In many ways this week has been a follow-up to last. I have often spoken about the 'Repeating Genie' that seems to be a characteristic of the courier life. It seems that ours isn't the only profession where this occurs, and in a newsletter I received this week there was a request for contributions to a survey into coincidence, of which this type of experience is one example. By Wednesday morning, I was beginning to realise a new manifestation of this phenomenon - teenage recollections.
You may recall that last Friday I visited Great Yarmouth with a consignment of wine. This was for a holiday camp on the North Denes; if you have any knowledge of the resort, you'll know that this is - predictably - at the north end of the town, beyond the extent of conventional residential development. It's also beyond, i.e. to the seaward side of, the site of the old M&GN railway line that used to go from the former Yarmouth Beach station out through broadland and ultimately to Cromer. Access to this part of the town is past the racecourse and over a railway bridge that nowadays appears to cross nothing but a car park. If my memory serves, it was on that car park, or one nearby, that I spent a number of evenings with my first girlfriend, who lived in nearby Gorleston-on-Sea.
Wednesday morning's job took me to the centre of Norwich, and SatNav - newly refurbished but mischievous as ever - turned me off the main road one junction too soon, and through a sequence of back streets that I'd not frequented for the last forty-odd years. Apart from being close to the office where I worked for almost a year in the late 1960's, it's also where that same girlfriend and I parked one Saturday afternoon on a visit to the city.
Another hazard for the unsuspecting courier - one I don't think I've mentioned before in these narratives - raised its head twice this week. I call it the "cost of postcode generalisation." I don't think customers do it on purpose, but one could be forgiven for being suspicious. The way it works is this. You have a consignment for a small place that is some miles beyond its post-town, or that city which gives its name to the postcode district; you summon a courier to go to the post-town, and unless the driver complains, that's where your job is charged. The poor driver bears the cost of the extra distance, which could amount to quite a discount in some cases. One example is the regular drugs delivery that I did twice last week, which is priced to Bury St Edmunds, although it's actually to a village about 9 miles further. Once the precedent has been established, it seems to be cast in stone, and everyone loses out.
This week's two incidences were on Tuesday morning, when I took some electronic equipment to Hedge End, which was described as 'Southampton', and on Wednesday afternoon, when I suffered Groby being narrated as 'Leicester'. Sometimes this does work in our favour, which is one reason I don't believe it to be a deliberate trick on the part of the customer; unless it promises to be a regular job, or is a great injustice one way or the other, I tend to ignore it and hope that 'swings will equate to roundabouts.'
It's been quite refreshing to see fuel costs tumbling in the last couple of weeks. Strangely, the same thing happened about a year ago, and after adjusting my budget for a higher fuel price at the start of the financial year, I spent the whole year with an apparent saving. Whether connected to this or not, I had a call this week offering me another fuel card. The caller had previously been with the company that provides one of the two cards I use at present, and I decided to reject his kind offer. There's a limit to the amount of plastic with which one can juggle, after all!
The end of the week got to be somewhat nose-to-tail although, with one job at a time, still not as profitable as the busy-ness would indicate. No sooner was I home from Groby (or Leicester!) than I was in bed, ready for an early morning collection to go back up the M1 for Rugby. And just as I thought Thursday had come to a natural conclusion, I was invited to take a laptop from Hertford to Hereford, which meant that I was out until 1.0 am. I was quite content to be given just two jobs yesterday that went together with a nice lot of undemanding rural driving, to Bedford and Oxford.
An unexpected casualty of the new pattern of working from a home base has been the time spent reading magazines. Whilst waiting between jobs on Wednesday, I picked up one that had been sitting unopened for a week or so, and yesterday's post brought another monthly publication before I'd finished the last edition!
And finally in the follow-up stakes, came the delivery on Wednesday morning of that birth certificate that I'd ordered for one of my uncle's nephews. I'm always amazed at the distortion created by large families. This man, who would have been my first cousin, was born little more than five months after my father! Now I have the information from his birth certificate, I've found his parents' marriage, his father's appearance on two earlier censuses, and have the wherewithal to track his mother down as well ... when time permits.
Now, where did I put my reading glasses?
Saturday, 19 May 2012
Sunday, 13 May 2012
New Light on Old Ways
It's been a strange sort of week, but at last a new pattern of life seems to be emerging after the relocation of the office. Some of us had rather taken matters into our own hands, but now it's official. A notice appeared in the crew-room this week asking that, if we live in Letchworth, Hitchin or Stevenage (the areas where about three-quarters of our customers operate), we stay at home, ring in to be added to the list, and have confidence that, when our turn comes, we will be contacted with details of a job. This means that, apart from saving us unneccesary journeys to and from the office, we will still be able to offer a prompt corporate response to urgent calls. But that's not the only reason.
You'll have noticed, I'm sure, how politicians campaigning for election make certain promises that, once the candidate is elected, seem to fall off the agenda. That is, in one aspect, how the new office has turned out. One of the alleged advantages of moving was that the new office had lots of space, and far more room to park vehicles without inconveniencing other users of the estate. We now find that there is room for at most about a dozen vans of various sizes in the compound around the building, with perhaps another half dozen in the roadway behind. While that may seem quite a lot, it's but a small proportion of the whole fleet. Until work builds up so that the majority of them are already out on jobs when the day starts, there can be many more vans around first thing than there is space for.
Anyway, it suits me well to be at home in the mornings. I can easily find stuff to do, whether catching up on admin, or furthering my family history searches, or simply watching the odd interesting TV programme on i-Player. And if the weather is fine, there are always the windows of the van to clean. Scarcely a day goes by without me grumbling about either the dust from dry roads, or the oil thrown up in the spray from wet ones.
Workwise, for a four-day week, this hasn't been too bad. I won't bore my reader with the full details, but the highlights included the regular daily delivery of medicines on two afternoons to a rural health centre in Suffolk, a replacement computer part for an office in beautiful Oxfordshire countryside, and an early evening collection of prescription drugs from the hospital for a patient in a Letchworth nursing home. The week finished with me taking 20 cases of wine to the seaside. This wasn't for a wild beach party, nor to give the bottles a treat, but to re-provision the bar at a holiday camp.
