This patchwork quilt of a week (given the temperatures, not a bad metaphor!) began with a phone call at 7.15 on Saturday morning. It was my son, planning to pay me a visit, but seeking a last minute weather report before setting out. This was the precursor to a rare but profitable day of togetherness, as he knitted together the final loose ends of my protracted transfer from Orange broadband to an integrated broadband-and-landline deal with BT. I was reminded just how long this has taken (to some extent, I have to admit, due to my stubborn reluctance to call Mike in earlier!) when at the conclusion of the day I attempted to show him the project I've recently been working on regarding the Sturgeon families in 19th-century Stanton. One of my files wouldn't open, and we had to restore the back-up copy. Sadly, we discovered that no back-ups had been made of my system since the final days of August!
Apart from the snow outside, Sunday was fairly typical, although with a meeting in the afternoon I was reluctant to turn out a third time for the evening service which would normally have commanded my willing attendance. I also missed out on the Monday breakfast at the church, because I had been given a job which entailed an 8.0 pick-up some distance away. Annoyingly, when I got there, I discovered that the goods were far too big for my van, so after a phone call to the controller, I came home again and spent the morning at the computer. After lunch, I was given a more successful job to Crewe.
Tuesday was even less productive, with a local 'errand' and then a fairly regularly repeated job to Daventry, and back soon after lunch, whereupon I called into the office to sort out my paperwork. Unfortunately, in this visit I didn't get sufficiently noticed to be added to the list, so it wasn't until lunchtime on Wednesday that a cautious caller asked, "are you working today, Brian?" Upon announcing that I was ready and waiting, with nowhere to go, I was despatched to Huntingdon with some computer equipment, and returned again mid-afternoon thinking that another day was over.
About the time work would be allocated for the morrow, the controller called me. "Are you planning anything tonight?" he asked. "Would you be able to do a long job?" I told him "No ... and yes!" and was asked to collect promptly a parcel for Livingston, and then return to make any necessary preparations for the journey. Arriving at our customer, I waited a few minutes for the goods to be packed. "It's amazing," I was told, "in the whole of Scotland they haven't got these drugs; they have to get them from us!" Fortified by this sense of importance, I set forth, having told them that they would be delivered by around 1.0am.
I stopped for a meal at Markham Moor, and then only once more, a comfort stop at Southwaite, before drawing into the yard of the distribution depot just six minutes short of my forecast arrival. By the time I'd attracted someone's attention and got the goods signed for it was ... 1.0! My confidence enhanced by the accuracy of my prediction, and less tired than I had expected, I set off at a modest speed for home. I had encountered neither snow nor ice on my journey: just dry, clear roads, although there was plenty of snow alongside them. I stopped for a chilling doze at Abington and made Carlisle by just after 4.0am, where I could park safely at the truckstop there, and doze in the van with the engine running for warmth. By 7.15 the body-clock kicked in, telling me it was time for activity again, and after a nourishing breakfast I set off again, stopping for a short snooze at coffee time (Scotch Corner) and arriving home around 2.30 pm.
Sympathetic to my endeavours, when the controller rang about 4.0, he began with the announcement that he wasn't sending me out again that afternoon, but would I go to a customer in Letchworth to collect a tender for delivery at 9.0 the following morning. Thus Friday began early. I followed SatNav to a secure building near Bicester, which turned out to be a prison, rather than the barracks I had expected. History, geography and instinct join to suggest that the two were once part of a great wartime airfield. Once, a road ran straight through from one end to the other, which had confused my electronic friend, for now they are totally separate. By lunchtime I had returned home after undertaking another short job on the way, and I waited to see if something else might fill the last remaining corner of the week.
After two hours or so, I was sent to Stevenage to collect a single box of print to take to Cheltenham racecourse. It's a popular conference venue, and I knew just where to go, which was as well, for there were no useful security staff on hand to ask. The task was quickly completed, and I made my way home, stopping for a snack on the way.
The weekend brought little rest, however, and I was up at an unearthly hour in order to get the washing done before setting out for the Suffolk Record Office. Here I attempted to recover some of the data lost by that file corruption last weekend, though of course it wasn't possible to determine just what I might have added in the last four and a half months, and until some day in the future when I enter some snippet that rings a bell as having been 'entered before somewhere', I shan't know how successful the day was.
Now, with the snow gone from everywhere around, and the temperature so obviously much higher, I have to confront the difficulty of re-acclimatising to regular clothing and heating regimes - a task which I have to say is a very welcome one!
Sunday, 27 January 2013
Friday, 18 January 2013
A Shetland Pony Week
Whence this animal title? I hear you ask. Consider me for a moment a horse dealer (not for the burger market, of course!) I come up to a superb specimen of equus caballus shetlandiae, feel the strength of the beast and comment about it being a good sturdy animal, with lots of powerful muscle and energy potential. That was the sort of analogy that came to mind as I finished this week. Good in quality and potential, but a bit 'Shetland' in size compared to a thoroughbred.
The week began with a recycling exercise. As I put out my rubbish last weekend, I discovered in the shed with the bins a neat little four-drawer storage unit, looking for a home. A day later, after due reflection, I released it from its dark and dingy prison and after cleaning it up and adjusting the way it had been fitted together (which might have been the reason for its rejection), began transferring to it the contents of eleven box-files that have cluttered the top of a bookcase for years, and towered over me as I sat at my desk. No longer. They have now been filtered, two basketfuls being taken to the recycling bin outside, and the remainder occupying the storage unit, the top of which forms a useful annex to the desk.
One minor snag occurred early on in this procedure. After my French holiday some four years ago, I pushed all the leaflets, guides and souvenirs into the box entitled 'overseas', and promptly forgot about them. What I hadn't realised was that the collection from one particular town had been gathered into a plastic bag carrying an important notice the gist of which, in English, was, 'this bag will self-decompose within a year of purchase'. It was as good as its word: no sooner had I touched it to see what it contained, than my hands were full of postcards, while the floor was covered with plastic shards that were the very devil to clear up!
One evening, in conclusion to this episode, a lady came round to collect the now empty box files following my posting of them on freecycle. The working week began fairly tamely, with a run on Monday down to Salisbury, with a stop on the way at a dental studio in Watford. Then came the week's early start, with a 4.0 alarm in order to make a delivery in Runcorn before 9.0 am on Tuesday. Strangely, this consignment was two precision-cut pieces of wood, going to a glass company. Just another of those puzzles that make life interesting. Fortunately, I know a very good cafe on the way out of Runcorn for breakfast, before making my way home.
