A couple of hours at home preceded a later collection in Milton Keynes, for delivery in Hitchin the next morning - and that not until 8.30! This was followed by a trip to Colchester to deliver just off the A12, near the football ground, and Tuesday finished with a journey to Northampton General Hospital, and a letter to Luton County Court en route. Two action-packed not-very-ambitious days, with the usual bellringing practice in between.
Wednesday began in the same vein, with a trip from Luton to Cambridge, to take some electronic equipment that had been repaired, and then a return trip with more items for the next repair cycle. After another wait at my desk at home, came a collection in Letchworth for Ware. Just as I was beginning to despair of getting my teeth (or, more accurately, wheels!) into something exciting, things began to change in my favour. As I was about to pull into the gateway for this collection, came a phone call, announcing an alternative plan. In the next street was a consignment for a hospital in Grimsby! At half-past Wednesday, the week was about to kick off!
Grimsby is a place I haven't visited much in this career - only three times, in fact. But it certainly hasn't proved to be grim. My recollection is of sunshine, and this was no exception. When I was nearly there, a call outlined my work for the following morning, with a collection at 9.0 in Coventry. As I turned for home, came the next change of plan. The bad news, I was told, was that the Coventry job was too big for my van; the good news was of two other jobs that would definitely go together. One was an envelope for Bristol, and the other some equipment to be collected in Bedford at 8.30 for 'Newport'. Unsurprisingly, I discovered that this didn't mean Newport itself, but one of the many places that are unpronounceable (at least on first sight) with an NP postcode. In this case it was Coedkernew.
I was up in good time, and almost to the pick-up point. "All change!" again. The customer now required delivery to a CH postcode instead ... which would rule out the Bristol job for me, of course. I'd just come to terms with this amendment, when further phone calls announced that this change was being reversed. A casual comment when signing for the goods revealed that someone had read the invoicing address and reacted over-swiftly to an apparent error that wasn't. So by 9.0, I was on my way to the delights of the M4 and the Severn Crossing. It's the first westbound crossing I've made for some years, and was aghast at the toll charge of £13.10! Having an inkling of the answer, I decided to ask the attendant about the charge for a motorhome. "Is this a motorhome?" he asked. I couldn't decide whether he was serious or not ... and perhaps this was his view of me, too. "No, I'm just asking the question." "£6.50," he said. "... And it's twice as big as this, and a bigger engine as well" I offered. "Yes," he said, "some of them are as big as a battleship. I don't make the rules, though. A van is a van is a van; it's £13.10, but if it's a motorhome, however big, it's £6.50" Having enjoyed this little banter, I bade him 'diolch' and went on my way.
After effecting my delivery, I decided that I'd had enough of motorways, so when I reached junction 24, I turned off towards Monmouth ... forgetting completely that I needed diesel! SatNav did its best, found me an Esso near Abergavenny, but a) it was about 5 miles beyond the town, and b) the post code was clearly incorrect, because it fetched me up on a narrow lane with not a house in sight, let alone a filling station. I headed for Hereford, where I was successful, with my gauge just on the edge of the 'pink-light' zone, and then made for home. I hadn't gone far before I was spotted by one of the many City Sprint offices ... Birmingham, I think ... who gave me two jobs out of Worcester, one for Birmingham (easy once I'd found the place), the other for a beautiful residential school for the disabled at Mirfield. Doing these was well worth my while, but I had to question whether M6 & M62 was really the best route from Birmingham to West Yorkshire! By the time I got home it had been an almost 18-hour day, of which an hour was taken out for a meal at Hartshead Moor services, and half an hour for a snooze at Gonnerby Moor services. The total circuit was 619 miles!
I heard something today about the mind being fatigued more readily than the body, and I had to agree with this contention. Yesterday's experience was typical. While I listened to the test match commentary I found myself tiringly frustrated by the lack of action, but in the evening, when my accompaniment was a succession of podcasts, and I was able to follow the sequence of thought in these, my fatigue was much less noticeable, although I slept well once I was home!
This afternoon, once I'd surfaced and caught up with the administration of the long day, I presented myself for 'light duties', and did little more than 100 miles in three short jobs, including collecting work for other drivers. Now, after three weeks on the road, I can plan for another week of R&R, the tale of which I shall share next weekend.
The working week therefore began with a phone call to say I was available, and it was some while later that I was sent to Cheshunt, with a collection in Harlow on the way back. A couple of hours at home preceded a later collection in Milton Keynes, for delivery in Hitchin the next morning - and that not until 8.30! This was followed by a trip to Colchester to deliver just off the A12, near the football ground, and Tuesday finished with a journey to Northampton General Hospital, and a letter to Luton County Court en route. Two action-packed not-very-ambitious days, with the usual bellringing practice in between.
Wednesday began in the same vein, with a trip from Luton to Cambridge, to take some electronic equipment that had been repaired, and then a return trip with more items for the next repair cycle. After another wait at my desk at home, came a collection in Letchworth for Ware. Just as I was beginning to despair of getting my teeth (or, more accurately, wheels!) into something exciting, things began to change in my favour. As I was about to pull into the gateway for this collection, came a phone call, announcing an alternative plan. In the next street was a consignment for a hospital in Grimsby! At half-past Wednesday, the week was about to kick off!
Grimsby is a place I haven't visited much in this career - only three times, in fact. But it certainly hasn't proved to be grim. My recollection is of sunshine, and this was no exception. When I was nearly there, a call outlined my work for the following morning, with a collection at 9.0 in Coventry. As I turned for home, came the next change of plan. The bad news, I was told, was that the Coventry job was too big for my van; the good news was of two other jobs that would definitely go together. One was an envelope for Bristol, and the other some equipment to be collected in Bedford at 8.30 for 'Newport'. Unsurprisingly, I discovered that this didn't mean Newport itself, but one of the many places that are unpronounceable (at least on first sight) with an NP postcode. In this case it was Coedkernew.
I was up in good time, and almost to the pick-up point. "All change!" again. The customer now required delivery to a CH postcode instead ... which would rule out the Bristol job for me, of course. I'd just come to terms with this amendment, when further phone calls announced that this change was being reversed. A casual comment when signing for the goods revealed that someone had read the invoicing address and reacted over-swiftly to an apparent error that wasn't. So by 9.0, I was on my way to the delights of the M4 and the Severn Crossing. It's the first westbound crossing I've made for some years, and was aghast at the toll charge of £13.10! Having an inkling of the answer, I decided to ask the attendant about the charge for a motorhome. "Is this a motorhome?" he asked. I couldn't decide whether he was serious or not ... and perhaps this was his view of me, too. "No, I'm just asking the question." "£6.50," he said. "... And it's twice as big as this, and a bigger engine as well" I offered. "Yes," he said, "some of them are as big as a battleship. I don't make the rules, though. A van is a van is a van; it's £13.10, but if it's a motorhome, however big, it's £6.50" Having enjoyed this little banter, I bade him 'diolch' and went on my way.
