I think I've written here before about the way our work pattern can be classified into three 'shifts'. That doesn't mean, of course, that we are divided into three entirely separate teams who rotate their hours like shifts in a factory. The business just wouldn't operate if we were, because our work doesn't naturally fall into eight-hour units to permit such a system. Nevertheless, there are three distinct patterns, and which one we fall into on any given day is mainly dependent upon the flow of jobs through the office.
For three days this week, I have most distinctly been on 'early shift'. That means that I have been allocated a job before the office closed on the previous day, and so will be on the road by the time it opens at 8.0 in the morning. As a point of information, the second shift comprises drivers who have returned from a job during the afternoon and were therefore available for work when the office closed, but were not given work. It is then their responsibility to make themselves available by 8.0 the following morning, ready to be allocated work as soon as the phones get busy. It has been known for anyone known to the night controller as one who doesn't sleep well, or who, for any other reason is likely to be up and about early, to 'jump the queue', if he gets an early call for an urgent job. And the third shift is the term I give to drivers who are out on a job when the day closes, so they simply go to the office or phone in when they consider themselves ready for work, depending what time they might have returned home.
So, to my week. On Monday, I began with a job that wasn't included in the magnificent list presented last week, which I thought offered something of every sort. I'd forgotten a delivery to a building site, but this oversight was soon to be corrected. In Wallsend they are building a sparkling new library, and I had to take some samples for the furniture supervisor. I had visions of some difficulty carrying them - one of them was quite heavy - up to the first floor, but as luck would have it, I missed my turning into the road, and so had to drive right round the block. As I drove up to the site, one of the foremen was crossing the road, and I seized the opportunity to ask him about parking, access and so on. Once he knew what I was delivering, he told me there wouldn't be anyone there yet, but that he would willingly receive it on their behalf. I did wonder why I had been asked to be there at 8.0, but that is often down to the imagination of whoever booked the job.
Tuesday found me on second shift. By the time I'd got home on Monday afternoon, I didn't feel like doing anything else, and so after an hour or so sorting myself out at home, I drove to the office to conclude the day with the weekly paperwork exchange. Tuesday morning I did a couple of local jobs, before being sent to a factory in Wednesbury. Although I only drove through a few streets on this, my first visit there, I found it quite a nice place, with many neatly tidied-up Victorian street scenes. Despite the van windows being closed, in many places was the all-pervading smell of the ironworks. I readily admit that many would find this unpleasant but to me, not having to live with it, it's a nostalgic fragrance, reminding me of the happy time when I worked in the office of a factory that had its own small foundry. I returned about 5.30, and secured a 'second shift' place for Wednesday, too.
On Wednesday I was initially sent off on a fairly regular job for a firm in Royston, whose goods are processed at a place in Letchworth and then taken on to Daventry for further work. The usual sequence therefore is to take some pieces on one leg, make a delivery and a collection, and then do the same for the second leg, eventually returning to start with a third batch. If that's not confusing enough, this week things were further muddled, and I finished up spending virtually all day on it, along with another small job to Corby which sort of fitted alongside it. When I got home and rang in, I was surprised by the question, would I be available during the evening to collect something for the next morning. I said I could be, and was promptly allocated one of two jobs for morning delivery on Thursday, that would be ready for collection in Letchworth in a few hours' time. Mine was for Darlington, and I was also given instructions for a collection in Sheffield on my way back.
Thursday was therefore something of a re-run of Monday, but with the bonus of a second job, and the added benefit that, recognising that we were late in getting the goods, delivery was not expected until 10.0 instead of the expected 8.0 am. I was home mid afternoon, phoned in as available, and was quite pleased not to be sent out any more, except to collect an early job for this morning. Since this was for 7.0 am in Derby, the domestic routine paralleled Monday and Thursday, but of course I was home sooner, and fitted in three local jobs afterwards.
To round the week's story off, I now have instructions for a 10.0 am collection in Reading on Monday, so I can look forward to a complete, and so far as I know uncluttered, weekend, apart from a fund-raising lunch at church on Sunday to help our curate who's off on a missionary trip to Africa shortly.