Wednesday and Thursday, I decided, were 'H-days.' In the course of three jobs in the two days I visited five hospitals, two for delivery and three for collection. And on Wednesday afternoon came one of those 'most unusual jobs' - another 'H'. I don't expect ever again to be told, 'you're picking up from such-and-such address, some boxes ... and a helicopter'. The boxes were quite normal - one big metal-cornered container on wheels such as one sees at musical or theatrical events, and half a dozen simple cardboard jobbies. The helicopter had to be seen to be believed. It was all arms and propellors, and posed the greatest challenge to fit it into the van without undue risk of something falling onto it, or it falling awkwardly and bending something vital. After nearly half-an-hour I was satisfied, and set off with it. Two hours later I was unpacking it - totally intact - for a delighted customer, who then faced a busy evening/night, doing with it whatever he had to, and getting it onto a plane for the next stage of its journey the following morning.
Yesterday's journeys took me to Norwich, where the point of delivery of one job, followed by the banter at the hospital's goods-in department as I collected the next, reminded me of the start of my career, over 40 years ago, at BRS Parcels in Norwich. I still remember some of the drivers, the areas they covered and their route numbers, and travelling those same roads brought back some fond memories of many faces who must by now have departed this life. On the way back I had to contend with frozen screen washers and nearly-dry roads, from which there was a constant spray of dust and slush which froze on the screen, and every few miles I had to stop to spray fresh water onto the screen to clean it. Today, by contrast, with falling snow, the problem was not visibility but the fact that the ice that formed on the wipers limited their cleaning properties, and the frequent stops were for de-icing. Like many thousands of others, I shall be glad when this cold 'snap' is over.
So ends the second week of this new year, like its predecessor, a good mix of what the courier life consists of, but in the normal mould for January, only a small example of the breed. More cross-country explorations next week.
The week began with a recycling exercise. As I put out my rubbish last weekend, I discovered in the shed with the bins a neat little four-drawer storage unit, looking for a home. A day later, after due reflection, I released it from its dark and dingy prison and after cleaning it up and adjusting the way it had been fitted together (which might have been the reason for its rejection), began transferring to it the contents of eleven box-files that have cluttered the top of a bookcase for years, and towered over me as I sat at my desk. No longer. They have now been filtered, two basketfuls being taken to the recycling bin outside, and the remainder occupying the storage unit, the top of which forms a useful annex to the desk.
One minor snag occurred early on in this procedure. After my French holiday some four years ago, I pushed all the leaflets, guides and souvenirs into the box entitled 'overseas', and promptly forgot about them. What I hadn't realised was that the collection from one particular town had been gathered into a plastic bag carrying an important notice the gist of which, in English, was, 'this bag will self-decompose within a year of purchase'. It was as good as its word: no sooner had I touched it to see what it contained, than my hands were full of postcards, while the floor was covered with plastic shards that were the very devil to clear up!
One evening, in conclusion to this episode, a lady came round to collect the now empty box files following my posting of them on freecycle. The working week began fairly tamely, with a run on Monday down to Salisbury, with a stop on the way at a dental studio in Watford. Then came the week's early start, with a 4.0 alarm in order to make a delivery in Runcorn before 9.0 am on Tuesday. Strangely, this consignment was two precision-cut pieces of wood, going to a glass company. Just another of those puzzles that make life interesting. Fortunately, I know a very good cafe on the way out of Runcorn for breakfast, before making my way home.
Wednesday and Thursday, I decided, were 'H-days.' In the course of three jobs in the two days I visited five hospitals, two for delivery and three for collection. And on Wednesday afternoon came one of those 'most unusual jobs' - another 'H'. I don't expect ever again to be told, 'you're picking up from such-and-such address, some boxes ... and a helicopter'. The boxes were quite normal - one big metal-cornered container on wheels such as one sees at musical or theatrical events, and half a dozen simple cardboard jobbies. The helicopter had to be seen to be believed. It was all arms and propellors, and posed the greatest challenge to fit it into the van without undue risk of something falling onto it, or it falling awkwardly and bending something vital. After nearly half-an-hour I was satisfied, and set off with it. Two hours later I was unpacking it - totally intact - for a delighted customer, who then faced a busy evening/night, doing with it whatever he had to, and getting it onto a plane for the next stage of its journey the following morning.
Yesterday's journeys took me to Norwich, where the point of delivery of one job, followed by the banter at the hospital's goods-in department as I collected the next, reminded me of the start of my career, over 40 years ago, at BRS Parcels in Norwich. I still remember some of the drivers, the areas they covered and their route numbers, and travelling those same roads brought back some fond memories of many faces who must by now have departed this life. On the way back I had to contend with frozen screen washers and nearly-dry roads, from which there was a constant spray of dust and slush which froze on the screen, and every few miles I had to stop to spray fresh water onto the screen to clean it. Today, by contrast, with falling snow, the problem was not visibility but the fact that the ice that formed on the wipers limited their cleaning properties, and the frequent stops were for de-icing. Like many thousands of others, I shall be glad when this cold 'snap' is over.
So ends the second week of this new year, like its predecessor, a good mix of what the courier life consists of, but in the normal mould for January, only a small example of the breed. More cross-country explorations next week.
Saturday, 12 January 2013
The Year in Microcosm
Well, 2013 is under way. Despite the playing-out of the traditional quiet-season-after-Christmas, my first week of the new year has presented a broad mixture of almost all the elements of a courier year. There have been jobs both local and far afield; both early and late; driving in both rain and sunshine. As well as a cancellation, there were jobs to both strange and familiar destinations, and one of those 'it's not where you told me' events, which happened to share its categorical analysis with that of a 'special price' job. One of the new destinations included sight and smell of an 'I wouldn't want to go in there!' location, and from one of the familiar collection points I emerged thinking, 'how on earth can he work in that atmosphere all day?'So, without breaching any confidentiality, how much can I apply flesh to the bones I've outlined? The week began, as have the majority of the last few, with the renewal of the church breakfasts, where we can join in fellowship and ask for God's blessing on each other, on our own respective concerns, and on the work to which many of us would be returning after the long break. In my case, work consisted of returning home to wait for the phone to ring. Eventually I was asked to take a small parcel to the QEII hospital at Welwyn Garden City - getting me into the routine gently, I decided, since the firm where I collected it usually fill the van with large items. I'd not long left for this one, when I was asked to ring in once I'd delivered so I could be sent down to Southend for a collection, and as soon as I was home from these two, I was given a third local job, taking a computer drive to a college in Luton.