After effecting my delivery, I decided that I'd had enough of motorways, so when I reached junction 24, I turned off towards Monmouth ... forgetting completely that I needed diesel! SatNav did its best, found me an Esso near Abergavenny, but a) it was about 5 miles beyond the town, and b) the post code was clearly incorrect, because it fetched me up on a narrow lane with not a house in sight, let alone a filling station. I headed for Hereford, where I was successful, with my gauge just on the edge of the 'pink-light' zone, and then made for home. I hadn't gone far before I was spotted by one of the many City Sprint offices ... Birmingham, I think ... who gave me two jobs out of Worcester, one for Birmingham (easy once I'd found the place), the other for a beautiful residential school for the disabled at Mirfield. Doing these was well worth my while, but I had to question whether M6 & M62 was really the best route from Birmingham to West Yorkshire! By the time I got home it had been an almost 18-hour day, of which an hour was taken out for a meal at Hartshead Moor services, and half an hour for a snooze at Gonnerby Moor services. The total circuit was 619 miles!
I heard something today about the mind being fatigued more readily than the body, and I had to agree with this contention. Yesterday's experience was typical. While I listened to the test match commentary I found myself tiringly frustrated by the lack of action, but in the evening, when my accompaniment was a succession of podcasts, and I was able to follow the sequence of thought in these, my fatigue was much less noticeable, although I slept well once I was home!
This afternoon, once I'd surfaced and caught up with the administration of the long day, I presented myself for 'light duties', and did little more than 100 miles in three short jobs, including collecting work for other drivers. Now, after three weeks on the road, I can plan for another week of R&R, the tale of which I shall share next weekend.
Saturday, 11 July 2015
How's It Going, Then?
When someone asked me yesterday evening, "How's the phased retirement going?", I confess I had to trot out that old cliché, "I don't know how I found time to work!" Only, in this case, it was a simple acknowledgement of the truth of it, for at present I'm still trying to combine both lives into one. At the start, it had seemed quite straightforward, with time to 'do things' on the weeks that I wasn't working. But now, six months into the plan, I'm finding that all the 'things' that happen in those non-working weeks have tails: tails that need to be fitted into working weeks, either because they can't be left, or because I'm too impatient to wait for the next non-working week to do them.
A couple of weeks ago, I returned from a three-pronged trip to North Wales, which was the first real trial for the motorhome. (I must get into the habit of calling it a motor-caravan, which is apparently the more accurate term, and doesn't risk confusion with those mansions on wheels at the far end of the market.) There were a couple of things that I wanted to do before I use it again. One was to re-fit a bit of trim which had pinged out of the leading edge of the over-cab and, with the help of a tube of glue and the bathroom stool, this was accomplished in the sunshine the day after my return. The other will take just a little longer, and involves modifying the additional woodwork that a previous owner had fitted inside one of the cupboards. With two fairly full weeks' work since then, and the prospect of another next week, this has been put on hold so far, which is becoming a bit frustrating, given that a tentative plan is forming for another short excursion the following week.
Last weekend was given over to accounts, and the striking competition (in which we came a comfortable fourth out of six teams competing!) and some personal letters ... which never work out saying what you want them to say in just minutes! This weekend is similarly dominated by other 'stuff', this time in connection with a church gathering. Luckily, there is the occasional break between jobs during the week, that allows me to do the odd errand, so that not everything gets pushed into the weekends. This isn't strictly linked to the retirement situation, of course, but rather to the fact of working from home, which has been an absolute boon for a couple of years now.
I can't let this post go without commenting about a couple of things from the week's driving assignments. I've spoken before about other offices 'spotting' me and providing what's known in the trade as a 'return load', i.e. something that means you don't drive all the way home with an empty van. The ultimate return load situation comes when a sequence of jobs form a chain, starting and finishing at the same place, and you realise when the records are put together, that you've been paid for every mile of that circuit. This happened on both Thursday and Friday this week. The first was when I was spotted just as I got into the van to drive home, and was given a job within a mile of my then position, to bring to a business just across the road from my home. The second was as I approached the further of two delivery points and received a call to collect something across the street, to be brought back to Letchworth, thus making another complete triangle.
And finally ... I never fail to be impressed by the skills of a fork-truck driver. Sometimes, I admit, the skill is praised in its absence, such as when a careless move has buckled a door-steady, but usually it's a case of marvelling at the apparent gymnastic ease with which a load has been manoeuvred into or out of my van. Yesterday, however, I think I saw the pinnacle of achievement, when two fork-trucks were used in tandem to manipulate into the back of a solid trailer, a load that was awkwardly positioned on a very long pallet. The understanding between the two drivers had to be seen to be believed ... it couldn't be heard, for it was expressed in silent concentration as they passed the burden of their load from one to the other like a juggler tossing a tennis ball between his hands.
Who knows? By next weekend I might have fitted my little woodwork job into an empty evening, and can go carefree on my travels again ... until another 'tail' appears!
A couple of weeks ago, I returned from a three-pronged trip to North Wales, which was the first real trial for the motorhome. (I must get into the habit of calling it a motor-caravan, which is apparently the more accurate term, and doesn't risk confusion with those mansions on wheels at the far end of the market.) There were a couple of things that I wanted to do before I use it again. One was to re-fit a bit of trim which had pinged out of the leading edge of the over-cab and, with the help of a tube of glue and the bathroom stool, this was accomplished in the sunshine the day after my return. The other will take just a little longer, and involves modifying the additional woodwork that a previous owner had fitted inside one of the cupboards. With two fairly full weeks' work since then, and the prospect of another next week, this has been put on hold so far, which is becoming a bit frustrating, given that a tentative plan is forming for another short excursion the following week.
Last weekend was given over to accounts, and the striking competition (in which we came a comfortable fourth out of six teams competing!) and some personal letters ... which never work out saying what you want them to say in just minutes! This weekend is similarly dominated by other 'stuff', this time in connection with a church gathering. Luckily, there is the occasional break between jobs during the week, that allows me to do the odd errand, so that not everything gets pushed into the weekends. This isn't strictly linked to the retirement situation, of course, but rather to the fact of working from home, which has been an absolute boon for a couple of years now.
I can't let this post go without commenting about a couple of things from the week's driving assignments. I've spoken before about other offices 'spotting' me and providing what's known in the trade as a 'return load', i.e. something that means you don't drive all the way home with an empty van. The ultimate return load situation comes when a sequence of jobs form a chain, starting and finishing at the same place, and you realise when the records are put together, that you've been paid for every mile of that circuit. This happened on both Thursday and Friday this week. The first was when I was spotted just as I got into the van to drive home, and was given a job within a mile of my then position, to bring to a business just across the road from my home. The second was as I approached the further of two delivery points and received a call to collect something across the street, to be brought back to Letchworth, thus making another complete triangle.