Friday, 17 January 2014
Saturday, 11 January 2014
A Bit of Everything
Beyond all expectations for the start of the New Year, this week has been a good one. Apart from the tough adjustment from almost two weeks of holiday to full-on work again, a total of fifteen jobs have provided me with a complete smorgasbord of the very variety which makes this life so appealing to me.
The week began with a delivery to a shopping mall - these are often difficult because the units' back doors are rarely adequately identified. I then went on to deliver at a unit on a former airfield in North Yorkshire, complemented by the collection of marketing materials at the end of a conference at a hotel in Nottingham;
Tuesday began with a visit to a factory in Corby where I have made many deliveries in recent weeks. On arrival, it had all the appearance of being closed; the shutters were down over all of the windows, and also over the goods-in door. It transpired, after many phone calls, that the boss was still on holiday, and I was able to gain access through another entrance. Following that, I was sent further afield for a collection in Cannock - it's always a delight to be asked to "ring the office once you've delivered."
Wednesday was a 'postcode' day. The first task was to collect goods for which I subsequently realised that I hadn't been given a postcode. Fortunately it was to a hospital - they're quite difficult to miss! On the way I had one of those 'done-it-before' jobs, where you know from the pick-up point and the town it's going to just which factory it will be and who you'll meet there. When I was nearly home from these two there came another familiarity. The controller called to ask where I was; once told, he said "I need you to spin round . . ." in order to pick up a job back in the direction I'd come from. This job happened to be one where the postcode you're given leads not to the destination but to a Royal Mail Sorting Office. This one had an added twist, however, because when I phoned the consignee to ask where I should find him, I was told "I knew the postcode wouldn't get you here - I'm in the car park next door." It turned out that this was the rear entrance to a large office building, the correct postcode of which would have been of even less use!
An early collection on Thursday earned me a roadside breakfast - always an attraction. The job that followed it presented a situation where we are always advised to exercise caution. A notice outside the factory announced that the goods entrance was closed, and that deliveries were to be made to reception, which turned out to be a couple of blocks up the road. As I went to the door, I was approached by a man from the side, who asked what I'd got. A quick assessment told me that, in a closed compound, it was quite likely that he had emerged from a side door of the same building, rather than being a complete stranger, so I agreed to his suggestion that he would take and sign for my parcel - but you never know when it's your turn to be fooled!
That job should have been one of a pair, but the other one was cancelled within minutes of my being given it. Again, I was asked on the way to ring in when I was empty, and I was sent to a hotel near Heathrow, to collect from a couple of chaps in a van on a derelict site opposite, where a factory had been demolished. The day finished with a pre-load, where we collect goods late in the afternoon, ready for delivery early the next morning. This was another 'done-it-before' job, this time to Haverhill. It was followed by a 'first'. I have often heard of that famous and much-praised immigrant, the Polish plumber. Now, at a block of flats in Barnet, I made a delivery to one. On then, via this year's first experience of the M25, to Wokingham, where I encountered another familiar, but often annoying situation. I found myself at the front door of a modern building, and went in with my small parcel. Just as I was about to open the inner door I saw a notice on it, "All deliveries to the back door". In this case it involved simply a few extra steps around the outside of the building, but in central London, for example, the rear entrance could well be in another street, and while making this discovery, one could easily pick up a parking ticket from a vigilant Traffic Warden!
Friday afternoon brought another important consideration. As I collected an item at about 4.0 pm, I asked, "will there be someone there?" This is always a good idea when collecting something late in the day. During the week, an abortive attempt to make a delivery to premises that are closed for the day can mean either another journey there the next day or, if distant, the choice of finding a room for the night, or a cold night in the van, either of which is a disruption to one's personal life. On a Friday evening, however, the disruption is to the weekend: a far more serious intrusion! In this instance the factory - on the outskirts of Derby - would, I was assured, be working until 8.0 pm. My collection was accompanied by the suggestion that, if I had room, which I did, I might like to pick up from a nearby customer an 'over the weekend' pre-load, for 8.0 delivery on Monday.
This is normally acceptable, unless I've planned to shift furniture for a friend at the weekend - a rarity indeed, but an obvious conflict if so! In this case, it will be a good (if slightly on the early side) start to the next week, being to Wallsend!