The fact that this was at Great Yarmouth was too tempting for me not to dawdle awhile rather than come home by the most direct route. Both the place itself and the surrounding area carry far too many memories for that. For all its being only 112 miles, the journey home took me about three-and-a-half hours, turning down one lane after another, soaking up the bright rays of sunset and casting my mind back to one of life's episodes after another as the scene changed around me.
It was fitting that this was the day before a meeting of the Family History Society at Hillingdon (see the picture here). I had built up a list of things to be done before leaving for West London, but thanks to the new working arrangements, I had had the opportunity to deal with at least some of them during the week, so there was only really the shopping to be attended to.
Recently, I've been looking into the family of my oldest aunt's parents-in-law. When she appeared in the 1911 census, uncle Tom's mother was said to have had nine children of whom seven were still living. Only five were listed with their parents and I've now managed to trace all the other four, two of them having died at a young age; the other two married and living nearby with their own families.
One of these families consisted of two stepsons, and it was to some amusement that I announced last weekend that I was looking for 'three weddings and a funeral.' I found the weddings of the two brothers of uncle Tom, but the identity of the late first husband of the wife of one of them eluded me. In order to learn more, I was faced with sending off for either the couple's marriage certificate or a birth certificate for one of the boys, and I questioned whether I could justify this expense for someone who wasn't actually related to me at all. At last temptation overcame me and I'm now looking forward to the delivery of the birth certificate sometime next week.
Talking of ordering things on line: before the recent increase in postal charges, when there were reports of shortages of stamps as people buying thousands of stamps at the lower prices, I followed up a tip I'd seen about buying them on line direct from Royal Mail. The chap who'd posted this tip had calculated that, even for a small quantity, the delivery charge was less than the difference between old and new prices, making it economical to place a direct order and avoid a perhaps fruitless queue at the post office. I place my order - for just two books of stamps - and on 17th April I received an e-mail acknowledgement stating that delivery would be in about five working days. By 30th April, I was beginning to think they wouldn't be coming, so sent them a complaint. I'd just about forgotten about the whole matter by Friday this week when ... they arrived, along with a delivery note dated 1st May! I now feel justified in making the complaint, as well as in my initial decision to stock up at the old prices in this way.
You'll have noticed, I'm sure, how politicians campaigning for election make certain promises that, once the candidate is elected, seem to fall off the agenda. That is, in one aspect, how the new office has turned out. One of the alleged advantages of moving was that the new office had lots of space, and far more room to park vehicles without inconveniencing other users of the estate. We now find that there is room for at most about a dozen vans of various sizes in the compound around the building, with perhaps another half dozen in the roadway behind. While that may seem quite a lot, it's but a small proportion of the whole fleet. Until work builds up so that the majority of them are already out on jobs when the day starts, there can be many more vans around first thing than there is space for.
Anyway, it suits me well to be at home in the mornings. I can easily find stuff to do, whether catching up on admin, or furthering my family history searches, or simply watching the odd interesting TV programme on i-Player. And if the weather is fine, there are always the windows of the van to clean. Scarcely a day goes by without me grumbling about either the dust from dry roads, or the oil thrown up in the spray from wet ones.
Workwise, for a four-day week, this hasn't been too bad. I won't bore my reader with the full details, but the highlights included the regular daily delivery of medicines on two afternoons to a rural health centre in Suffolk, a replacement computer part for an office in beautiful Oxfordshire countryside, and an early evening collection of prescription drugs from the hospital for a patient in a Letchworth nursing home. The week finished with me taking 20 cases of wine to the seaside. This wasn't for a wild beach party, nor to give the bottles a treat, but to re-provision the bar at a holiday camp.
The fact that this was at Great Yarmouth was too tempting for me not to dawdle awhile rather than come home by the most direct route. Both the place itself and the surrounding area carry far too many memories for that. For all its being only 112 miles, the journey home took me about three-and-a-half hours, turning down one lane after another, soaking up the bright rays of sunset and casting my mind back to one of life's episodes after another as the scene changed around me.
It was fitting that this was the day before a meeting of the Family History Society at Hillingdon (see the picture here). I had built up a list of things to be done before leaving for West London, but thanks to the new working arrangements, I had had the opportunity to deal with at least some of them during the week, so there was only really the shopping to be attended to.
Recently, I've been looking into the family of my oldest aunt's parents-in-law. When she appeared in the 1911 census, uncle Tom's mother was said to have had nine children of whom seven were still living. Only five were listed with their parents and I've now managed to trace all the other four, two of them having died at a young age; the other two married and living nearby with their own families.
One of these families consisted of two stepsons, and it was to some amusement that I announced last weekend that I was looking for 'three weddings and a funeral.' I found the weddings of the two brothers of uncle Tom, but the identity of the late first husband of the wife of one of them eluded me. In order to learn more, I was faced with sending off for either the couple's marriage certificate or a birth certificate for one of the boys, and I questioned whether I could justify this expense for someone who wasn't actually related to me at all. At last temptation overcame me and I'm now looking forward to the delivery of the birth certificate sometime next week.
Talking of ordering things on line: before the recent increase in postal charges, when there were reports of shortages of stamps as people buying thousands of stamps at the lower prices, I followed up a tip I'd seen about buying them on line direct from Royal Mail. The chap who'd posted this tip had calculated that, even for a small quantity, the delivery charge was less than the difference between old and new prices, making it economical to place a direct order and avoid a perhaps fruitless queue at the post office. I place my order - for just two books of stamps - and on 17th April I received an e-mail acknowledgement stating that delivery would be in about five working days. By 30th April, I was beginning to think they wouldn't be coming, so sent them a complaint. I'd just about forgotten about the whole matter by Friday this week when ... they arrived, along with a delivery note dated 1st May! I now feel justified in making the complaint, as well as in my initial decision to stock up at the old prices in this way.