And finally ... I never fail to be impressed by the skills of a fork-truck driver. Sometimes, I admit, the skill is praised in its absence, such as when a careless move has buckled a door-steady, but usually it's a case of marvelling at the apparent gymnastic ease with which a load has been manoeuvred into or out of my van. Yesterday, however, I think I saw the pinnacle of achievement, when two fork-trucks were used in tandem to manipulate into the back of a solid trailer, a load that was awkwardly positioned on a very long pallet. The understanding between the two drivers had to be seen to be believed ... it couldn't be heard, for it was expressed in silent concentration as they passed the burden of their load from one to the other like a juggler tossing a tennis ball between his hands.
Who knows? By next weekend I might have fitted my little woodwork job into an empty evening, and can go carefree on my travels again ... until another 'tail' appears!
Saturday, 20 June 2015
A Drop of the Old Stuff
It's been very much a week in the old vein. Perhaps, being the third successive working week, my name had become 'part of the scenery' once more, rather than 'the man who comes and goes'; perhaps it was because Dave - still the principal controller, despite no longer running the operation - has been on holiday; or perhaps it's just been 'that sort of a week'. I neither know nor care. Suffice to say that I've been tested, and enjoyed it.
After a weekend of desk-clearing, shaking off lots of financial burdens and planning a touring week that's about to begin, Monday started quite quietly. Luckily I remembered reading on Saturday evening as I submitted my Tax Return that there would be a delay before it appears on my record, and that, during this approximately three-day window, there would be an opportunity to make amendments. As I tidied things up in the aftermath, I discovered something that I had wrongly declared, and there was just time to go online and put this right before my PDA beeped to call me into work mode once more.
The first job was a local delivery to Bedford, but on the way I was called to pick up something in a nearby village for Westerham ... my first visit to Kent for quite a while. As if to prolong last week's theme of things in pairs, I was diverted to collect from the office something another driver had picked up, which was going to West Malling, not far away. Later came another trip south, to Stevenage and Enfield, from which I returned just too late to be able to fit in my weekly ringing practice.
Tuesday began with a collection - though that might not be the best word! - in Stevenage. When I arrived and announced where I was going (Maidenhead), I was told where to park along with the comment, "There's a lot of stuff in that bay; you won't get it all in that little van!" Then the manager arrived to organise the loading and, with the efforts of both of us, with Mr. Doom-and-Gloom passing one item after another, it did all fit ... just. When I rang in, as requested, to say I was loaded, I was invited to go back to Letchworth, where another driver was collecting a small consignment which they'd like me to take if I could fit it in, bound for Barnstaple. This consisted of one large box for which there was just room inside the door, and six small ones, which filled a gap in the 'eaves'. I returned home just before midnight.
After a late start, Wednesday brought me a string of five jobs, no further than Aylesbury, the last of which was a collection for a nationwide parcel company from a nursery in Hertford, to go to their regional distribution depot in Enfield. Being the first time I had done such a job, I wasn't aware how the program on my PDA was, of necessity, being 'misused'. It appeared that I was to make a delivery to the same place from which I'd just collected, but this element had been added simply in order to record the number of packages I had picked up.
Thursday's curtain-raiser was a call at about 9.30 from the office. "I don't know if you'd be interested in this job, Brian, but it's a rather juicy one!" Intrigued, I asked where it was going. "Whitehaven" came the reply. I told him I was interested, and within minutes was on my way to Luton to collect ... a small package containing, as I later discovered, some fuses. By the time I arrived, the manager was just walking through his warehouse 'to see if they'd arrived'. We spotted each other simultaneously. As I walked towards him he asked, "Have you brought my fuses?" I could only say where they'd come from, which satisfied him. He said he'd been wondering if I'd make it in time, since he now had to get them to his customer ... presumably by the close of business that evening. After stopping for a meal at KFC in Penrith, I was home this time at 12.35 am.
I would have been quite content yesterday with the delivery of three bottles of wine in Stevenage and two kegs of beer in Hertford, but I was asked if I could accommodate four tyres as well. Although they were for a Porsche, I found there was just room, so my week finished in Reading, faced with a lengthy journey trying to avoid the regular crush around the M25. It's been an enjoyable one, I have to say. Apart from the pleasant back lanes of Kent getting between the two deliveries on Monday, there was also the delight of seeing part of Bath that was new to me, as I diverted from the motorways on my way home from Devon, and both Barnstaple and Whitehaven are places I'd never visited before. Coincidentally, my two 'near misses', to South Molton and Workington respectively, were during the summer and autumn of 2002, soon after I'd started doing this work.
Now for what one friend has described as a 'busman's holiday', of which I shall tell you more when it's over!
After a weekend of desk-clearing, shaking off lots of financial burdens and planning a touring week that's about to begin, Monday started quite quietly. Luckily I remembered reading on Saturday evening as I submitted my Tax Return that there would be a delay before it appears on my record, and that, during this approximately three-day window, there would be an opportunity to make amendments. As I tidied things up in the aftermath, I discovered something that I had wrongly declared, and there was just time to go online and put this right before my PDA beeped to call me into work mode once more.
The first job was a local delivery to Bedford, but on the way I was called to pick up something in a nearby village for Westerham ... my first visit to Kent for quite a while. As if to prolong last week's theme of things in pairs, I was diverted to collect from the office something another driver had picked up, which was going to West Malling, not far away. Later came another trip south, to Stevenage and Enfield, from which I returned just too late to be able to fit in my weekly ringing practice.
Tuesday began with a collection - though that might not be the best word! - in Stevenage. When I arrived and announced where I was going (Maidenhead), I was told where to park along with the comment, "There's a lot of stuff in that bay; you won't get it all in that little van!" Then the manager arrived to organise the loading and, with the efforts of both of us, with Mr. Doom-and-Gloom passing one item after another, it did all fit ... just. When I rang in, as requested, to say I was loaded, I was invited to go back to Letchworth, where another driver was collecting a small consignment which they'd like me to take if I could fit it in, bound for Barnstaple. This consisted of one large box for which there was just room inside the door, and six small ones, which filled a gap in the 'eaves'. I returned home just before midnight.
After a late start, Wednesday brought me a string of five jobs, no further than Aylesbury, the last of which was a collection for a nationwide parcel company from a nursery in Hertford, to go to their regional distribution depot in Enfield. Being the first time I had done such a job, I wasn't aware how the program on my PDA was, of necessity, being 'misused'. It appeared that I was to make a delivery to the same place from which I'd just collected, but this element had been added simply in order to record the number of packages I had picked up.