The week began with a delivery to a shopping mall - these are often difficult because the units' back doors are rarely adequately identified. I then went on to deliver at a unit on a former airfield in North Yorkshire, complemented by the collection of marketing materials at the end of a conference at a hotel in Nottingham;
Tuesday began with a visit to a factory in Corby where I have made many deliveries in recent weeks. On arrival, it had all the appearance of being closed; the shutters were down over all of the windows, and also over the goods-in door. It transpired, after many phone calls, that the boss was still on holiday, and I was able to gain access through another entrance. Following that, I was sent further afield for a collection in Cannock - it's always a delight to be asked to "ring the office once you've delivered."
Wednesday was a 'postcode' day. The first task was to collect goods for which I subsequently realised that I hadn't been given a postcode. Fortunately it was to a hospital - they're quite difficult to miss! On the way I had one of those 'done-it-before' jobs, where you know from the pick-up point and the town it's going to just which factory it will be and who you'll meet there. When I was nearly home from these two there came another familiarity. The controller called to ask where I was; once told, he said "I need you to spin round . . ." in order to pick up a job back in the direction I'd come from. This job happened to be one where the postcode you're given leads not to the destination but to a Royal Mail Sorting Office. This one had an added twist, however, because when I phoned the consignee to ask where I should find him, I was told "I knew the postcode wouldn't get you here - I'm in the car park next door." It turned out that this was the rear entrance to a large office building, the correct postcode of which would have been of even less use!
An early collection on Thursday earned me a roadside breakfast - always an attraction. The job that followed it presented a situation where we are always advised to exercise caution. A notice outside the factory announced that the goods entrance was closed, and that deliveries were to be made to reception, which turned out to be a couple of blocks up the road. As I went to the door, I was approached by a man from the side, who asked what I'd got. A quick assessment told me that, in a closed compound, it was quite likely that he had emerged from a side door of the same building, rather than being a complete stranger, so I agreed to his suggestion that he would take and sign for my parcel - but you never know when it's your turn to be fooled!
That job should have been one of a pair, but the other one was cancelled within minutes of my being given it. Again, I was asked on the way to ring in when I was empty, and I was sent to a hotel near Heathrow, to collect from a couple of chaps in a van on a derelict site opposite, where a factory had been demolished. The day finished with a pre-load, where we collect goods late in the afternoon, ready for delivery early the next morning. This was another 'done-it-before' job, this time to Haverhill. It was followed by a 'first'. I have often heard of that famous and much-praised immigrant, the Polish plumber. Now, at a block of flats in Barnet, I made a delivery to one. On then, via this year's first experience of the M25, to Wokingham, where I encountered another familiar, but often annoying situation. I found myself at the front door of a modern building, and went in with my small parcel. Just as I was about to open the inner door I saw a notice on it, "All deliveries to the back door". In this case it involved simply a few extra steps around the outside of the building, but in central London, for example, the rear entrance could well be in another street, and while making this discovery, one could easily pick up a parking ticket from a vigilant Traffic Warden!
Friday afternoon brought another important consideration. As I collected an item at about 4.0 pm, I asked, "will there be someone there?" This is always a good idea when collecting something late in the day. During the week, an abortive attempt to make a delivery to premises that are closed for the day can mean either another journey there the next day or, if distant, the choice of finding a room for the night, or a cold night in the van, either of which is a disruption to one's personal life. On a Friday evening, however, the disruption is to the weekend: a far more serious intrusion! In this instance the factory - on the outskirts of Derby - would, I was assured, be working until 8.0 pm. My collection was accompanied by the suggestion that, if I had room, which I did, I might like to pick up from a nearby customer an 'over the weekend' pre-load, for 8.0 delivery on Monday.
This is normally acceptable, unless I've planned to shift furniture for a friend at the weekend - a rarity indeed, but an obvious conflict if so! In this case, it will be a good (if slightly on the early side) start to the next week, being to Wallsend!
Friday, 3 January 2014
Even on Holiday ...
Well, it's still holiday so, although it's nearly over, there are no exciting travel stories with which to enthral my readers this week . . . and only one that wasn't exciting!