After a day with only local jobs, Tuesday began with an 8.0 collection of computer equipment for an office in Colchester. The only problem with this job was entry to the building. I'd studied the location on Google the previous evening, and it appeared that the only access was at the rear, where there was a private car park, so that was my first target. The car park was secured by a barrier, beside which there was no intercom facility, and as I sat there studying the back of the building I could see no door anyway. I drove round the block (this being a one-way street) and I viewed the front and sides of the building from the dual carriageway that it faced, and saw one door on each elevation. After parking hesitantly, but tidily, on the yellow lines outside, I investigated on foot and found both of these were closed and, like the car park, with no means of alerting anyone inside. I managed to attract someone's attention, however, as a result of which I was redirected ... to the car park. Leaving the van once more at the entrance barrier to the car park I discovered the back door, cunningly hidden from view behind a large shrub and a crane. I certainly had the feeling that this place discouraged visitors of any sort! When I pressed the bell-push, though, I was greeted by a complete contrast to this impression. A very helpful member of staff co-operated to the full in assisting my unloading and unpacking of the goods, and removal of the packaging as I'd been instructed.
Once home I waited but minutes before being sent to Royston to collect for Nottingham, but waited there for almost an hour before it was decided that this job was being cancelled. Instead I was sent to Houghton Regis to collect two mini-laptops for a hotel in Cleckheaton, near Bradford. By then, of course, it was almost dark, and I was very glad of a post-holiday collection of podcasts to listen to, on the long journey north and back, from which I returned something after 11.0pm.
Wednesday was therefore off to a late beginning, and consisted of only one local job, to a destination from which some of our larger vans collect, but to which I hadn't been before. I found the site somewhat baffling to the stranger. Many signs were to be seen, which were apparently helpful, but in the event proved otherwise. One of these I found outside the deserted goods-in office. "When unoccupied, please go to either effuent house or baling shed." The effluent house boasted its presence through the open door opposite, but there was no indication where I might find the baling shed. As I stood in the middle of the roadway, looking puzzled - an attitude often to be found useful in such situations - the appropriate person saw me and received my parcels. He indicated where the baling shed was to be found, should I make a repeat visit on another occasion; as I drove away past it, I saw no unrestricted door, and no sign indicating the actual location of the baling shed.
Thursday was fairly normal, with a metal collection in Biggleswade for Worthing, and an envelope for St Albans, followed by a delivery of pharmaceuticals for the Princess Alexandra Hospital in Harlow. After returning from these, I was given details of a 6.0 am pick-up for a local firm the next day. This was for Swindon, and I was forewarned that there would be goods to be collected there for return to our customer although, as a special concession, this return would not be paid for at the usual rate.
Consequently I made sure I was organised well and to bed in good time to be up early on Friday morning. I decided to head for the M25, stop at a convenient filling station just before the motorway and there get breakfast and fill in my paperwork. It was then that I discovered that the only resemblance between the destination and Swindon was the letters of the postcode! I was being sent some 20 miles further on, and once I'd got there I rang the office to make the necessary protest and arrange correction. Even so, I was back in good time to make a lunchtime appointment for a blood test.
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| Milford Haven |
Now all I have to do is keep warm until summer comes. In case my week's news makes you shiver like I am, here's a nice warm picture 'brought forward', as it were, from three years ago. It certainly gives me a warm memory, that of wandering around a quayside office block in shirtsleeves at 8.30 am ... on a September morning!
Sunday, 6 January 2013
So, it's New Year ... !?!
The New Year has arrived, but in many ways it's same old, same old. And why, everywhere you look, does it have those pretentious capital letters? Does it think it's special? What has it done to deserve them? No one says that it was a good Old Year, now, do they? I suppose it all goes back to schooldays. I mean, which of us doesn't remember coming to the end of an exercise book: writing with a sense of exhaustion rather than achievement on the final pages of a book that is now tatty and looking sorry for itself, after being humped in and out of the desk and carried around in a schoolbag for several terms? We looked forward to the issue of a bright new one to replace it, with a shiny cover, and the clearly marked legend on the front. And all that closely-packed virgin paper inside, with its sharp, just-cut edges; simply begging to be used. How carefully we wrote on that first page!
So now we have a new year. What will we do with it? If you're anything like me that will depend on other people more than on your own efforts. Just as a small example. I've been paid already since January 1st, although I haven't done any work since Christmas Eve. It's because someone was working in the office during the intervening week, processing paperwork and keeping the wheels of commerce turning. At the next level, what I do will depend on whoever has need of stuff being moved from A to B. It will depend on their coming to the firm to get this done, and on my being allocated the job. And then, on a grander scale, there is the contribution of our economy, the very survival and continuation of business itself with all that implies for the many layers of the national workforce. We say we're self-employed but, in reality, we're all very inter-dependent.
True self-employment is what I've been doing this week. Just before Christmas, I responded to a sequence of messages on a family history mailing list concerning the Australian writer's quest to establish the identity of her great-great-great-grandfather, born in Suffolk in the dying years of the eighteenth century. His son Henry Sturgeon, she knew, had been christened in 1822; and she knew too that Henry's father Thomas had been twice married - to wives who were both called Elizabeth. However, the number of people in that tiny part of the world who were called Elizabeth Sturgeon at that time is mind-boggling - a mind-boggle only exceeded by the number of Henry Sturgeons that seem to have shared the village limelight with them! I decided to throw my slight knowledge of the area and its people at the problem to try and help her.
Combining altruism with the search for personal satisfaction, I've spent the last four days almost entirely devoted to solving this problem, shuffling paper on my desk, engaging in incessant clicking from one window to another on my computer, and using a day looking at faded fiches on a record-office screen to get an unwanted headache on top of much-wanted answers to questions. By yesterday afternoon I was convinced that, to do the matter justice would require many more days' work - days that I don't have at present to spend so intensely on it. I'd obtained some clarity of the situation, that I could express in an e-mail to the lady, along with a few precise facts and references. After compiling and sending the e-mail, I then tidied what I had gleaned from all the records, and packaged the whole lot up, ready to take them out when more time allows.