Thursday's curtain-raiser was a call at about 9.30 from the office. "I don't know if you'd be interested in this job, Brian, but it's a rather juicy one!" Intrigued, I asked where it was going. "Whitehaven" came the reply. I told him I was interested, and within minutes was on my way to Luton to collect ... a small package containing, as I later discovered, some fuses. By the time I arrived, the manager was just walking through his warehouse 'to see if they'd arrived'. We spotted each other simultaneously. As I walked towards him he asked, "Have you brought my fuses?" I could only say where they'd come from, which satisfied him. He said he'd been wondering if I'd make it in time, since he now had to get them to his customer ... presumably by the close of business that evening. After stopping for a meal at KFC in Penrith, I was home this time at 12.35 am.
I would have been quite content yesterday with the delivery of three bottles of wine in Stevenage and two kegs of beer in Hertford, but I was asked if I could accommodate four tyres as well. Although they were for a Porsche, I found there was just room, so my week finished in Reading, faced with a lengthy journey trying to avoid the regular crush around the M25. It's been an enjoyable one, I have to say. Apart from the pleasant back lanes of Kent getting between the two deliveries on Monday, there was also the delight of seeing part of Bath that was new to me, as I diverted from the motorways on my way home from Devon, and both Barnstaple and Whitehaven are places I'd never visited before. Coincidentally, my two 'near misses', to South Molton and Workington respectively, were during the summer and autumn of 2002, soon after I'd started doing this work.
Now for what one friend has described as a 'busman's holiday', of which I shall tell you more when it's over!
Saturday, 13 June 2015
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!
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!
Saturday, 6 June 2015
Here We Go Again!
I have to apologise to any would-be readers who were distressed at the total absence of a blog last week. Somehow the weekend got a bit out of control, and the blog rather fell between the cracks ... in other words, I simply forgot to write it! I'm glad to say that there isn't a repeat performance today. And perhaps this is even more surprising when I tell you some of the things that have been happening this week - it's been one repeat after another!
Let's begin with Monday, which got off to a late start. I suspect I might have been overlooked, although the office staff vigorously denied this when I rang in at noon to check. 'Yes, you were on the list, but not any longer ... would you go round to <customer> and load two deliveries in the CV area.' The fact that this response came after quite a lengthy delay aroused my suspicions. But the week was under way, that was the main thing; nothing could be done about the morning, whatever the reason for its silence.
One of these CV deliveries was to the Jaguar-Land Rover plant at Gaydon, a place I haven't been to for several years, since a motor industry provider in Letchworth went out of business. This morning, as it happens, I went past where their factory had been and noticed how well the new housing development on the site is progressing. As to Jaguar, it's good to go somewhere that I've been to before: a place where I know the layout, even if only in a rudimentary way.
The same could be said of Tuesday's principal job, too. I was asked to take ten boxes to a firm in the High Street in Lincoln, which I know from experience is partly pedestrianised. I spent the journey there wondering how accurately SatNav would direct me along the other streets, and how far away from my target I should be able to park. The boxes were perfectly carryable, but only one at a time, so I envisaged ten trips to and fro, unless I could engage 'local support'. I advanced cautiously along the High Street, watching the numbers with one eye, while the other minded the traffic. I spotted the right name, thankfully just a short way before the road closure, and manoeuvred into the loading bay right outside. As I got out of the van, I was approached by someone from the company I was delivering to, who explained they had two properties, almost adjacent, but either side of a junction, and opened the door of one, to show me where to take the goods.
Wednesday began with a seasonal anomally. I took Mother's Day flowers to the Waitrose HQ in Bracknell. I rather suspect these were samples for next year's event, however. Later I took some items from another customer to the same destination. Twice in a day was something of a record, but it was one I nearly matched as the week progressed. Thursday started the 'Corby season'. I had been to this particular printing company only a few weeks ago, and recalled how well I'd been treated on that occasion. The customer for whom I was collecting is, to say the least, cautious. On the previous visit, I had turned up about fifteen minutes after the prescribed time, and was about to apologise, when I was told, "You're early; they aren't ready yet!" I remembered this precedent as I was told I should have to wait about ten minutes. Unsurprised this time, I took advantage of the opportunity to clean my van's windows while I waited. Then, with the parcel safely in the van, I made for home. I'd gone about six or seven miles when the phone rang. Would I please go back ... there was more to collect. Well, there would be, I found, once the extra copies had been produced!
Friday morning found me heading to Corby again, this time with goods to deliver to a company in the next road to the printers. I then went back to the printers, where the same familiar play unfolded once more. It was almost an hour before I was on the return journey, but this time I wasn't recalled. The scene now moves further south. Just as I had arrived at Waitrose (for the first time) on Wednesday, I had been spotted by the Reading office, who asked me to collect some goods in nearby Wokingham, for a company in Ware. On Friday, after returning from Corby, I was given a tender to take to Epping, and also a parcel for this same company in Ware ... yet again, I now knew where to go. I was also given another job to go in the same direction, but had to turn it down, because there wouldn't have been time to collect this and still get the tender to Epping by the required deadline. This rejection also duplicated a circumstance earlier in the week. As I had made my way from Gaydon to Coventry on Monday afternoon, for my second delivery, I'd been called by the Warwick office to collect in Coventry for Leicester. This collection, however, had to be before the people left at 4.30, and I wouldn't be making my delivery in Coventry until after that time, so I had had to turn that one down too.
The week's duplication phenomenon hadn't done with me yet. Later on Friday afternoon, I collected some cables from Hertford to take to Shepperton Studios. As I was given these, our customer told me with great 'professional excitement' that they were for the set of 'Beauty and the Beast'. Apart from having heard the title, this meant little to me, but I did recall a similar situation some years ago, when I had to take some far larger cables to a site in Oxfordshire where one of the Harry Potter films was being made. Now, on Saturday evening, I've only recently returned from a visit to Chigwell, where I collected a small package to deliver to the same engineer at Shepperton early on Monday morning. I just hope that he doesn't oversleep ... I know I won't!
If your mind has kept up with all these comings and goings, look in again next week, for another thrilling instalment of life on four wheels!
Let's begin with Monday, which got off to a late start. I suspect I might have been overlooked, although the office staff vigorously denied this when I rang in at noon to check. 'Yes, you were on the list, but not any longer ... would you go round to <customer> and load two deliveries in the CV area.' The fact that this response came after quite a lengthy delay aroused my suspicions. But the week was under way, that was the main thing; nothing could be done about the morning, whatever the reason for its silence.
One of these CV deliveries was to the Jaguar-Land Rover plant at Gaydon, a place I haven't been to for several years, since a motor industry provider in Letchworth went out of business. This morning, as it happens, I went past where their factory had been and noticed how well the new housing development on the site is progressing. As to Jaguar, it's good to go somewhere that I've been to before: a place where I know the layout, even if only in a rudimentary way.