At holiday times things are different - no work means no alarm clock, so I could get up when I woke up ... though there was no compulsion, and I flatly refused to do so one morning at 5.0 am! It's not only been a season of celebration, but of tidying up loose ends. Just before Christmas I checked my premium bonds, as I did some time mid-year (it's clearly not one of my priorities). I discovered that, back in July, when I was busy getting angry about a couple of prizes that I'd never received, and making declarations and arrangements for payment to be made - at that very moment - I was winning another small prize that, in its turn, wouldn't arrive on my doorstep! I wonder where they go. Is there an attractive home somewhere for misguided Bond prizes? Today, after the same catch-up procedures, (and fortunately missing hailstones as big as peas) I paid the warrant into my bank.
I've had a chance to look back and note other things that happened during the year. One of my friends spoke of carrying out a formal A to Z review, and I commented that E was for Enniskillen, where I was sent on a job during April. (You can read about it here.) This was the town where my great-uncle settled in the late nineteenth century, and when I've finished the particular slice of family history that's gripping me at the moment I intend to assail the difficult peak of on line research into Northern Irish records. The Republic is fine, and there are many pre-partition resources that cover the whole of Ireland, but the six counties post-1923 seem a closed book . . . so far as I've learned up to now, at any rate.
Today, as I walked to the bank, I reflected that there's another letter I could have added to my alphabet of 2013. W is for walking-stick, for it was last summer that I started using one. It's not that I'm really disabled, and in some ways it seems very embarrassing - almost play-acting - to carry it, but it does make walking just that bit more comfortable, and I can go to places that I'd no longer consider walking to without it. I recall my mother complaining endlessly about an ankle that had been a trouble to her as long as I can remember. Whether the problem was caused by some external assault in her youth, or had always been there I know not, nor do I know whether, if the latter, such problems can be inherited - I rather doubt it. However, there is definitely a weakness in one of mine that is difficult to describe with the kind of precision that would warrant specific treatment. It just aches if I walk very far, and with the stick I can walk further before that point is reached.
Things are different at holiday times, I said. Church on Sunday was different, too. The day began with breakfast in the church hall, where I was asked politely across a bacon roll whether I'd had a good Christmas. After affirming that I had, and replying to the next question that, yes, I had stayed at home, I added that I would be going away the next day, in order to spend the New Year with my cousin. "How far will you have to travel?" I was amazed at the precision and the casual air with which I said, "Only 105 miles!" Even in holiday mode the driver in me comes to the fore when called upon. So too, I found do traffic problems abound at holiday times. My homeward journey yesterday was somewhat in excess of that 105 miles, owing to a hold-up on the M1 that sent me halfway around Leicestershire to find a quicker route home than sitting in a traffic queue.
Am I pleased, then, that things will be back to normal on Monday? Yes, on the whole, I think I am. While all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy (they say . . . and who are 'they', to know?), I'm sure the reverse is also true - it certainly is in my case, as you can tell by the foregoing waffle!
At holiday times things are different - no work means no alarm clock, so I could get up when I woke up ... though there was no compulsion, and I flatly refused to do so one morning at 5.0 am! It's not only been a season of celebration, but of tidying up loose ends. Just before Christmas I checked my premium bonds, as I did some time mid-year (it's clearly not one of my priorities). I discovered that, back in July, when I was busy getting angry about a couple of prizes that I'd never received, and making declarations and arrangements for payment to be made - at that very moment - I was winning another small prize that, in its turn, wouldn't arrive on my doorstep! I wonder where they go. Is there an attractive home somewhere for misguided Bond prizes? Today, after the same catch-up procedures, (and fortunately missing hailstones as big as peas) I paid the warrant into my bank.
I've had a chance to look back and note other things that happened during the year. One of my friends spoke of carrying out a formal A to Z review, and I commented that E was for Enniskillen, where I was sent on a job during April. (You can read about it here.) This was the town where my great-uncle settled in the late nineteenth century, and when I've finished the particular slice of family history that's gripping me at the moment I intend to assail the difficult peak of on line research into Northern Irish records. The Republic is fine, and there are many pre-partition resources that cover the whole of Ireland, but the six counties post-1923 seem a closed book . . . so far as I've learned up to now, at any rate.