Saturday, 5 May 2012
Twists and turns
It seemed at the start of the week as if all had returned to normal. The sun was out, and warm - just as April weather should be. What a pity it took 29 days to get its act together! Workwise, too, the week has indicated some kind of return to normal. I know from experience that so much depends on the 'shape' of any individual day, and elation is seldom justified, but nevertheless I've felt encouraged.
I began with a local job I'd been given on Friday, to collect something from the far side of Northampton to go to Bedford, and it was lunchtime before a top-line main job was allocated. I collected a computer part from Biggleswade to go to Kingston-upon-Thames. This is a place I don't like: not least because, some years ago, I got a parking ticket there. I was convinced that I had parked at the right time, in the right place, but it wasn't worth contesting it, I wasn't likely to go back there to check the signs nearby. But it still rankles, as does my confusion at their one-way system. However, I didn't have long to muse over these matters, for I was quickly diverted to collect a letter from a Hitchin solicitor for an address in Aldershot, and with these missions duly completed, I was home in time for the bell-ringing practice. Here, albeit a couple of weeks 'late', we rang a new composition in honour of the Titanic centenary, Titanic Triples.
This set the pattern for the next two days. On my way back from a local job on Tuesday morning, I was called to pick up two items from the office. One was to go to a hotel in the middle of Birmingham, and the other was for the NEC. I've often delivered to an exhibition centre while the stands are being erected, actually in progress, sometimes when there's been no one there from the exhibitor to receive the goods, but never before when the exhibition is actually in progress. This situation carries its own snags and security problems, and I was very glad that the delivery in Birmingham afterwards was not urgent. On Wednesday morning, I stayed at home until I was required. This will be a feature of life now the office has moved, since most of our customers are more easily reached from here than from the office, and it keeps my own mileage down too. I didn't have long to wait before I was despatched to a packaging firm in Chatteris with some large cutting boards that are made at a factory just down the road from my flat.
I was on my way back from this when I received instructions for a collection in Biggleswade for a regular job to a racing firm in Oxfordshire. Before I got to the pick-up I'd been diverted instead to another customer just across the road who had an urgent delivery in Lincoln. With my mind quickly re-tuned, I seized the box and set off back up the A1 again. The location of this delivery was one I'd been to before, in a pedestrian (except for access) precinct beside the river's edge, and in the early afternoon sunshine it was quite beautiful. A college rowing team had just completed a photo-shoot as I arrived, and I couldn't fail to be impressed by their colourful regalia. On my way there I'd had another call for a collection in Hull. Since Humberside is one area for which I never did get a map, and with SatNav still on the sick list, I had the unusual experience of being talked in to the pick-up address. This was a consignment of - believe it or not - door handles, which I then took to a building site in north-west London. I was home not long before bedtime.
Sometime during Wednesday's excursion I'd been told of a job for the following morning, an 8.0 pick-up from a firm in Soham that used to have premises in Letchworth, and required some panels to be taken to Melbourne, Derbyshire. To my surprise, I arrived only a couple of minutes late, but then had to wait while the goods were identified and located. Fortunately, some months ago when the M1 had been closed, I'd diverted through Melbourne to get to Derby, so the road was familiar to me, and the delivery point couldn't have been more favourably located, the second premises off the approach road to the town. A collection near Milton Keynes, in fact the reverse of a job I'd done only a couple of weeks ago completed a nice wind-down day after the rigours of Wednesday.
In fact, the wind-down was more of a re-charge for, before leaving the office that evening, I'd been assigned a straight-forward, but demanding pair of jobs for yesterday, a 10.0 collection from a hospital in Manchester, followed by a delivery in central Birmingham. I reached the delivery - at a medical conference centre - just as that day's participants were gathering for lunch, and the goods were to be left in an office beside the dining room. The temptation was great to join the food queue! I resisted, however, since I knew I must call the office: another job awaited me. I was to divert to an hotel in Kidderminster, one of a national chain, where I would collect a parcel for their head office near Luton.
It's been a busy week, but there has been time for a bit of reading, and some planning for the weekend. Today holds the attraction of a half-day course at the Society of Genealogists, and then I'm off for a family weekend in the east midlands.
I began with a local job I'd been given on Friday, to collect something from the far side of Northampton to go to Bedford, and it was lunchtime before a top-line main job was allocated. I collected a computer part from Biggleswade to go to Kingston-upon-Thames. This is a place I don't like: not least because, some years ago, I got a parking ticket there. I was convinced that I had parked at the right time, in the right place, but it wasn't worth contesting it, I wasn't likely to go back there to check the signs nearby. But it still rankles, as does my confusion at their one-way system. However, I didn't have long to muse over these matters, for I was quickly diverted to collect a letter from a Hitchin solicitor for an address in Aldershot, and with these missions duly completed, I was home in time for the bell-ringing practice. Here, albeit a couple of weeks 'late', we rang a new composition in honour of the Titanic centenary, Titanic Triples.
This set the pattern for the next two days. On my way back from a local job on Tuesday morning, I was called to pick up two items from the office. One was to go to a hotel in the middle of Birmingham, and the other was for the NEC. I've often delivered to an exhibition centre while the stands are being erected, actually in progress, sometimes when there's been no one there from the exhibitor to receive the goods, but never before when the exhibition is actually in progress. This situation carries its own snags and security problems, and I was very glad that the delivery in Birmingham afterwards was not urgent. On Wednesday morning, I stayed at home until I was required. This will be a feature of life now the office has moved, since most of our customers are more easily reached from here than from the office, and it keeps my own mileage down too. I didn't have long to wait before I was despatched to a packaging firm in Chatteris with some large cutting boards that are made at a factory just down the road from my flat.