The same could be said of Tuesday's principal job, too. I was asked to take ten boxes to a firm in the High Street in Lincoln, which I know from experience is partly pedestrianised. I spent the journey there wondering how accurately SatNav would direct me along the other streets, and how far away from my target I should be able to park. The boxes were perfectly carryable, but only one at a time, so I envisaged ten trips to and fro, unless I could engage 'local support'. I advanced cautiously along the High Street, watching the numbers with one eye, while the other minded the traffic. I spotted the right name, thankfully just a short way before the road closure, and manoeuvred into the loading bay right outside. As I got out of the van, I was approached by someone from the company I was delivering to, who explained they had two properties, almost adjacent, but either side of a junction, and opened the door of one, to show me where to take the goods.
Wednesday began with a seasonal anomally. I took Mother's Day flowers to the Waitrose HQ in Bracknell. I rather suspect these were samples for next year's event, however. Later I took some items from another customer to the same destination. Twice in a day was something of a record, but it was one I nearly matched as the week progressed. Thursday started the 'Corby season'. I had been to this particular printing company only a few weeks ago, and recalled how well I'd been treated on that occasion. The customer for whom I was collecting is, to say the least, cautious. On the previous visit, I had turned up about fifteen minutes after the prescribed time, and was about to apologise, when I was told, "You're early; they aren't ready yet!" I remembered this precedent as I was told I should have to wait about ten minutes. Unsurprised this time, I took advantage of the opportunity to clean my van's windows while I waited. Then, with the parcel safely in the van, I made for home. I'd gone about six or seven miles when the phone rang. Would I please go back ... there was more to collect. Well, there would be, I found, once the extra copies had been produced!
Friday morning found me heading to Corby again, this time with goods to deliver to a company in the next road to the printers. I then went back to the printers, where the same familiar play unfolded once more. It was almost an hour before I was on the return journey, but this time I wasn't recalled. The scene now moves further south. Just as I had arrived at Waitrose (for the first time) on Wednesday, I had been spotted by the Reading office, who asked me to collect some goods in nearby Wokingham, for a company in Ware. On Friday, after returning from Corby, I was given a tender to take to Epping, and also a parcel for this same company in Ware ... yet again, I now knew where to go. I was also given another job to go in the same direction, but had to turn it down, because there wouldn't have been time to collect this and still get the tender to Epping by the required deadline. This rejection also duplicated a circumstance earlier in the week. As I had made my way from Gaydon to Coventry on Monday afternoon, for my second delivery, I'd been called by the Warwick office to collect in Coventry for Leicester. This collection, however, had to be before the people left at 4.30, and I wouldn't be making my delivery in Coventry until after that time, so I had had to turn that one down too.
The week's duplication phenomenon hadn't done with me yet. Later on Friday afternoon, I collected some cables from Hertford to take to Shepperton Studios. As I was given these, our customer told me with great 'professional excitement' that they were for the set of 'Beauty and the Beast'. Apart from having heard the title, this meant little to me, but I did recall a similar situation some years ago, when I had to take some far larger cables to a site in Oxfordshire where one of the Harry Potter films was being made. Now, on Saturday evening, I've only recently returned from a visit to Chigwell, where I collected a small package to deliver to the same engineer at Shepperton early on Monday morning. I just hope that he doesn't oversleep ... I know I won't!
If your mind has kept up with all these comings and goings, look in again next week, for another thrilling instalment of life on four wheels!
Saturday, 2 May 2015
Pluses and Minuses - the Arithmetic of Life
It seems that there are pluses and minuses, ups and downs, to every part of life ... certainly that's true of being taken over by a nationwide company. Nowadays we're far more likely to get 'back-loads' (another job that will pay all or part of the cost of returning from a distant destination) than we were under the 'ancien régime'. On the other hand, whereas we used to get paid from base, wherever we collected the goods, now we only get paid from collection to delivery, wherever our base might be. Because we often get another job while still on the way back from the previous one, much less time is spent at the office, and consequently there is much less interaction with other drivers. Some people find this distressing, to the extent that they have left; since I have been working from home for some while, this doesn't bother me at all, although I do wonder whether this will be allowed to continue when we are fully and finally under the jackboot of the new methodology.
Some of these factors figured in this week's to-ings and fro-ings. Take Monday for example. I collected a single very fragile item in Letchworth at 9.0am to be taken to the university in Nottingham. It seemed fairly unlikely that I would get anything very productive after an immediate return, so I rang the office there, and gambled half an hour waiting to see if anything might come from them. Meanwhile I listened to a podcast while parked in a sunny side street and ate my lunch. I'd just given up and begun to make my way out of the city, when the call came. A pick-up not three miles away, to be taken to Cambridge ... and there was another job - albeit fairly local - afterwards as well, so the week was off to a good start.
Good start it might have been, but it went gradually downhill after that. So much so that, at the end of the week, the average length of all 23 jobs was only 27 miles! I continue to be amazed at the way my mood swings from buoyancy to despondency according to the demands upon my time. On a day when I leave with one job early in the morning and enjoy a succession of others non-stop through the day, I feel good, even if tired, at the end of it. Contrariwise, if I return from such an early job, to sit at my desk for two or three hours in anticipation of a further call, I can feel quite unwanted. Sometimes a day might consist of half a dozen jobs totalling perhaps 200 or 250 miles, but with obvious gaps between them; at the end of such a day I often feel as if I'm being used as the 'odd-job' man, although I've never decided whether this is simply the 'roll of the dice', or the result of an imagined conspiracy because of my semi-retired status. That said, it only takes one 'good' (i.e. 100-mile-or-so) job, or maybe two half-decent ones together, to snap me out of the black mood again.
This week had just such a finish, as yesterday began with the exciting challenge of taking a couple of items to a destination in Swindon, to make a 7.30 booking-in time. On this occasion, there was a cheerful welcome to my call to the local office after I'd delivered, but no resulting work, so I came back home empty. The day continued, however, with another four jobs, before I finally took my boots off at 5.50 pm, feeling quite satisfied.
I must add that there are frequently little snippets of what some would call serendipity. The week had a couple of those, too. On Tuesday evening, I opened an e-mail to find an invitation to follow a free on-line tutorial - allegedly worth £81 - and found myself absorbed for a couple of hours learning about an intricate aspect of spreadsheet analysis. Whether I'll ever need to use it is a totally separate matter!
Then, as I waited yesterday at the door of a print works in Letchworth, the afternoon breeze brought to my nose the smell of one of the chemicals being used in their processes. They say this is the most powerful of the senses; I was instantly transported through almost sixty years to the days when, over the course of a number of weeks, a gang of white-overalled men would work their way along the street where I lived, repainting all the doors and windows, first with undercoat, and then with the gloss. It was always exciting to find out what colour our front door was going to be after their visit. What I smelled yesterday was the very same as that gloss paint ... although I'm sure it wasn't paint at all that was being used!
Now I'm looking forward to the bank holiday and being 'retired' for the rest of the week. I wonder how 'useful' I'll feel on the following Monday morning!