Today, as I walked to the bank, I reflected that there's another letter I could have added to my alphabet of 2013. W is for walking-stick, for it was last summer that I started using one. It's not that I'm really disabled, and in some ways it seems very embarrassing - almost play-acting - to carry it, but it does make walking just that bit more comfortable, and I can go to places that I'd no longer consider walking to without it. I recall my mother complaining endlessly about an ankle that had been a trouble to her as long as I can remember. Whether the problem was caused by some external assault in her youth, or had always been there I know not, nor do I know whether, if the latter, such problems can be inherited - I rather doubt it. However, there is definitely a weakness in one of mine that is difficult to describe with the kind of precision that would warrant specific treatment. It just aches if I walk very far, and with the stick I can walk further before that point is reached.
Things are different at holiday times, I said. Church on Sunday was different, too. The day began with breakfast in the church hall, where I was asked politely across a bacon roll whether I'd had a good Christmas. After affirming that I had, and replying to the next question that, yes, I had stayed at home, I added that I would be going away the next day, in order to spend the New Year with my cousin. "How far will you have to travel?" I was amazed at the precision and the casual air with which I said, "Only 105 miles!" Even in holiday mode the driver in me comes to the fore when called upon. So too, I found do traffic problems abound at holiday times. My homeward journey yesterday was somewhat in excess of that 105 miles, owing to a hold-up on the M1 that sent me halfway around Leicestershire to find a quicker route home than sitting in a traffic queue.
Am I pleased, then, that things will be back to normal on Monday? Yes, on the whole, I think I am. While all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy (they say . . . and who are 'they', to know?), I'm sure the reverse is also true - it certainly is in my case, as you can tell by the foregoing waffle!
Friday, 27 December 2013
It's Holiday Time!
"So," you might wonder, "How does this '24/6 (I don't work Sundays) courier' celebrate Christmas?" I'm not sure how good a picture these few paragraphs will provide, but here goes ...
As usual, a couple of weeks before the holiday a check-list arrived with the weekly invoice, asking us each to tick when we would be available over this period. I checked the slots for Monday and Tuesday, and left the rest completely blank. In former years I've tried all patterns. Sometimes I've said I'll be available most of the time, held myself in readiness, and spent days listening to a silent phone. On other occasions I've selected certain days to work and have finished up with a half-decent week. It all depends when in the week the actual festival falls. Midweek like this, there's not much chance of industry doing a lot for a fortnight, so I decided to follow suit. I added a proviso that I might phone in to see if I can be useful if I feel bored with my own company, but for the moment that doesn't seem likely.
On Monday and Tuesday, then, I was 'working'. In point of fact, this meant I went to Corby and Hatfield on Monday, and to Peterborough and Luton on Tuesday - about a day's work out of the five jobs involved. As expected, I was back home about 1.0 pm on Christmas Eve and after that the phone might as well have been switched off. I recall one year, sitting in the office waiting for work on the day before Christmas Eve, I was asked how I felt about a delivery in Cork the next day. I was up for it, but after they'd checked the ferries they realised that I wouldn't get home until about 27th December, and the customer wasn't going to pay for that!
So here I am, home alone for a week or so. There are no decorations, because I don't bother with them; it doesn't seem practical, and I don't really miss them. The windowsill is full of cards from friends and relations far and near, which are much more meaningful and important to me. With 'alternative gifts' so common these days, there are no presents to open, and I value this absence. Too much money is wasted, in my opinion, by people buying things they can't afford, for people who either won't appreciate them or don't need them - often both. I'm really pleased that I'm 'giving' lots of much needed vaccine and something to make fresh water available where they're both really needed. That's not to say that there aren't some small seasonal gifts ready for me to take next week when I visit my cousin, but I'm glad to say that we both understand the cost and the value of these expressions.
When it comes to the festive meal - I confess that my culinary skills are minimal. I'm quite happy to settle for the regular fare that keeps me ticking over for the rest of the year, supplemented by a few luxuries, such as mince pies, stollen, individual microwaveable Christmas puddings, chocolate biscuits, and the like. I realise that even these could have a serious effect on my sylph-like(!) figure, but - hey - there's plenty of opportunity to diet in the New Year!