I was on my way back from this when I received instructions for a collection in Biggleswade for a regular job to a racing firm in Oxfordshire. Before I got to the pick-up I'd been diverted instead to another customer just across the road who had an urgent delivery in Lincoln. With my mind quickly re-tuned, I seized the box and set off back up the A1 again. The location of this delivery was one I'd been to before, in a pedestrian (except for access) precinct beside the river's edge, and in the early afternoon sunshine it was quite beautiful. A college rowing team had just completed a photo-shoot as I arrived, and I couldn't fail to be impressed by their colourful regalia. On my way there I'd had another call for a collection in Hull. Since Humberside is one area for which I never did get a map, and with SatNav still on the sick list, I had the unusual experience of being talked in to the pick-up address. This was a consignment of - believe it or not - door handles, which I then took to a building site in north-west London. I was home not long before bedtime.
Sometime during Wednesday's excursion I'd been told of a job for the following morning, an 8.0 pick-up from a firm in Soham that used to have premises in Letchworth, and required some panels to be taken to Melbourne, Derbyshire. To my surprise, I arrived only a couple of minutes late, but then had to wait while the goods were identified and located. Fortunately, some months ago when the M1 had been closed, I'd diverted through Melbourne to get to Derby, so the road was familiar to me, and the delivery point couldn't have been more favourably located, the second premises off the approach road to the town. A collection near Milton Keynes, in fact the reverse of a job I'd done only a couple of weeks ago completed a nice wind-down day after the rigours of Wednesday.
In fact, the wind-down was more of a re-charge for, before leaving the office that evening, I'd been assigned a straight-forward, but demanding pair of jobs for yesterday, a 10.0 collection from a hospital in Manchester, followed by a delivery in central Birmingham. I reached the delivery - at a medical conference centre - just as that day's participants were gathering for lunch, and the goods were to be left in an office beside the dining room. The temptation was great to join the food queue! I resisted, however, since I knew I must call the office: another job awaited me. I was to divert to an hotel in Kidderminster, one of a national chain, where I would collect a parcel for their head office near Luton.
It's been a busy week, but there has been time for a bit of reading, and some planning for the weekend. Today holds the attraction of a half-day course at the Society of Genealogists, and then I'm off for a family weekend in the east midlands.
Saturday, 28 April 2012
Rough edges
Have you ever had one of those 'I never thought I'd say this' moments? I had one this week.
Let me turn the clock back for a moment. I used to swear by the boxful of maps that had accumulated over the years, and filled my passenger foot well. With this trusty library to refer to, I could find any address in the kingdom it seemed, ... except, that is, for any of the increasing number of roads that had appeared since the maps were printed! On 26th November 2006, life changed for ever when I bought a GPS navigation device (commonly known as SatNav.) In the next four years I got so used to this that the maps gradually became all but redundant. Although they still had a place in the van, their prime purpose was to provide a corporate 'shelf' for my lunch, and any academic reference to their contents was very much the exception.
Two Christmases ago, I realised that the maps on this device were no longer current and, as it had been a cheap clear-out item when I'd bought it, I had no means of updating them. I decided to replace it with a newer, and more capable model - one that boasted live traffic information as well as navigation expertise. I have been very grateful for this facility on occasions, and it's my habit to update the data on it every weekend. Last weekend, it developed a fault after the update session, and try as I might I couldn't get it past the start-up screen. The box of maps was hastily re-loaded into the van, and the docking plate on my windscreen has been vacant all week. After an exchange of e-mails with the customer support people, I finally took my little friend to the post office this morning, on special delivery to the SatNav hospital, and I'm hoping that within a few days I shall receive it back in full working order.
As I narrated this sorrowful situation to another driver the other afternoon, I realised that he would remember my adamant stand against the new technology, and to forestall any 'I told you so' line, I said, "I never thought I'd say this, but I'm lost without it." Fortunately he had recently suffered a similar experience and could empathise.
Another colleague was reflecting over past times this week, as he organised the repair of his van after his first accident in over twelve years as a courier. Statistically, he's done well with only one incident in almost a million miles. Fortunately the collision happened at low speed, and damage was not too serious; I think his pride was the greatest casualty ... along with looking forward to a higher insurance premium next year!
I think the initial chaos of our relocation has now been overcome, although the property itself has had a few teething troubles. It seems that these are being dealt with on the basis of how essential each is to the maintenance of normal operations. A work station was quickly established in the warehouse, for example, so that someone can sit there every afternoon to process the packages that are accepted for consolidation and transhipment by an overnight carrier. I noticed the other day that, in the rafters above his head, is perched an old sealant container to catch the water from a leak in the roof. I'm wondering how long it will be before he gets an unexpected hair-wash!
And talking of water, the weather, and drainage, it seems that the down-pipe outside the warehouse door is blocked - a circumstance that provided a spectacular display yesterday afternoon for those of us not in the line of fire!
My fears about 'commuting' (i.e. my joining the majority of my colleagues who all live further from the depot than I) have eased somewhat, as I have been able to set off from home some mornings on pre-booked jobs, or have finished late enough to go straight home. I still resent mornings like this Thursday, however, when I drove empty to the depot, and an hour later had to retrace my steps for a collection in exactly the opposite direction!
Now all I really have to worry about is the price of diesel - which, thankfully, seems to be falling slightly at last!
Let me turn the clock back for a moment. I used to swear by the boxful of maps that had accumulated over the years, and filled my passenger foot well. With this trusty library to refer to, I could find any address in the kingdom it seemed, ... except, that is, for any of the increasing number of roads that had appeared since the maps were printed! On 26th November 2006, life changed for ever when I bought a GPS navigation device (commonly known as SatNav.) In the next four years I got so used to this that the maps gradually became all but redundant. Although they still had a place in the van, their prime purpose was to provide a corporate 'shelf' for my lunch, and any academic reference to their contents was very much the exception.