Some of these factors figured in this week's to-ings and fro-ings. Take Monday for example. I collected a single very fragile item in Letchworth at 9.0am to be taken to the university in Nottingham. It seemed fairly unlikely that I would get anything very productive after an immediate return, so I rang the office there, and gambled half an hour waiting to see if anything might come from them. Meanwhile I listened to a podcast while parked in a sunny side street and ate my lunch. I'd just given up and begun to make my way out of the city, when the call came. A pick-up not three miles away, to be taken to Cambridge ... and there was another job - albeit fairly local - afterwards as well, so the week was off to a good start.
Good start it might have been, but it went gradually downhill after that. So much so that, at the end of the week, the average length of all 23 jobs was only 27 miles! I continue to be amazed at the way my mood swings from buoyancy to despondency according to the demands upon my time. On a day when I leave with one job early in the morning and enjoy a succession of others non-stop through the day, I feel good, even if tired, at the end of it. Contrariwise, if I return from such an early job, to sit at my desk for two or three hours in anticipation of a further call, I can feel quite unwanted. Sometimes a day might consist of half a dozen jobs totalling perhaps 200 or 250 miles, but with obvious gaps between them; at the end of such a day I often feel as if I'm being used as the 'odd-job' man, although I've never decided whether this is simply the 'roll of the dice', or the result of an imagined conspiracy because of my semi-retired status. That said, it only takes one 'good' (i.e. 100-mile-or-so) job, or maybe two half-decent ones together, to snap me out of the black mood again.
This week had just such a finish, as yesterday began with the exciting challenge of taking a couple of items to a destination in Swindon, to make a 7.30 booking-in time. On this occasion, there was a cheerful welcome to my call to the local office after I'd delivered, but no resulting work, so I came back home empty. The day continued, however, with another four jobs, before I finally took my boots off at 5.50 pm, feeling quite satisfied.
I must add that there are frequently little snippets of what some would call serendipity. The week had a couple of those, too. On Tuesday evening, I opened an e-mail to find an invitation to follow a free on-line tutorial - allegedly worth £81 - and found myself absorbed for a couple of hours learning about an intricate aspect of spreadsheet analysis. Whether I'll ever need to use it is a totally separate matter!
Then, as I waited yesterday at the door of a print works in Letchworth, the afternoon breeze brought to my nose the smell of one of the chemicals being used in their processes. They say this is the most powerful of the senses; I was instantly transported through almost sixty years to the days when, over the course of a number of weeks, a gang of white-overalled men would work their way along the street where I lived, repainting all the doors and windows, first with undercoat, and then with the gloss. It was always exciting to find out what colour our front door was going to be after their visit. What I smelled yesterday was the very same as that gloss paint ... although I'm sure it wasn't paint at all that was being used!
Now I'm looking forward to the bank holiday and being 'retired' for the rest of the week. I wonder how 'useful' I'll feel on the following Monday morning!
Saturday, 25 April 2015
Friday Night and Saturday Morning
It's been quite an exhausting week. With four early mornings, three late nights, two of them following a continuous day on the road, and one night tormented by some kind of allergy - I notice the rape is in flower - I was glad yesterday evening to settle down briefly at Beaconsfield Services. After eating my Carvery Express (the healthier alternative to KFC, only marginally more expensive, and far less messy on the fingers!), I cradled my coffee and examined the world as it bustled to and fro all around me.
There's one in every week, and I've lost count of the times I've noticed something intangibly 'special' about them. At last I've grasped the nettle of trying to set down in words that special whatever-it-is about Friday afternoons. I use that term with some elasticity, of course, because there is great variety in the times at which people leave off ... something I regularly have to take note of if I want to make a successful delivery! But whether it's lunchtime, or 3.30, 6.0 or - as in my case yesterday - 9.35, that point of stopping work at the end of the week has a special quality. It has the power to make the transition, in the words of the ubiquitous Mars Bar advert, from the world of work to the world of rest-and-play.
I grew up in a world where, to my young eye, there seemed to be little distinction between these three phases of life for the working man. After 'proper work' was over more jobs could easily be found at home. The garden would need attention, or something had to be done in the shed; there was coal to be brought in for the fire, or wood to chop. With luck there might be an hour or so to look through the newspaper, or watch TV, but it was likely that this pleasure would be overtaken by sleep in the armchair.
And then came the end of the week. In my father's case it was Saturday lunchtime, for the normal working week of forty-eight hours couldn't be fitted into five days. I well remember the glow that seemed to fill the house once lunch - on the table immediately upon his homecoming ... just like the evening meal during the week - had been eaten. At the age of about eight or nine, I would follow him to the bathroom and watch the progress of the weekly shave, marvelling that he could wield that razor (with its blade that I was expressly told not to touch because it was so sharp) up and down his throat with such carefree abandon. Now, many years later, I make just the same moves with the same nonchalance.
I was looking forward to my weekly walk with him into the town, perhaps to stand on the market place while he chatted to some friend or other, maybe to make some small purchase from one of the shops, but almost inevitably to finish up at the football ground, where I was infused with an interest that had stayed latent until about four or five years ago when I suddenly felt a Saturday 'tickle' to rekindle it again. If we happened to arrive after half-time we could get in free, because the man at the ticket stall would have shut his window. Otherwise I think it was 6d for adults and 3d for children. I was more interested to see who else was there that I might know than to watch the game, but there was a feeling of excitement nonetheless, and the homeward journey would always be paused at the market stall to buy some chips to take home for tea.
Diss Town played in the Norfolk & Suffolk League in those days; for the the bigger and better teams there was the Eastern Counties League, and for the smaller ones the East Anglian League. After I ceased to be interested in the world of football, the two smaller of these leagues merged to become the Anglian Combination of today, with its many divisions and reserve divisions, of which only the premier division figures at step 7 in the national pyramid. Diss by then had moved up to the Eastern Counties League, where now they seem to flit between the premier and first divisions.
When I moved into the world of work, I began to see a different format to Friday afternoons, but all with that same 'glow'. Wherever I've worked, there has been a particular atmosphere that surrounds people leaving behind their workplace behind them. I carry with me an image - partly real, partly an imagined stereotype - of men and women, young and old, streaming from a factory gate to rows of back-to-back houses, or walking in ones and twos down a country lane to a solitary row of cottages or post-First World War 'homes for heroes', each one looking forward to time with their family or friends, and to whatever the weekend holds, be it routine or special.
For a lot of my time I've been fortunate to work where or when the economy was strong, and there seem always to have been calls for people willing to work overtime on Saturdays. As an office-worker, I was rarely called to do so myself, but sometimes it was nice to go in at the weekend to catch up on something, and on such occasions the feel of the place was totally different. At one factory, I would often see on a Monday morning that men from last week's evening shift, working normally from 2.0 till 10.0, sometimes with overtime each night until midnight Monday to Thursday, had left off at 10.0 on Friday only to arrived again at 7.0 on the Saturday morning for another five or six hours. I was filled with a mixture of admiration for their stamina, and sheer wonder at their home life. Looking back now, though, I realise that, with small children preventing their wives from taking up paid employment, the extra hours, along with the shift work itself, would have made such a difference to a young family.