So, what am I doing with my time? You might predict, it's family history most of the while. I read somewhere that more people take up or sustain this interest over the Christmas/New Year holiday than at any other time of the year. A cousin in the US recently provided me with a lot of information that I'm slowly incorporating into my own database, and if I can bounce it back with a few additions, it will benefit us both. While I don't have TV, there are a number of programmes that I'm catching up with on replay that I wouldn't otherwise be seeing at all, and I've caught up with some reading. Of course, behind it all is my faith and my involvement at church, the details of which belong elsewhere. Suffice to say that, despite what might seem from the foregoing to be a rather dismal time, I'm really happy. I have peace within; it's a time of consolidation and reinvigoration, and when work begins again January, I'll be able to face all that 2014 can throw at me in good heart.
As usual, a couple of weeks before the holiday a check-list arrived with the weekly invoice, asking us each to tick when we would be available over this period. I checked the slots for Monday and Tuesday, and left the rest completely blank. In former years I've tried all patterns. Sometimes I've said I'll be available most of the time, held myself in readiness, and spent days listening to a silent phone. On other occasions I've selected certain days to work and have finished up with a half-decent week. It all depends when in the week the actual festival falls. Midweek like this, there's not much chance of industry doing a lot for a fortnight, so I decided to follow suit. I added a proviso that I might phone in to see if I can be useful if I feel bored with my own company, but for the moment that doesn't seem likely.
On Monday and Tuesday, then, I was 'working'. In point of fact, this meant I went to Corby and Hatfield on Monday, and to Peterborough and Luton on Tuesday - about a day's work out of the five jobs involved. As expected, I was back home about 1.0 pm on Christmas Eve and after that the phone might as well have been switched off. I recall one year, sitting in the office waiting for work on the day before Christmas Eve, I was asked how I felt about a delivery in Cork the next day. I was up for it, but after they'd checked the ferries they realised that I wouldn't get home until about 27th December, and the customer wasn't going to pay for that!
So here I am, home alone for a week or so. There are no decorations, because I don't bother with them; it doesn't seem practical, and I don't really miss them. The windowsill is full of cards from friends and relations far and near, which are much more meaningful and important to me. With 'alternative gifts' so common these days, there are no presents to open, and I value this absence. Too much money is wasted, in my opinion, by people buying things they can't afford, for people who either won't appreciate them or don't need them - often both. I'm really pleased that I'm 'giving' lots of much needed vaccine and something to make fresh water available where they're both really needed. That's not to say that there aren't some small seasonal gifts ready for me to take next week when I visit my cousin, but I'm glad to say that we both understand the cost and the value of these expressions.
When it comes to the festive meal - I confess that my culinary skills are minimal. I'm quite happy to settle for the regular fare that keeps me ticking over for the rest of the year, supplemented by a few luxuries, such as mince pies, stollen, individual microwaveable Christmas puddings, chocolate biscuits, and the like. I realise that even these could have a serious effect on my sylph-like(!) figure, but - hey - there's plenty of opportunity to diet in the New Year!
So, what am I doing with my time? You might predict, it's family history most of the while. I read somewhere that more people take up or sustain this interest over the Christmas/New Year holiday than at any other time of the year. A cousin in the US recently provided me with a lot of information that I'm slowly incorporating into my own database, and if I can bounce it back with a few additions, it will benefit us both. While I don't have TV, there are a number of programmes that I'm catching up with on replay that I wouldn't otherwise be seeing at all, and I've caught up with some reading. Of course, behind it all is my faith and my involvement at church, the details of which belong elsewhere. Suffice to say that, despite what might seem from the foregoing to be a rather dismal time, I'm really happy. I have peace within; it's a time of consolidation and reinvigoration, and when work begins again January, I'll be able to face all that 2014 can throw at me in good heart.