I finished with a 'note to self' as to what (at present) I see as the best way to present the unfolding history over a period of some seventy years, of a dozen apparently un-related families who share the same surname and live in the same village. As one fellow researcher told me a few years ago, "I'm sure they're all connected somewhere along the line, but we may never know just how, where or when!"
Hey Ho! Work tomorrow ..............
So now we have a new year. What will we do with it? If you're anything like me that will depend on other people more than on your own efforts. Just as a small example. I've been paid already since January 1st, although I haven't done any work since Christmas Eve. It's because someone was working in the office during the intervening week, processing paperwork and keeping the wheels of commerce turning. At the next level, what I do will depend on whoever has need of stuff being moved from A to B. It will depend on their coming to the firm to get this done, and on my being allocated the job. And then, on a grander scale, there is the contribution of our economy, the very survival and continuation of business itself with all that implies for the many layers of the national workforce. We say we're self-employed but, in reality, we're all very inter-dependent.
True self-employment is what I've been doing this week. Just before Christmas, I responded to a sequence of messages on a family history mailing list concerning the Australian writer's quest to establish the identity of her great-great-great-grandfather, born in Suffolk in the dying years of the eighteenth century. His son Henry Sturgeon, she knew, had been christened in 1822; and she knew too that Henry's father Thomas had been twice married - to wives who were both called Elizabeth. However, the number of people in that tiny part of the world who were called Elizabeth Sturgeon at that time is mind-boggling - a mind-boggle only exceeded by the number of Henry Sturgeons that seem to have shared the village limelight with them! I decided to throw my slight knowledge of the area and its people at the problem to try and help her.
Combining altruism with the search for personal satisfaction, I've spent the last four days almost entirely devoted to solving this problem, shuffling paper on my desk, engaging in incessant clicking from one window to another on my computer, and using a day looking at faded fiches on a record-office screen to get an unwanted headache on top of much-wanted answers to questions. By yesterday afternoon I was convinced that, to do the matter justice would require many more days' work - days that I don't have at present to spend so intensely on it. I'd obtained some clarity of the situation, that I could express in an e-mail to the lady, along with a few precise facts and references. After compiling and sending the e-mail, I then tidied what I had gleaned from all the records, and packaged the whole lot up, ready to take them out when more time allows.
I finished with a 'note to self' as to what (at present) I see as the best way to present the unfolding history over a period of some seventy years, of a dozen apparently un-related families who share the same surname and live in the same village. As one fellow researcher told me a few years ago, "I'm sure they're all connected somewhere along the line, but we may never know just how, where or when!"
Hey Ho! Work tomorrow ..............
Saturday, 22 December 2012
Shift Changeover
There comes a time in the courier life when, it seems, the Great Courier Above hears the fed-up wails of the mere 'available 24/7' erk that there have been too many early mornings. GCA certainly heard mine this week.
It all began when I missed the second men's breakfast in three weeks, through the need to be in Royston for a 6.0am pick-up on Monday. In the damp darkness of early morning, I tried Despatch, only to find it deserted and to be re-directed to Goods-in where, after a long cold wait, I was loaded with two heavy boxes, hastily sealed because they weren't ready before. Off then to Coventry with these, and although I enjoyed a bacon-and-egg roll on the way off the industrial estate afterwards, my jumper didn't. There are occasions when one ought to remember to specify 'make the egg hard, please - I want to eat it, not wear it!' ... sadly this wasn't one of the successful ones. Once I'd returned, the best the rest of the day could offer was a delivery in Ely, described as 'local' because the day had been so slow. This worked in my favour, though, because on the way back I was diverted to a customer's premises to load for a 10.0 am delivery the next day in Torquay.
To bed early again, therefore, in order to be about in the wee small hours. No cold wait on Tuesday, though. I could set off to Torquay with no delay. After a stop in Bristol for breakfast, I arrived at the department store promptly on the dot of 10.0, in bright sunshine. There was then a short delay while the goods I'd brought were the subject of some deliberation. The unit had been loaded with no packing or protection, and either by the motion of a sliding part during the journey, or as a result of being lifted out of the van, it had incurred slight damage. Eventually, however, all was resolved and I set off on my homeward journey. The back of the store where I had delivered is on a one-way street, and to get back onto the main road I found myself having to climb a nominal 20% incline with a tight corner at the top. I sometimes dream about such experiences, but this has to be one of the first times I've encountered such a steep hill. A quick look on Google Maps tells me that it must have been Braddons Hill West, but it doesn't look so steep on the screen!
The advantage - if so it be - of starting so early in the morning is that later in the day, before tiredness kicks in once more, there is time to do other things. Having escaped the challenge issued by a phone call on the way home from Torquay, asking if I would like to go over to Kent to make a collection, I was back to the office by 4.0pm I realised that this was too early to be allocated a job for the next day, and took advantage of a comfortable sofa in the crew room for a refreshing nap. An hour or so later, I learned that there would not be an advance assignment for Wednesday, and went home. I had determined at the beginning of the year that I ought to do something soon about the various small pensions that my past career has accumulated, in readiness for possible retirement, but had done nothing about it as yet. A recent radio broadcast prompted activity on this matter, and having secured a likely source of help here, I spent my 'time for other things' on Tuesday evening entertaining an Independent Financial Adviser.
I thus awoke on Wednesday morning with my head full of finances, figures, and all the reading, research and decisions that I shall have to deal with over the holiday. There was no time even to think of such things then for, before breakfast, came a call. "Are you ready for work?" 'No chance,' I thought, 'it's only 7.30!' "How soon," went on the controller, "can you pick up at [a nearby customer] for Sheffield?" Wanting to seem helpful, I offered, "I can pick it up now, and then come back for breakfast ..." As I had predicted, this was perfectly acceptable and, with breakfast completed, I rang the office to learn that there was nothing else going that way, and left for South Yorkshire.
This was the start of a 'changeover day'. These are either very busy or the reverse, and effect the change from early mornings to late nights. This is effected by either a slack day that leads into an afternoon job that takes all evening, or an early start that leads into an over-full day. In this instance, the latter was the case for, as I returned from Sheffield, I was asked to go straight down to Stevenage and collect something for Basildon. On the way to Basildon came another call, hinting that I would have time on the way back to call into Hertford and collect something for Chippenham. I enquired if this were the Chippenham in Wiltshire. "Yes," came the over-persuasive reply, "we did the same thing last night - it's not far." Strangely, I didn't feel over-tired, and despite disagreeing with the 'not far' argument, I said I would.