In the history of mankind, the weekend has occupied only a tiny place; but for those of us who have enjoyed the privilege of this break from constant work for an employer or at a business, it has become precious. It feels an unalienable right, and I think it does us good from time to time to reflect on what a great benefit it represents in the lives of us all.
There's one in every week, and I've lost count of the times I've noticed something intangibly 'special' about them. At last I've grasped the nettle of trying to set down in words that special whatever-it-is about Friday afternoons. I use that term with some elasticity, of course, because there is great variety in the times at which people leave off ... something I regularly have to take note of if I want to make a successful delivery! But whether it's lunchtime, or 3.30, 6.0 or - as in my case yesterday - 9.35, that point of stopping work at the end of the week has a special quality. It has the power to make the transition, in the words of the ubiquitous Mars Bar advert, from the world of work to the world of rest-and-play.
I grew up in a world where, to my young eye, there seemed to be little distinction between these three phases of life for the working man. After 'proper work' was over more jobs could easily be found at home. The garden would need attention, or something had to be done in the shed; there was coal to be brought in for the fire, or wood to chop. With luck there might be an hour or so to look through the newspaper, or watch TV, but it was likely that this pleasure would be overtaken by sleep in the armchair.
And then came the end of the week. In my father's case it was Saturday lunchtime, for the normal working week of forty-eight hours couldn't be fitted into five days. I well remember the glow that seemed to fill the house once lunch - on the table immediately upon his homecoming ... just like the evening meal during the week - had been eaten. At the age of about eight or nine, I would follow him to the bathroom and watch the progress of the weekly shave, marvelling that he could wield that razor (with its blade that I was expressly told not to touch because it was so sharp) up and down his throat with such carefree abandon. Now, many years later, I make just the same moves with the same nonchalance.
I was looking forward to my weekly walk with him into the town, perhaps to stand on the market place while he chatted to some friend or other, maybe to make some small purchase from one of the shops, but almost inevitably to finish up at the football ground, where I was infused with an interest that had stayed latent until about four or five years ago when I suddenly felt a Saturday 'tickle' to rekindle it again. If we happened to arrive after half-time we could get in free, because the man at the ticket stall would have shut his window. Otherwise I think it was 6d for adults and 3d for children. I was more interested to see who else was there that I might know than to watch the game, but there was a feeling of excitement nonetheless, and the homeward journey would always be paused at the market stall to buy some chips to take home for tea.
Diss Town played in the Norfolk & Suffolk League in those days; for the the bigger and better teams there was the Eastern Counties League, and for the smaller ones the East Anglian League. After I ceased to be interested in the world of football, the two smaller of these leagues merged to become the Anglian Combination of today, with its many divisions and reserve divisions, of which only the premier division figures at step 7 in the national pyramid. Diss by then had moved up to the Eastern Counties League, where now they seem to flit between the premier and first divisions.
When I moved into the world of work, I began to see a different format to Friday afternoons, but all with that same 'glow'. Wherever I've worked, there has been a particular atmosphere that surrounds people leaving behind their workplace behind them. I carry with me an image - partly real, partly an imagined stereotype - of men and women, young and old, streaming from a factory gate to rows of back-to-back houses, or walking in ones and twos down a country lane to a solitary row of cottages or post-First World War 'homes for heroes', each one looking forward to time with their family or friends, and to whatever the weekend holds, be it routine or special.
For a lot of my time I've been fortunate to work where or when the economy was strong, and there seem always to have been calls for people willing to work overtime on Saturdays. As an office-worker, I was rarely called to do so myself, but sometimes it was nice to go in at the weekend to catch up on something, and on such occasions the feel of the place was totally different. At one factory, I would often see on a Monday morning that men from last week's evening shift, working normally from 2.0 till 10.0, sometimes with overtime each night until midnight Monday to Thursday, had left off at 10.0 on Friday only to arrived again at 7.0 on the Saturday morning for another five or six hours. I was filled with a mixture of admiration for their stamina, and sheer wonder at their home life. Looking back now, though, I realise that, with small children preventing their wives from taking up paid employment, the extra hours, along with the shift work itself, would have made such a difference to a young family.
In the history of mankind, the weekend has occupied only a tiny place; but for those of us who have enjoyed the privilege of this break from constant work for an employer or at a business, it has become precious. It feels an unalienable right, and I think it does us good from time to time to reflect on what a great benefit it represents in the lives of us all.
Saturday, 18 April 2015
A Gold Week, Day by Day
The biggest contrast between 'working' and 'retired' weeks for me seems to be the fact that things on my desk get started but not finished ... like the references I gathered for something last weekend, that have sat there since Sunday afternoon, gathering dust and making me feel slightly guilty every morning. One afternoon I was home by 3.30, with no call on my time in the evening, and I felt uneasy about spending six hours or so working on a spreadsheet to understand the history of some investments I started when still in employment many years ago. This was as a result of something that had come in the post that morning, and I felt it was distracting me from the work I'd left unfinished at the weekend. Had this been a 'retired' week, there would have been no problem; but it's one I've made for myself, so I shouldn't grumble.
Perhaps this tension is also partially due to this week - the first of the new financial year for me - being what I term a 'gold' week, i.e. when both the actual turnover and the profitability of each mile driven have been above budget, and at the same time the total of miles driven has been below the budgetted figure. It involved four early starts (pre-7.30), however, and on only one day was I home before 6.0pm (as noted above).
After the men's breakfast at church on Monday, the week got under way quite slowly. It was, of course, a standing start, so I wasn't surprised not to be called until noon. I then did just the one job, to Halesowen, and returned in time to have dinner and then go off to a crowded ringing practice. I think word is getting around what a good teacher our tower-captain is (although he's now in his eighties!) There was no after-ringing half-pint for me, though; I had to be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed to collect some air conditioning equipment in Welwyn Garden City at 7.30 next morning. These went to Suffolk, and then came an urgent delivery of computer parts to a technology complex in Birmingham. Two days down; three to go before a none-too-restful weekend.
Wednesday found me heading early for Sussex, where I collected some flooring, and then over to Pirbright near Guilford, for a machine door. After a brief rest, I was called to take some drugs across to the hospital in Luton, but even then the day wasn't over, because I was sent to Biggleswade to collect some items for a Mothercare distribution centre beside the M1 the following morning. As usual, I didn't know exactly what I was collecting; after tracking it down, the man told me to make sure I wasn't overweight with these three cartons that he carried in one large hand. His smile was almost as big as the cartons!