Sunday, 22 December 2013
A Week of Surprises
I've spoken often about the Repeating Genie, and how curious it seems that a place, once visited after a long break, will come up again maybe the same day, or later the same week. I've found in recent weeks that this is true not only of destinations, but of customers too, Now, with the green shoots of economic recovery, there is at least a plausible reason for this, as firms come out of the doldrums, and business builds once again to a level that warrants the use of a same-day courier. But I find, too, that the phenomenon also applies to roads.
For many weeks during the autumn I seemed to be destined to travel north, with very few jobs in the south of the country. The last two weeks have addressed this imbalance. With two trips to Newport last week, I thought the genie had struck and had now had its fill of the M4. Not so, for this week started with a journey to Bristol. It was an interesting - and potentially rewarding - exercise, too. I had allowed what I thought was a reasonable excess in my timing to cope with the M25 and the Bristol rush-hour, in order to make my delivery as required by 9.00 am. Whether it was simply Monday morning clutter, or a specific problem I couldn't say, but by the time I reached the M4, most of my allowance had been consumed, and I was chewing my metaphorical nails as I drove west.
Eventually I turned in the gate at precisely 9.0, parked the van in the likeliest position and made for reception to engage some help to unload these two unwieldy boxes. What I hadn't expected was that an engineer from our customer would be waiting in reception. He was there to install the equipment I'd brought, and then would provide tuition in its use. Had I been late, his tight schedule would have been impaired. As it was, he complimented me on my timely arrival, and even said he would mention this when he got back to the office!
That wasn't the only surprise this week. After four good days, I wasn't too dismayed on Friday to have just one job. It took me across country from Sandy down to Thame, and SatNav clearly decided that, since there are no clearly-appropriate motorways, the only way is as near to a straight line as it's possible to get. As a consequence, I found myself on quite a few rural, and hence uncluttered, roads and passing through some hitherto unknown villages. It was a most enjoyable experience, which was followed by the never-innocent enquiry whether or not I might be available for a job on Saturday. When I answered that I could be, provided I did my shopping on Friday evening, I was asked to present myself at 3.30 at one of our 'farmyard unit' customers in a nearby village.
The result was that, yesterday morning, I learned - in as wet a way as possible - not to make assumptions. I had been loaded with a fridge-freezer, packed and sealed in its original box, to deliver to a Lady. When one is sent to Lady so-and-so at an address that comprises a single-word house name, the name of the village and a postcode, what picture comes into one's mind? My history-soaked imagination took me to a many-roomed ancient pile in a vast estate, to which I would gain access down a long, winding and ill-kept drive. There I would be confronted by a heavy oaken door, with studs and a handle that would creak when turned, opening to reveal a quarry-tiled barn of a kitchen. I would be helped to carry the fridge in from the van by an ageing servant, taking care not to leave dirty footmarks on the floor as I did so.
My van, by contrast, took me to a pleasant country lane, with meadowland on one side and on the other a sequence of houses and bungalows, some of which were part of a modern estate running behind the lane, while others had drives that opened onto it. I turned down a short, straight and well-surfaced drive at the end of which was a decent-sized bungalow, with a double garage and a convenient turning to the front door. When I pushed the bell, I looked through the falling rain at the closed curtains of what I took to be the lounge window and realised that I'd hopelessly over-compensated for my tight timing to Bristol earlier in the week. The door was opened quite promptly by a petite, grey-haired lady in a dressing gown. With no hint of annoyance at being disturbed so early, she brightly told me that I was delivering a fridge, explained that there was a back door and suggested that I reverse the van toward it while she go though the kitchen to unfasten it.
By the time the van was in position and the doors open, her Ladyship had re-appeared at the now-opened back door. The fridge was quite easily tilted out of the van, and stepped across the remaining few feet of the soaking wet concrete to the door. There was just enough leeway to edge it up onto the threshold, and once the mats had been removed, through the utility area and into the kitchen. A few moments of polite conversation accompanied the inevitable collection of name and signature on my sheet and, with the business of the day done, I could retrace my steps, stopping for a much-longed-for breakfast at the Route 23 Diner before heading home to the rest of my pre-Christmas weekend.