When I collected the job, I recalled an occasion that I wrote about here some months ago. The address where I was to deliver said 'Cabinet, Bumpers Lane, Chippenham.' I smiled, and realised gratefully that, as a result of that earlier job, I now knew what was meant by 'Cabinet'. When I arrived I rang the phone number I'd been given as requested on turning into the lane. "Great," came the reply, "I'll switch on my hazards so you can see me." I approached the flashing yellow lights, and pulled up at the side of the road beside the car flashing them. By the time I had gathered my clipboard, the man had got out of his car and was standing by the door. "I hope we've got the right thing this time," he said, "I've been here for three nights to get this thing to work." I took it that he had been home in between these visits. He was pleased with the two items I'd brought him, however, and gave me a cheery wave as I set off on my way home. I found that it was by then so late that the Little Chef just down the road had closed, and I had to content myself with a snack from the nearby Shell station. Once home, I was ready for bed; it was 11.25pm. 'Not far' be blowed!
When I'd got myself more or less onto an even keel on Thursday morning, I rang in about 9.0 to say I was ready for work. The acknowledgement was quickly followed by an instruction. "At 10.0, can you go over to [a Hitchin solicitor] to go to Luton. That's that covered, and you'll be on the list for later." I tidied up my desk and set off. After delivering to Luton's Court House, I returned and called in from home. Not long afterwards I was requested to go to a certain ward at Lister Hospital in Stevenage. We often get sent there to collect specimens for analysis elsewhere. What was unusual was the destination in this case, which was an organisation in Newcastle-upon-Tyne. Knowing that this was a 24-hour operation, the controller had no hesitation in getting me to make two deliveries in the Bedford area on my way north, and I arrived there at about 6.30pm. The specimen was delivered according to the instructions on the (closed) door, and I turned for home, 243 miles away. The venue for that night's meal was Washington Services, and with all the accumulated podcasts from the recent Test Match series in India to listen to, the journey home was a doddle. I scarcely noticed the incessant rain outside, as the warm van was filled with sunny thoughts of leather and willow, centuries and leg-breaks.
Yesterday morning found me arriving home with an almost empty fuel tank and calling at the local 24-hour Esso station before settling down for bed about 12.45am. After breakfast the desk claimed my attention and I caught up on two days' admin, post, e-mails and all the rest before declaring myself ready for work at 10.30. I was immediately despatched to Houghton Regis to make a collection for a customer in Hitchin. In keeping with the rest of the week, there was no respite after this, for I was sent once again to 'that' ward at Lister Hospital - this time for a more normal journey to Cambridge - and along with it a pair of drinks deliveries to a pub in St Ives and to a service station along the A1 near Stamford.
Today has seemed a little peculiar. With one more working day to go before the Christmas break, it seems sensible to delay normal weekend chores until that is past, so in a way today has been the first day of the long holiday. One or two unusual things have been attacked instead, and soon I will begin to attack the bizarre situation of a magazine arriving earlier this week before I'd even started reading the previous edition!
It all began when I missed the second men's breakfast in three weeks, through the need to be in Royston for a 6.0am pick-up on Monday. In the damp darkness of early morning, I tried Despatch, only to find it deserted and to be re-directed to Goods-in where, after a long cold wait, I was loaded with two heavy boxes, hastily sealed because they weren't ready before. Off then to Coventry with these, and although I enjoyed a bacon-and-egg roll on the way off the industrial estate afterwards, my jumper didn't. There are occasions when one ought to remember to specify 'make the egg hard, please - I want to eat it, not wear it!' ... sadly this wasn't one of the successful ones. Once I'd returned, the best the rest of the day could offer was a delivery in Ely, described as 'local' because the day had been so slow. This worked in my favour, though, because on the way back I was diverted to a customer's premises to load for a 10.0 am delivery the next day in Torquay.
To bed early again, therefore, in order to be about in the wee small hours. No cold wait on Tuesday, though. I could set off to Torquay with no delay. After a stop in Bristol for breakfast, I arrived at the department store promptly on the dot of 10.0, in bright sunshine. There was then a short delay while the goods I'd brought were the subject of some deliberation. The unit had been loaded with no packing or protection, and either by the motion of a sliding part during the journey, or as a result of being lifted out of the van, it had incurred slight damage. Eventually, however, all was resolved and I set off on my homeward journey. The back of the store where I had delivered is on a one-way street, and to get back onto the main road I found myself having to climb a nominal 20% incline with a tight corner at the top. I sometimes dream about such experiences, but this has to be one of the first times I've encountered such a steep hill. A quick look on Google Maps tells me that it must have been Braddons Hill West, but it doesn't look so steep on the screen!
The advantage - if so it be - of starting so early in the morning is that later in the day, before tiredness kicks in once more, there is time to do other things. Having escaped the challenge issued by a phone call on the way home from Torquay, asking if I would like to go over to Kent to make a collection, I was back to the office by 4.0pm I realised that this was too early to be allocated a job for the next day, and took advantage of a comfortable sofa in the crew room for a refreshing nap. An hour or so later, I learned that there would not be an advance assignment for Wednesday, and went home. I had determined at the beginning of the year that I ought to do something soon about the various small pensions that my past career has accumulated, in readiness for possible retirement, but had done nothing about it as yet. A recent radio broadcast prompted activity on this matter, and having secured a likely source of help here, I spent my 'time for other things' on Tuesday evening entertaining an Independent Financial Adviser.
I thus awoke on Wednesday morning with my head full of finances, figures, and all the reading, research and decisions that I shall have to deal with over the holiday. There was no time even to think of such things then for, before breakfast, came a call. "Are you ready for work?" 'No chance,' I thought, 'it's only 7.30!' "How soon," went on the controller, "can you pick up at [a nearby customer] for Sheffield?" Wanting to seem helpful, I offered, "I can pick it up now, and then come back for breakfast ..." As I had predicted, this was perfectly acceptable and, with breakfast completed, I rang the office to learn that there was nothing else going that way, and left for South Yorkshire.