Two Christmases ago, I realised that the maps on this device were no longer current and, as it had been a cheap clear-out item when I'd bought it, I had no means of updating them. I decided to replace it with a newer, and more capable model - one that boasted live traffic information as well as navigation expertise. I have been very grateful for this facility on occasions, and it's my habit to update the data on it every weekend. Last weekend, it developed a fault after the update session, and try as I might I couldn't get it past the start-up screen. The box of maps was hastily re-loaded into the van, and the docking plate on my windscreen has been vacant all week. After an exchange of e-mails with the customer support people, I finally took my little friend to the post office this morning, on special delivery to the SatNav hospital, and I'm hoping that within a few days I shall receive it back in full working order.
As I narrated this sorrowful situation to another driver the other afternoon, I realised that he would remember my adamant stand against the new technology, and to forestall any 'I told you so' line, I said, "I never thought I'd say this, but I'm lost without it." Fortunately he had recently suffered a similar experience and could empathise.
Another colleague was reflecting over past times this week, as he organised the repair of his van after his first accident in over twelve years as a courier. Statistically, he's done well with only one incident in almost a million miles. Fortunately the collision happened at low speed, and damage was not too serious; I think his pride was the greatest casualty ... along with looking forward to a higher insurance premium next year!
I think the initial chaos of our relocation has now been overcome, although the property itself has had a few teething troubles. It seems that these are being dealt with on the basis of how essential each is to the maintenance of normal operations. A work station was quickly established in the warehouse, for example, so that someone can sit there every afternoon to process the packages that are accepted for consolidation and transhipment by an overnight carrier. I noticed the other day that, in the rafters above his head, is perched an old sealant container to catch the water from a leak in the roof. I'm wondering how long it will be before he gets an unexpected hair-wash!
And talking of water, the weather, and drainage, it seems that the down-pipe outside the warehouse door is blocked - a circumstance that provided a spectacular display yesterday afternoon for those of us not in the line of fire!My fears about 'commuting' (i.e. my joining the majority of my colleagues who all live further from the depot than I) have eased somewhat, as I have been able to set off from home some mornings on pre-booked jobs, or have finished late enough to go straight home. I still resent mornings like this Thursday, however, when I drove empty to the depot, and an hour later had to retrace my steps for a collection in exactly the opposite direction!
Now all I really have to worry about is the price of diesel - which, thankfully, seems to be falling slightly at last!
Saturday, 21 April 2012
Limbering up indeed!
In this game there are - to my mind, at least - three kinds of job. There are 'back-end' jobs: these comprise local work that is given out to someone low down on the list, as a 'filler' while they are waiting, or jobs which, because of where they are going, or their urgency, won't be willingly undertaken by someone who has done his waiting time, and is due a 'proper' job. Then there are these 'front-end', or 'proper' or 'top-line' jobs, the normal, run-of-the-mill work which makes up most of a driver's income; he looks for these jobs in doubles or trebles, so that the same mileage can earn him more money. Often lately, such combinations have not been possible, and we have had to go off with just one job, the result of which is that, although income has been good, the margin on it is less than expected.
Occasionally, we see jobs of the third kind, described as 'long' or 'good' according to the individual's preferences, for not everyone likes to go long distances, especially towards the end of the day. I reckon that anything over 150 miles comes under this heading, and occasionally such jobs are combined with others, which is really the icing on the cake! In the first three months of this calendar year, only ten jobs in this category have come my way, two to Wales, two to the west country, and six to the north of England. Last Friday, after what seemed quite a long wait I had a job to Hull. It was the first long job this month, and I smiled to myself as I drove home from it, 'I'm limbering up; I wonder what for.'
As I looked at the first two days of this week, I could have been forgiven for considering thoughts like that well off the mark. On Monday I took the van to the garage to have fitted the reversing sensors that I'd bought on line in readiness. The job took far longer than I'd been led to believe, and when I eventually go to the office it was for a boring and unproductive afternoon. After being allocated a 9.0am pick-up in Cambridge on Tuesday, I returned home feeling somewhat dejected. The Cambridge job was going to Burton-on-Trent, and common sense dictated that it should go off directly rather than look for another job from the same collection area. In the afternoon, I was given a local job that finished up in Royston, so I rang in empty and went home. In two days, I'd earned less than one!
Then the week kicked off! A phone call on Tuesday evening sent me off for a 7.0 am job to King's Lynn, and after only an hour's wait in the office I was summoned about noon to be asked if I was OK for a 'very' long job. My throwaway response, 'the longer the better' was appropriate, as I was despatched to a computer service company in Hitchin to collect materials for a call-out from their engineer in Glasgow. It was a trouble-free journey, hindered only by the weather. Indeed, there were two very welcome changes from my last venture in that direction.
The long-term roadworks on the A1 near Leeming Bar have been completed, and about 20 miles of 50mph limit lifted. Then I discovered that the M74 into Glasgow has also been finished, and it was here that I was to go. In bright evening sunshine, I made my way to the office block where the engineer approached me at the door to relieve me of my cargo. On my way back to the motorway, I couldn't resist raising my camera to a piece of local 'scenery' - relevance unknown!
The return journey went according to plan. After a meal at Bothwell Services, I left the motorway and struck off for a gentle run across country, via Lanark, Peebles, Galashiels and Jedburgh to get onto the A1 at Newcastle. I crossed the Tweed at 11pm, and the border at Carter Bar at 12.45. An hour's sleep at Washington Services, and another couple in my favourite lay-by near Wetherby, left me reasonably fresh by daybreak. The transformation was continued by a truck-stop breakfast, and then completed by a bath and my normal prayer-time at home.
Just before 10.0, I rang in as available for work, and said I would stay home for a while catching up on my admin. No more than twelve minutes elapsed before I was called for two local jobs, to which a third was added just as I had delivered the second. Things then really took off, and before delivering that one, I had collected two 'top-line' jobs, which caused me to finish up in King's Lynn again. By the time Thursday had staggered to a finish, (with a 9.30 bedtime that felt more like 11.30 judging from my tiredness), I had covered over 1,200 miles in the two days.