Thursday, though eventful, was a pleasant morning. Having made my delivery on time at 7.15, and enjoyed an exchange with the Polish girl there over the pronuncuation of her name, my thoughts turned to food, and I repeated a sequence of some months ago, when I'd remembered a BP garage just off junction 22 of the motorway. In fact, there are three BP's quite close together, but none of them has a Wild Bean Cafe, where I could get my prefered breakfast. Step by step, I recalled my former experience, and carried on for a few miles to a roadside cafe. The condition of this place justifies its potentially pretentious title, 'Diane's Food Emporium', for the surfaces were not only clean but had recently been renovated, and the wall of the kitchen area proudly displayed the foor hygiene certificates of both mother and daughter who run the operation between them. I expressed my anxiety that such an attractive place boasted no customers, until I'd walked in, but was reassured that there would be a steady stream once the day got under way. I was, after all, quite early (it was scarcely 8.0). Having obtained sustenance, and made a donation to a local charity, CBTRC, I continued my journey, aiming for a 9.0 collection in Nottingham.
This wasn't to be, however. A mile up the road I joined a very slow-moving queue, waiting to leave the motorway at the next junction. I think there had been an accident, but the matrices were giving no details, simply saying that the road was closed. I found my way through local roads to rejoin the motorway further along, and eventually made my collection about 10.30! After a local delivery following my return, the day ended with the six-hour spreadsheet noted above.
Yesterday was one of those 'start and go on until it's done' days. I left home about 7.15, in order to beat the traffic and collect some printed matter in Welwyn Garden City at 8.0, but I forgot that Friday's traffic is usually lighter - I've never worked out why; I'm just thankful that it's so! - and by 8.0 I was on already my way to take this to Bicester. Then I was directed to a pick-up from a hospital in Oxford for a customer in Letchworth, and on the way came the challenge of getting two washing machines into the van beside these eight items, to be taken to a building site on the outskirts of Norwich. Before I'd reached Letchworth, I had already received instructions to make another collection, this time just round the corner from delivering the hospital stuff. This was a bundle of steel bars to be taken to a small complex in March.
I had already protested my anxiety that by the time I got there, the workers on the building site would have packed up for the weekend, and when I arrived about 4.30, I certainly feared that this was so, The site office and canteen were both deserted, although there were clearly people around somewhere because there were cars on the car park. Further investigation led me to the discovery that the site manager and others were by the show house, which was due to open today, and to which access was separate. Desperate for fuel, I headed for a filling station on Norwich's ring road, where I decided to also get a snack for my tea, and finally made it home about twelve almost non-stop hours after leaving in the morning.
Tired but satisfied, I turned my attention to getting the weekend under way, with shopping and washing, in order to get to a church meeting this morning. Life may be cluttered at times, but no one can tell me it's dull!
Perhaps this tension is also partially due to this week - the first of the new financial year for me - being what I term a 'gold' week, i.e. when both the actual turnover and the profitability of each mile driven have been above budget, and at the same time the total of miles driven has been below the budgetted figure. It involved four early starts (pre-7.30), however, and on only one day was I home before 6.0pm (as noted above).
After the men's breakfast at church on Monday, the week got under way quite slowly. It was, of course, a standing start, so I wasn't surprised not to be called until noon. I then did just the one job, to Halesowen, and returned in time to have dinner and then go off to a crowded ringing practice. I think word is getting around what a good teacher our tower-captain is (although he's now in his eighties!) There was no after-ringing half-pint for me, though; I had to be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed to collect some air conditioning equipment in Welwyn Garden City at 7.30 next morning. These went to Suffolk, and then came an urgent delivery of computer parts to a technology complex in Birmingham. Two days down; three to go before a none-too-restful weekend.
Wednesday found me heading early for Sussex, where I collected some flooring, and then over to Pirbright near Guilford, for a machine door. After a brief rest, I was called to take some drugs across to the hospital in Luton, but even then the day wasn't over, because I was sent to Biggleswade to collect some items for a Mothercare distribution centre beside the M1 the following morning. As usual, I didn't know exactly what I was collecting; after tracking it down, the man told me to make sure I wasn't overweight with these three cartons that he carried in one large hand. His smile was almost as big as the cartons!
Thursday, though eventful, was a pleasant morning. Having made my delivery on time at 7.15, and enjoyed an exchange with the Polish girl there over the pronuncuation of her name, my thoughts turned to food, and I repeated a sequence of some months ago, when I'd remembered a BP garage just off junction 22 of the motorway. In fact, there are three BP's quite close together, but none of them has a Wild Bean Cafe, where I could get my prefered breakfast. Step by step, I recalled my former experience, and carried on for a few miles to a roadside cafe. The condition of this place justifies its potentially pretentious title, 'Diane's Food Emporium', for the surfaces were not only clean but had recently been renovated, and the wall of the kitchen area proudly displayed the foor hygiene certificates of both mother and daughter who run the operation between them. I expressed my anxiety that such an attractive place boasted no customers, until I'd walked in, but was reassured that there would be a steady stream once the day got under way. I was, after all, quite early (it was scarcely 8.0). Having obtained sustenance, and made a donation to a local charity, CBTRC, I continued my journey, aiming for a 9.0 collection in Nottingham.
This wasn't to be, however. A mile up the road I joined a very slow-moving queue, waiting to leave the motorway at the next junction. I think there had been an accident, but the matrices were giving no details, simply saying that the road was closed. I found my way through local roads to rejoin the motorway further along, and eventually made my collection about 10.30! After a local delivery following my return, the day ended with the six-hour spreadsheet noted above.
Yesterday was one of those 'start and go on until it's done' days. I left home about 7.15, in order to beat the traffic and collect some printed matter in Welwyn Garden City at 8.0, but I forgot that Friday's traffic is usually lighter - I've never worked out why; I'm just thankful that it's so! - and by 8.0 I was on already my way to take this to Bicester. Then I was directed to a pick-up from a hospital in Oxford for a customer in Letchworth, and on the way came the challenge of getting two washing machines into the van beside these eight items, to be taken to a building site on the outskirts of Norwich. Before I'd reached Letchworth, I had already received instructions to make another collection, this time just round the corner from delivering the hospital stuff. This was a bundle of steel bars to be taken to a small complex in March.
I had already protested my anxiety that by the time I got there, the workers on the building site would have packed up for the weekend, and when I arrived about 4.30, I certainly feared that this was so, The site office and canteen were both deserted, although there were clearly people around somewhere because there were cars on the car park. Further investigation led me to the discovery that the site manager and others were by the show house, which was due to open today, and to which access was separate. Desperate for fuel, I headed for a filling station on Norwich's ring road, where I decided to also get a snack for my tea, and finally made it home about twelve almost non-stop hours after leaving in the morning.
Tired but satisfied, I turned my attention to getting the weekend under way, with shopping and washing, in order to get to a church meeting this morning. Life may be cluttered at times, but no one can tell me it's dull!
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