This was the start of a 'changeover day'. These are either very busy or the reverse, and effect the change from early mornings to late nights. This is effected by either a slack day that leads into an afternoon job that takes all evening, or an early start that leads into an over-full day. In this instance, the latter was the case for, as I returned from Sheffield, I was asked to go straight down to Stevenage and collect something for Basildon. On the way to Basildon came another call, hinting that I would have time on the way back to call into Hertford and collect something for Chippenham. I enquired if this were the Chippenham in Wiltshire. "Yes," came the over-persuasive reply, "we did the same thing last night - it's not far." Strangely, I didn't feel over-tired, and despite disagreeing with the 'not far' argument, I said I would.
When I collected the job, I recalled an occasion that I wrote about here some months ago. The address where I was to deliver said 'Cabinet, Bumpers Lane, Chippenham.' I smiled, and realised gratefully that, as a result of that earlier job, I now knew what was meant by 'Cabinet'. When I arrived I rang the phone number I'd been given as requested on turning into the lane. "Great," came the reply, "I'll switch on my hazards so you can see me." I approached the flashing yellow lights, and pulled up at the side of the road beside the car flashing them. By the time I had gathered my clipboard, the man had got out of his car and was standing by the door. "I hope we've got the right thing this time," he said, "I've been here for three nights to get this thing to work." I took it that he had been home in between these visits. He was pleased with the two items I'd brought him, however, and gave me a cheery wave as I set off on my way home. I found that it was by then so late that the Little Chef just down the road had closed, and I had to content myself with a snack from the nearby Shell station. Once home, I was ready for bed; it was 11.25pm. 'Not far' be blowed!
When I'd got myself more or less onto an even keel on Thursday morning, I rang in about 9.0 to say I was ready for work. The acknowledgement was quickly followed by an instruction. "At 10.0, can you go over to [a Hitchin solicitor] to go to Luton. That's that covered, and you'll be on the list for later." I tidied up my desk and set off. After delivering to Luton's Court House, I returned and called in from home. Not long afterwards I was requested to go to a certain ward at Lister Hospital in Stevenage. We often get sent there to collect specimens for analysis elsewhere. What was unusual was the destination in this case, which was an organisation in Newcastle-upon-Tyne. Knowing that this was a 24-hour operation, the controller had no hesitation in getting me to make two deliveries in the Bedford area on my way north, and I arrived there at about 6.30pm. The specimen was delivered according to the instructions on the (closed) door, and I turned for home, 243 miles away. The venue for that night's meal was Washington Services, and with all the accumulated podcasts from the recent Test Match series in India to listen to, the journey home was a doddle. I scarcely noticed the incessant rain outside, as the warm van was filled with sunny thoughts of leather and willow, centuries and leg-breaks.
Yesterday morning found me arriving home with an almost empty fuel tank and calling at the local 24-hour Esso station before settling down for bed about 12.45am. After breakfast the desk claimed my attention and I caught up on two days' admin, post, e-mails and all the rest before declaring myself ready for work at 10.30. I was immediately despatched to Houghton Regis to make a collection for a customer in Hitchin. In keeping with the rest of the week, there was no respite after this, for I was sent once again to 'that' ward at Lister Hospital - this time for a more normal journey to Cambridge - and along with it a pair of drinks deliveries to a pub in St Ives and to a service station along the A1 near Stamford.
Today has seemed a little peculiar. With one more working day to go before the Christmas break, it seems sensible to delay normal weekend chores until that is past, so in a way today has been the first day of the long holiday. One or two unusual things have been attacked instead, and soon I will begin to attack the bizarre situation of a magazine arriving earlier this week before I'd even started reading the previous edition!
Saturday, 15 December 2012
A Tale of Two Parcels ...
Apologies to the late bi-centenniel Mr Dickens for the heading above, which is a more catchy than accurate title for a week's reminiscenses. At the end of a somewhat piecemeal week, yesterday's events on the domestic front are more prominent in my thoughts than the week as a whole.
After the now-preferred start to the week, Monday's men's breakfast at St Paul's Church, I returned home to wait for the day's activity to unfold. Whilst doing so, I began to draw to a close (i.e. print out) my most recent family history exercise, that of presenting my researches in a more visual form using a program called GenoPro. I've now got almost 2,800 individuals linked together on 118 separate pages. This program has been on my computer for a number of years now, but I've only recently got to grips with it. The more I use it, the less relevant it seems to my needs. It provides a good way of preparing a family tree, but a large proportion of its capabilities and also of its capacity to record personal data seem geared to a wide modern-day community rather than to a family history stretching back several centuries. <climbs off soapbox>
On the work front, I made enquiries about getting my van serviced and, in view of the mileage, the dreaded expense of having the timing belt replaced. Just after lunch, I was asked to collect from a local customer, and called at the garage en route. After a quick visual examination of the engine, the proprietor announced that this particular van has a chain rather than a belt, and therefore the much-feared expense of replacing it will not apply.
Cheered by that news, the paucity of my day's work, to Chesham and to Colnbrook seemed less daunting. This was just as well, because by the time I'd returned and collected my invoice from the office I'd broken out with a cold that seemed to have been 'brewing' over the weekend. Predictably, it got worse rather than better, and by Tuesday morning, the only sensible option was to dose myself with cold relief capsules and stay put in the warm.
Wednesday brought a welcome duo to greet my return to activity, taking me to Redditch and Chester, and a nourishing, if filling, meal at Nightowl on the way home again. Thursday found me sent (as has so often been the case of late, it seems) to King's Lynn, and while something else afterwards would have been economically welcome, the coldness of the air once I'd returned made it less attractive, and I was content to have been asked to make an 8.0 collection the next morning.
And so to a Friday that was filled up, it seems, by three unconnected jobs that afforded little rest between them. I began with a delivery made in pouring rain in the middle of Canterbury, to a restaurant in a pedestrian street that seemed to be filled with them. The rain eased as I came nearer home, but there was still a definite unpleasant drizzle as I loaded my next assignment - to deliver a fuel card and a sequence of afternoon deliveries to a wholesale chemist's delivery driver, who had been in danger of becoming stranded with an empty fuel tank in north Essex. As I told my controller, yet another case of "give Brian the novelty item"! (That's one reason I like the work.)