Unsurprisingly, Friday began slowly. I remember waking up at the alarm, but my next memory was about half-an-hour later. I went over to the office, filed my paperwork, and gave my van a mini-valet in the sunshine. Soon I was sent off on a job to Corby (borderline local/normal: I wasn't sure which). Later came the greatest adventure of the week. I was given the details of a collection in Bushey for Rochdale, cloaked with copious warnings of a possible scam, the need to take care, and to collect the cash for the carriage charge before releasing the goods. After hours battling with the Friday afternoon traffic (good old SatNav!), I finally rang the office as required, 15 minutes short of my arrival, and soon received a call back, saying that my contact might be a few minutes late after going to collect the cash to give me. The hints of black dealings were repeated, and I was urged to be careful.
I found the street, parked as near as I could to the designated address, and waited. After being greeted by a local resident, anxious to help, but unable to do so, a tap came at my window and my quest was at an end. Once I had the cash in my pocket, I was guided back onto the waste ground at the end of the road, and soon drove off, leaving my contact standing beside a couple of boxes surrounded by rough vegetation and nettles, peering at his mobile phone. Looked at objectively after the event, I'm not sure that anything untoward was going on, but the combination of all the warnings, the darkness and the location in a poorly-lit cul-de-sac at an address which technically didn't exist (I was looking for no. 90a in a street where the odds ended at 83 and evens at 66!) were certainly spooky!
I was home at 2.45 this morning, and I'm unspeakably pleased to have a weekend in which to recover!
Occasionally, we see jobs of the third kind, described as 'long' or 'good' according to the individual's preferences, for not everyone likes to go long distances, especially towards the end of the day. I reckon that anything over 150 miles comes under this heading, and occasionally such jobs are combined with others, which is really the icing on the cake! In the first three months of this calendar year, only ten jobs in this category have come my way, two to Wales, two to the west country, and six to the north of England. Last Friday, after what seemed quite a long wait I had a job to Hull. It was the first long job this month, and I smiled to myself as I drove home from it, 'I'm limbering up; I wonder what for.'
As I looked at the first two days of this week, I could have been forgiven for considering thoughts like that well off the mark. On Monday I took the van to the garage to have fitted the reversing sensors that I'd bought on line in readiness. The job took far longer than I'd been led to believe, and when I eventually go to the office it was for a boring and unproductive afternoon. After being allocated a 9.0am pick-up in Cambridge on Tuesday, I returned home feeling somewhat dejected. The Cambridge job was going to Burton-on-Trent, and common sense dictated that it should go off directly rather than look for another job from the same collection area. In the afternoon, I was given a local job that finished up in Royston, so I rang in empty and went home. In two days, I'd earned less than one!
Then the week kicked off! A phone call on Tuesday evening sent me off for a 7.0 am job to King's Lynn, and after only an hour's wait in the office I was summoned about noon to be asked if I was OK for a 'very' long job. My throwaway response, 'the longer the better' was appropriate, as I was despatched to a computer service company in Hitchin to collect materials for a call-out from their engineer in Glasgow. It was a trouble-free journey, hindered only by the weather. Indeed, there were two very welcome changes from my last venture in that direction.
 |
| adornment to a nearby factory |
The return journey went according to plan. After a meal at Bothwell Services, I left the motorway and struck off for a gentle run across country, via Lanark, Peebles, Galashiels and Jedburgh to get onto the A1 at Newcastle. I crossed the Tweed at 11pm, and the border at Carter Bar at 12.45. An hour's sleep at Washington Services, and another couple in my favourite lay-by near Wetherby, left me reasonably fresh by daybreak. The transformation was continued by a truck-stop breakfast, and then completed by a bath and my normal prayer-time at home.
Just before 10.0, I rang in as available for work, and said I would stay home for a while catching up on my admin. No more than twelve minutes elapsed before I was called for two local jobs, to which a third was added just as I had delivered the second. Things then really took off, and before delivering that one, I had collected two 'top-line' jobs, which caused me to finish up in King's Lynn again. By the time Thursday had staggered to a finish, (with a 9.30 bedtime that felt more like 11.30 judging from my tiredness), I had covered over 1,200 miles in the two days.
Unsurprisingly, Friday began slowly. I remember waking up at the alarm, but my next memory was about half-an-hour later. I went over to the office, filed my paperwork, and gave my van a mini-valet in the sunshine. Soon I was sent off on a job to Corby (borderline local/normal: I wasn't sure which). Later came the greatest adventure of the week. I was given the details of a collection in Bushey for Rochdale, cloaked with copious warnings of a possible scam, the need to take care, and to collect the cash for the carriage charge before releasing the goods. After hours battling with the Friday afternoon traffic (good old SatNav!), I finally rang the office as required, 15 minutes short of my arrival, and soon received a call back, saying that my contact might be a few minutes late after going to collect the cash to give me. The hints of black dealings were repeated, and I was urged to be careful.
I found the street, parked as near as I could to the designated address, and waited. After being greeted by a local resident, anxious to help, but unable to do so, a tap came at my window and my quest was at an end. Once I had the cash in my pocket, I was guided back onto the waste ground at the end of the road, and soon drove off, leaving my contact standing beside a couple of boxes surrounded by rough vegetation and nettles, peering at his mobile phone. Looked at objectively after the event, I'm not sure that anything untoward was going on, but the combination of all the warnings, the darkness and the location in a poorly-lit cul-de-sac at an address which technically didn't exist (I was looking for no. 90a in a street where the odds ended at 83 and evens at 66!) were certainly spooky!
I was home at 2.45 this morning, and I'm unspeakably pleased to have a weekend in which to recover!
Sunday, 15 April 2012
The End of an Era
As I said to myself on the morning that my daughter was born, and quoted recently to a friend, whose wife is expecting their firstborn, "Life will never be the same again!" They're probably the truest words I've ever spoken ... or ever will, and they came to mind again yesterday.
One could argue that the typical week of a normal courier consists of waiting for work, doing it, watching TV and talking about his favourite Premier League team. I know it's not really that simple, but, having come to the profession from a business background, I also take an interest in what is going on in the office as well.
That's why, last Thursday afternoon as I was indeed waiting for work, I quietly asked the office manager, "Would you like an extra pair of hands on Saturday?" For yesterday was the designated day for The Move. It had clearly been on the cards for some while, and gradually rumour turned to fact as things began to disappear first from the storeroom, then from the warehouse and finally from the office. A couple of weeks ago, it was reported with some confidence that the weekend after Easter would see M-day. Realising that I had a free morning I suggested that, since he would inevitably have a host of other things to do, I might usefully amuse myself setting up the computers, which were being shipped to the new site immediately after the office closed on Friday evening.
It's a simple enough job, but it's surprising how many people - although confident in their daily use - baulk at the suggestion of doing anything physical with computers. I knew my boundaries, however, and ceased operations on each desk at the point before switching on the electricity. After all, a professional network engineer was there for the move and, as part of his planned workload, he would be visiting each workstation in turn to link up to the network, switch on, log in, and make sure everything was working as it should; things which, as a mere driver, are well beyond my authority if not my capability. Nevertheless, I was pleased to fill the need for someone at that intermediate level, who could spare the professional the unnecessary time for the mundane, also releasing the manager to co-ordinate other aspects of the move.
It must be about eight years ago, by my reckoning, that the firm moved into the offices we've just left. I remember thinking that we'd played leapfrog. When I started with them ten years ago, the office was just along the road from my flat. At about 200 yards, it was the closest I'd ever worked to home. Then I moved to the flat where I now live, about three times as far from the office, in the opposite direction. Shortly afterwards the time came when the business had outgrown the capacity of that small unit, and they moved to another place about a quarter of a mile beyond my new home, but still comfortably within walking distance.
Walking distance applies no longer. About five miles now separate home from office. It's not only in another town, but in the adjacent county! This may not sound much, but it will mean about 2,300 additional miles in a year, something like 3½% more travelling for a guaranteed zero increase in income. With many drivers travelling from far greater distances to work with us, my situation is exceptional and, in common with one or two others, I've enjoyed this unspoken advantage for many years.
But now it's payback time, and life will never be the same again!
One could argue that the typical week of a normal courier consists of waiting for work, doing it, watching TV and talking about his favourite Premier League team. I know it's not really that simple, but, having come to the profession from a business background, I also take an interest in what is going on in the office as well.
That's why, last Thursday afternoon as I was indeed waiting for work, I quietly asked the office manager, "Would you like an extra pair of hands on Saturday?" For yesterday was the designated day for The Move. It had clearly been on the cards for some while, and gradually rumour turned to fact as things began to disappear first from the storeroom, then from the warehouse and finally from the office. A couple of weeks ago, it was reported with some confidence that the weekend after Easter would see M-day. Realising that I had a free morning I suggested that, since he would inevitably have a host of other things to do, I might usefully amuse myself setting up the computers, which were being shipped to the new site immediately after the office closed on Friday evening.
It's a simple enough job, but it's surprising how many people - although confident in their daily use - baulk at the suggestion of doing anything physical with computers. I knew my boundaries, however, and ceased operations on each desk at the point before switching on the electricity. After all, a professional network engineer was there for the move and, as part of his planned workload, he would be visiting each workstation in turn to link up to the network, switch on, log in, and make sure everything was working as it should; things which, as a mere driver, are well beyond my authority if not my capability. Nevertheless, I was pleased to fill the need for someone at that intermediate level, who could spare the professional the unnecessary time for the mundane, also releasing the manager to co-ordinate other aspects of the move.
It must be about eight years ago, by my reckoning, that the firm moved into the offices we've just left. I remember thinking that we'd played leapfrog. When I started with them ten years ago, the office was just along the road from my flat. At about 200 yards, it was the closest I'd ever worked to home. Then I moved to the flat where I now live, about three times as far from the office, in the opposite direction. Shortly afterwards the time came when the business had outgrown the capacity of that small unit, and they moved to another place about a quarter of a mile beyond my new home, but still comfortably within walking distance.
Walking distance applies no longer. About five miles now separate home from office. It's not only in another town, but in the adjacent county! This may not sound much, but it will mean about 2,300 additional miles in a year, something like 3½% more travelling for a guaranteed zero increase in income. With many drivers travelling from far greater distances to work with us, my situation is exceptional and, in common with one or two others, I've enjoyed this unspoken advantage for many years.
But now it's payback time, and life will never be the same again!
Monday, 9 April 2012
A National Gift - the story of a long weekend
When I finished my allotted task on Wednesday - a delivery in Brownhills (for the uninitiated, that's somewhere near Walsall, but doesn't boast a League One football team) - I realised that I just had time for a meal at a truckstop on the way past and make church for the 8.0 meditation. There are normally meditative services on the Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday of Holy Week and, unusually, I've made it to all three this year. It was well worth it.
What I wasn't worried about was getting onto the list for work the next day. Holy Thursday is renowned in the industry as the busiest day of the year. Everyone, it seems, is keen to get away for the four-day break, but more anxious to get their stuff out and delivered to customers before they go. It's like trying to cram two days' work into one, as one controller put it to me a few years ago. I certainly had no fears about getting work on Thursday.
The office staff were certainly busy. Tearing their hair out would be but a slight exaggeration. The snag, from my point of view, was that most of the work coming in was either for bigger vans than mine, or forward bookings for next week. Eventually, I was called early in the afternoon, and given deliveries in St Albans and to a building site in Bracknell. By the time I reached the building site, I was getting a mite anxious that the workers there would have cleared up and gone home. There was no need to worry: my delivery was expected, and I was met at the gate by a foreman who quickly indicated where I should park, and unloaded my van. A last minute panic came as he returned to the van to sign my sheet. "That one's the wrong size!" he said, pointing. However, he quickly realised that nothing could be done about it at 4.10pm just before the holiday, and signed me off, resolving to sort out the difficulty on Tuesday. My own holiday weekend was about to take off.