I came home to find both doormat and inbox filled with post, and had just made a welcome cup of tea to accompany my dealing with this, when a final call came asking me to take a computer part to a supermarket in Ipswich. This enabled me to move seamlessly from business to domestic, as I followed the delivery with a meal in their cafe before doing some shopping instead of fighting with a crowded car park at home this morning.
But what, - I hear my reader's gasp of frustration - of the two 'Dickensian' parcels? These were simply(!) a couple of items I had ordered recently online. Receiving goods by mail order is difficult. I have found it convenient to arrange for goods to be delivered where possible by Royal Mail, because if there is no one at home they leave a card and I can collect from the sorting office the following morning. A satisfactory alternative is for goods to be left by the door, inside the inner lobby shared by my myself and my next-door-neighbour, with whom I have a happy reciprocal parcel-receiving understanding. This does require an intelligent delivery agent, however; the other week I arrived home to find a parcel standing in the hallway, by the foot of the staircase and in full view of the front door!
After the now-preferred start to the week, Monday's men's breakfast at St Paul's Church, I returned home to wait for the day's activity to unfold. Whilst doing so, I began to draw to a close (i.e. print out) my most recent family history exercise, that of presenting my researches in a more visual form using a program called GenoPro. I've now got almost 2,800 individuals linked together on 118 separate pages. This program has been on my computer for a number of years now, but I've only recently got to grips with it. The more I use it, the less relevant it seems to my needs. It provides a good way of preparing a family tree, but a large proportion of its capabilities and also of its capacity to record personal data seem geared to a wide modern-day community rather than to a family history stretching back several centuries. <climbs off soapbox>
On the work front, I made enquiries about getting my van serviced and, in view of the mileage, the dreaded expense of having the timing belt replaced. Just after lunch, I was asked to collect from a local customer, and called at the garage en route. After a quick visual examination of the engine, the proprietor announced that this particular van has a chain rather than a belt, and therefore the much-feared expense of replacing it will not apply.
Cheered by that news, the paucity of my day's work, to Chesham and to Colnbrook seemed less daunting. This was just as well, because by the time I'd returned and collected my invoice from the office I'd broken out with a cold that seemed to have been 'brewing' over the weekend. Predictably, it got worse rather than better, and by Tuesday morning, the only sensible option was to dose myself with cold relief capsules and stay put in the warm.
Wednesday brought a welcome duo to greet my return to activity, taking me to Redditch and Chester, and a nourishing, if filling, meal at Nightowl on the way home again. Thursday found me sent (as has so often been the case of late, it seems) to King's Lynn, and while something else afterwards would have been economically welcome, the coldness of the air once I'd returned made it less attractive, and I was content to have been asked to make an 8.0 collection the next morning.
And so to a Friday that was filled up, it seems, by three unconnected jobs that afforded little rest between them. I began with a delivery made in pouring rain in the middle of Canterbury, to a restaurant in a pedestrian street that seemed to be filled with them. The rain eased as I came nearer home, but there was still a definite unpleasant drizzle as I loaded my next assignment - to deliver a fuel card and a sequence of afternoon deliveries to a wholesale chemist's delivery driver, who had been in danger of becoming stranded with an empty fuel tank in north Essex. As I told my controller, yet another case of "give Brian the novelty item"! (That's one reason I like the work.)
I came home to find both doormat and inbox filled with post, and had just made a welcome cup of tea to accompany my dealing with this, when a final call came asking me to take a computer part to a supermarket in Ipswich. This enabled me to move seamlessly from business to domestic, as I followed the delivery with a meal in their cafe before doing some shopping instead of fighting with a crowded car park at home this morning.
But what, - I hear my reader's gasp of frustration - of the two 'Dickensian' parcels? These were simply(!) a couple of items I had ordered recently online. Receiving goods by mail order is difficult. I have found it convenient to arrange for goods to be delivered where possible by Royal Mail, because if there is no one at home they leave a card and I can collect from the sorting office the following morning. A satisfactory alternative is for goods to be left by the door, inside the inner lobby shared by my myself and my next-door-neighbour, with whom I have a happy reciprocal parcel-receiving understanding. This does require an intelligent delivery agent, however; the other week I arrived home to find a parcel standing in the hallway, by the foot of the staircase and in full view of the front door!
Because their systems require a signature, drivers for many of the larger delivery chains will not leave goods unattended, or simply posted through the letterbox. Instead, they hunt around for someone else to sign for the goods, and then pop a note through the letterbox, saying where they have left the goods. If they find no one, they take the goods back to their depot for another try next day, again leaving a card to say what they've done. I have learned from bitter experience that they don't allow personal collections from their premises; nor do they entertain the substitution of an alternative delivery address, such as a workplace.
In the course of my own work I deliver all kinds of consignments to both business and domestic premises; the conditions under which I operate include that same general requirement for a signature on delivery. However - if it's a stated necessity of a job, or a relaxation of the normal rules that is requested by the sender - we will happily leave goods unattended or posted through a letterbox. On the other hand, we do not leave them - even if signed for - with anyone else, unless we get the express permission of the sender upon finding that the designated consignee is unavailable or unobtainable.
The other week, following up something I'd heard on the radio, I ordered a book from an online source. When it hadn't arrived ten days after it was allegedly despatched, I e-mailed the provider, only to be told to wait a further week, and then contact them again. The further week expired on Thursday and, as I thawed out from a chilling day, I repeated my e-mail, expecting that they would take matters up with their carrier. Yesterday afternoon I found it on my doormat, the carton open, and the book damaged. Without further ado, I sent a new e-mail to the provider, asking for that of the previous day to be ignored, and attaching a picture of the damage. Since this was only superficial and didn't detract from my being able to read and enjoy the contents, and it was only a secondhand paperback in the first place, I was content. I thought only that they might wish to report this to the carrier.
Later in the evening, when I returned to my desk, I discovered a prompt reply to my first e-mail, undertaking a full refund, since they weren't in a position to send a replacement for one that they thought - quite reasonably - had been lost. I have today had a reply to the second e-mail, saying that, now I've received the book after all, they'll make another charge to recover the refund - watch out for news of the credit card company becoming confused!