It began with a very pleasant duty that comes round about six times a year. I'm on a rota to read news items from the local paper as part of the process of distributing weekly tapes to the blind or partially-sighted people in the neighbourhood. Five of us gather in someone's front room: three readers, the 'editor', who has already given up half his afternoon to fillet the papers, and someone to man the mixing desk. An hour later, we have filled both sides of a 'master' tape, and one of us takes it to the office where the following morning it will be copied and despatched.
So to the holiday weekend itself. Good Friday, of course, is special. There are church services to attend, and there was a March of Witness in the town, where the various denominations join in a common act of worship. I chose to come home after the preliminary service at St. Paul's, but in the afternoon I went along to the hour's meditation service at All Saints'.
Saturday is a 'normal' day, with regular domestic preoccupations to fill the hours. I had said I'd be available for work on Saturday and Monday, but the phone has been remarkably silent. Sunday has its regular pattern of worship - special this weekend, of course, being Easter Sunday - and relaxation. After reading the weekend papers and catching up with correspondence, e-mails and so on, where does the day go?
But now it's Bank Holiday Monday: the first of three that clutter up the calendar just now. What is their nature, their purpose? Why do we either love or hate them? According to Saint Wiki, they began in 1871, when legislation made 'bank holidays', i.e. days when the banks were closed for business, into public holidays, i.e. holidays for everyone - and incidentally, changed which days should be so designated. Others have been added to those first four over the years. Some years, depending when Easter falls, the spring pattern is quite regular, with two normal weeks between two that are shortened by bank holidays. This year, because of the Diamond Jubilee, the last of the three is a week later so, work-wise, we have longer to recover from the impact of May Day.
You'll gather that, being self-employed, I'm not a lover of these imposed breaks into the working week. I guess that's true, up to a point. I certainly resent the reduction of the number of available days in which to earn a living, which is why I mainly offer myself for work on them. However, with a few notable exceptions, there is little likelihood of actually getting work. This means that, subject to some obvious restrictions, I can enjoy much the same freedom and relaxation as the next man. And that brings me (at last!) to what prompted this blog in the first place. It's a Holiday, a gift from the nation to me. This gift is a day when I can do whatever I want. No religious disciplines, no shopping trips, no chores to fulfil; a day to relax and not feel guilty at doing so. I'm jolly well going to enjoy doing nothing all day!
But ...
... but ...
... I wonder if ...
... maybe I could ...
... what else was I ...
... is it over yet? ...
... gosh, it's boring with nothing to do!
What I wasn't worried about was getting onto the list for work the next day. Holy Thursday is renowned in the industry as the busiest day of the year. Everyone, it seems, is keen to get away for the four-day break, but more anxious to get their stuff out and delivered to customers before they go. It's like trying to cram two days' work into one, as one controller put it to me a few years ago. I certainly had no fears about getting work on Thursday.
The office staff were certainly busy. Tearing their hair out would be but a slight exaggeration. The snag, from my point of view, was that most of the work coming in was either for bigger vans than mine, or forward bookings for next week. Eventually, I was called early in the afternoon, and given deliveries in St Albans and to a building site in Bracknell. By the time I reached the building site, I was getting a mite anxious that the workers there would have cleared up and gone home. There was no need to worry: my delivery was expected, and I was met at the gate by a foreman who quickly indicated where I should park, and unloaded my van. A last minute panic came as he returned to the van to sign my sheet. "That one's the wrong size!" he said, pointing. However, he quickly realised that nothing could be done about it at 4.10pm just before the holiday, and signed me off, resolving to sort out the difficulty on Tuesday. My own holiday weekend was about to take off.
It began with a very pleasant duty that comes round about six times a year. I'm on a rota to read news items from the local paper as part of the process of distributing weekly tapes to the blind or partially-sighted people in the neighbourhood. Five of us gather in someone's front room: three readers, the 'editor', who has already given up half his afternoon to fillet the papers, and someone to man the mixing desk. An hour later, we have filled both sides of a 'master' tape, and one of us takes it to the office where the following morning it will be copied and despatched.
So to the holiday weekend itself. Good Friday, of course, is special. There are church services to attend, and there was a March of Witness in the town, where the various denominations join in a common act of worship. I chose to come home after the preliminary service at St. Paul's, but in the afternoon I went along to the hour's meditation service at All Saints'.
Saturday is a 'normal' day, with regular domestic preoccupations to fill the hours. I had said I'd be available for work on Saturday and Monday, but the phone has been remarkably silent. Sunday has its regular pattern of worship - special this weekend, of course, being Easter Sunday - and relaxation. After reading the weekend papers and catching up with correspondence, e-mails and so on, where does the day go?
But now it's Bank Holiday Monday: the first of three that clutter up the calendar just now. What is their nature, their purpose? Why do we either love or hate them? According to Saint Wiki, they began in 1871, when legislation made 'bank holidays', i.e. days when the banks were closed for business, into public holidays, i.e. holidays for everyone - and incidentally, changed which days should be so designated. Others have been added to those first four over the years. Some years, depending when Easter falls, the spring pattern is quite regular, with two normal weeks between two that are shortened by bank holidays. This year, because of the Diamond Jubilee, the last of the three is a week later so, work-wise, we have longer to recover from the impact of May Day.
You'll gather that, being self-employed, I'm not a lover of these imposed breaks into the working week. I guess that's true, up to a point. I certainly resent the reduction of the number of available days in which to earn a living, which is why I mainly offer myself for work on them. However, with a few notable exceptions, there is little likelihood of actually getting work. This means that, subject to some obvious restrictions, I can enjoy much the same freedom and relaxation as the next man. And that brings me (at last!) to what prompted this blog in the first place. It's a Holiday, a gift from the nation to me. This gift is a day when I can do whatever I want. No religious disciplines, no shopping trips, no chores to fulfil; a day to relax and not feel guilty at doing so. I'm jolly well going to enjoy doing nothing all day!
... but ...
... I wonder if ...
... maybe I could ...
... what else was I ...
... is it over yet? ...
... gosh, it's boring with nothing to do!
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