In my idleness on Thursday, I also ordered some ink for my computer printer from a previously reliable source offering free next-day delivery. I expected this to be lodged on one side or other of my front door when I came home yesterday. Instead, I found a little slip saying it had been left at the flat upstairs. A little annoyed, I marched upstairs ... and found that the occupier of the said flat had gone out! This morning, at what I thought to be a reasonable hour, I recovered my parcel of ink from the gentleman upstairs, disturbing his dogs in the process by my knock on the door, and through the obvious delay of getting him out of bed to answer the door, causing him a second inconvenience (the first being when UPS disturbed him yesterday to leave the parcel with him.) As I have since told the supplier, in an e-mailed report of the whole saga, it seems a totally disproportionate amount of fuss and cuffuffle for something that could have been popped through the letterbox in the first place!
Oh, for a restful Christmas! .......?!?
Sunday, 9 December 2012
Apology
It occurs to me that an opinion expressed in my previous posting could have caused offence, and I'm minded to get the apology in before people express their discomfort. I expressed my attitude to those protesting in Northern Ireland unsympatheticlly - even aggressively - in the words, 'After 90 years, welcome to the real UK!'
As I indicated recently, the purpose of this blog is to provide an insight into the life of a courier driver. That life includes periods of what would otherwise be extreme boredom, and these are relieved almost constantly by recorded or live radio broadcasts, including news bulletins. I consider that my reaction to these is also valid content for the blog.
In my blog I admitted the complexity of Northern Ireland's history. Although the area was not so designated at the time, I recognise that this complexity dates back to, and perhaps beyond, the early seventeenth century. It didn't begin in the early twentieth with the desperate attempts of a majority of its citizens to defy plans for Irish home rule, and remain within the United Kingdom. My words repeated above apparently denied the fact that they were already part of the UK when these events took place. For this apparent dismissal of their history I apologise.
I have to admit my own nationalist sympathies, which are not based on any personal history, but largely on my shame for the way the English (later British) are reported to have treated the native Irish down the centuries. Part of that ill-treatment consisted of a social invasion of their territory, ousting them from their ancient homes and with the invaders taking these lands for their own 'plantations.'
I acknowledge that the present descendants of those 'invaders' cannot bear any blame for the actions of their forbears; I suppose in my imagination I feel sympathy with those who still resent this forced sharing of space in times past. However, this attitude has no more justification than that of those who are protesting today at the removal of a particular privilege that has meant so much to them down the years, even though it brings them into line with the rest of the country.
It has been suggested that the present Unionist feelings are rooted in insecurity. I'm afraid I cannot see why they should feel insecure. Are they threatened by the proximity of the now-independent Republic that shares their island? Let me call to mind what was perhaps the darkest time in the history of Belfast, 15th April, 1941, when the city was the victim of heavy bombing by the Luftwaffe. The following passage on this subject is quoted from Wikipedia:
"Within two hours of the request for assistance,71 firemen with 13 fire tenders from Dundalk, Drogheda, Dublin, and Dún Laoghaire were on their way to cross the Irish border to assist their Belfast colleagues. In each station volunteers were asked for, as it was beyond their normal duties. In every instance, all volunteered. Taoiseach Éamon de Valera formally protested to Berlin. He followed up with a speech, made in Castlebar, Co. Mayo, the following Sunday. 'In the past, and probably in the present, too, a number of them did not see eye to eye with us politically, but they are our people – we are one and the same people – and their sorrows in the present instance are also our sorrows; and I want to say to them that any help we can give to them in the present time we will give to them whole-heartedly, believing that were the circumstances reversed they would also give us their help whole-heartedly.' "
I should like to endorse what I heard of Hilary Clinton's comments the other day, that violence has no place in dealing with differences over the present decision about flying a flag. It's my prayer that peaceful progress toward a multi-cultural democratic community in Northern Ireland will soon resume, and my earnest desire that these few paragraphs of extended apology have not made a bad situation worse.
As I indicated recently, the purpose of this blog is to provide an insight into the life of a courier driver. That life includes periods of what would otherwise be extreme boredom, and these are relieved almost constantly by recorded or live radio broadcasts, including news bulletins. I consider that my reaction to these is also valid content for the blog.
In my blog I admitted the complexity of Northern Ireland's history. Although the area was not so designated at the time, I recognise that this complexity dates back to, and perhaps beyond, the early seventeenth century. It didn't begin in the early twentieth with the desperate attempts of a majority of its citizens to defy plans for Irish home rule, and remain within the United Kingdom. My words repeated above apparently denied the fact that they were already part of the UK when these events took place. For this apparent dismissal of their history I apologise.
I have to admit my own nationalist sympathies, which are not based on any personal history, but largely on my shame for the way the English (later British) are reported to have treated the native Irish down the centuries. Part of that ill-treatment consisted of a social invasion of their territory, ousting them from their ancient homes and with the invaders taking these lands for their own 'plantations.'
I acknowledge that the present descendants of those 'invaders' cannot bear any blame for the actions of their forbears; I suppose in my imagination I feel sympathy with those who still resent this forced sharing of space in times past. However, this attitude has no more justification than that of those who are protesting today at the removal of a particular privilege that has meant so much to them down the years, even though it brings them into line with the rest of the country.
It has been suggested that the present Unionist feelings are rooted in insecurity. I'm afraid I cannot see why they should feel insecure. Are they threatened by the proximity of the now-independent Republic that shares their island? Let me call to mind what was perhaps the darkest time in the history of Belfast, 15th April, 1941, when the city was the victim of heavy bombing by the Luftwaffe. The following passage on this subject is quoted from Wikipedia:
"Within two hours of the request for assistance,71 firemen with 13 fire tenders from Dundalk, Drogheda, Dublin, and Dún Laoghaire were on their way to cross the Irish border to assist their Belfast colleagues. In each station volunteers were asked for, as it was beyond their normal duties. In every instance, all volunteered. Taoiseach Éamon de Valera formally protested to Berlin. He followed up with a speech, made in Castlebar, Co. Mayo, the following Sunday. 'In the past, and probably in the present, too, a number of them did not see eye to eye with us politically, but they are our people – we are one and the same people – and their sorrows in the present instance are also our sorrows; and I want to say to them that any help we can give to them in the present time we will give to them whole-heartedly, believing that were the circumstances reversed they would also give us their help whole-heartedly.' "
I should like to endorse what I heard of Hilary Clinton's comments the other day, that violence has no place in dealing with differences over the present decision about flying a flag. It's my prayer that peaceful progress toward a multi-cultural democratic community in Northern Ireland will soon resume, and my earnest desire that these few paragraphs of extended apology have not made a bad situation worse.
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