For many weeks during the autumn I seemed to be destined to travel north, with very few jobs in the south of the country. The last two weeks have addressed this imbalance. With two trips to Newport last week, I thought the genie had struck and had now had its fill of the M4. Not so, for this week started with a journey to Bristol. It was an interesting - and potentially rewarding - exercise, too. I had allowed what I thought was a reasonable excess in my timing to cope with the M25 and the Bristol rush-hour, in order to make my delivery as required by 9.00 am. Whether it was simply Monday morning clutter, or a specific problem I couldn't say, but by the time I reached the M4, most of my allowance had been consumed, and I was chewing my metaphorical nails as I drove west.
Eventually I turned in the gate at precisely 9.0, parked the van in the likeliest position and made for reception to engage some help to unload these two unwieldy boxes. What I hadn't expected was that an engineer from our customer would be waiting in reception. He was there to install the equipment I'd brought, and then would provide tuition in its use. Had I been late, his tight schedule would have been impaired. As it was, he complimented me on my timely arrival, and even said he would mention this when he got back to the office!
That wasn't the only surprise this week. After four good days, I wasn't too dismayed on Friday to have just one job. It took me across country from Sandy down to Thame, and SatNav clearly decided that, since there are no clearly-appropriate motorways, the only way is as near to a straight line as it's possible to get. As a consequence, I found myself on quite a few rural, and hence uncluttered, roads and passing through some hitherto unknown villages. It was a most enjoyable experience, which was followed by the never-innocent enquiry whether or not I might be available for a job on Saturday. When I answered that I could be, provided I did my shopping on Friday evening, I was asked to present myself at 3.30 at one of our 'farmyard unit' customers in a nearby village.
The result was that, yesterday morning, I learned - in as wet a way as possible - not to make assumptions. I had been loaded with a fridge-freezer, packed and sealed in its original box, to deliver to a Lady. When one is sent to Lady so-and-so at an address that comprises a single-word house name, the name of the village and a postcode, what picture comes into one's mind? My history-soaked imagination took me to a many-roomed ancient pile in a vast estate, to which I would gain access down a long, winding and ill-kept drive. There I would be confronted by a heavy oaken door, with studs and a handle that would creak when turned, opening to reveal a quarry-tiled barn of a kitchen. I would be helped to carry the fridge in from the van by an ageing servant, taking care not to leave dirty footmarks on the floor as I did so.
My van, by contrast, took me to a pleasant country lane, with meadowland on one side and on the other a sequence of houses and bungalows, some of which were part of a modern estate running behind the lane, while others had drives that opened onto it. I turned down a short, straight and well-surfaced drive at the end of which was a decent-sized bungalow, with a double garage and a convenient turning to the front door. When I pushed the bell, I looked through the falling rain at the closed curtains of what I took to be the lounge window and realised that I'd hopelessly over-compensated for my tight timing to Bristol earlier in the week. The door was opened quite promptly by a petite, grey-haired lady in a dressing gown. With no hint of annoyance at being disturbed so early, she brightly told me that I was delivering a fridge, explained that there was a back door and suggested that I reverse the van toward it while she go though the kitchen to unfasten it.
By the time the van was in position and the doors open, her Ladyship had re-appeared at the now-opened back door. The fridge was quite easily tilted out of the van, and stepped across the remaining few feet of the soaking wet concrete to the door. There was just enough leeway to edge it up onto the threshold, and once the mats had been removed, through the utility area and into the kitchen. A few moments of polite conversation accompanied the inevitable collection of name and signature on my sheet and, with the business of the day done, I could retrace my steps, stopping for a much-longed-for breakfast at the Route 23 Diner before heading home to the rest of my pre-Christmas weekend.
Saturday, 14 December 2013
A 'Matchsticks' Week
There's a story - probably apocryphal, but you never know - about an American tourist who looked out of the coach window, and down at his itinerary, and then said to his companion, "It's Thursday; this must be Belgium." It's that same fogginess through which I'm peering today, as I see filled shopping bags on my kitchen worktop and think to myself, "It's Sainsbury's; this must be Saturday!"
The week began with a kind of forced holiday. Last Saturday as I drove to church for the regular monthly coffee morning, I noticed that my battery warning light was flashing. I spun around the penultimate roundabout and went instead to the garage, confident that there would be someone there who could tell me how serious this was. It was serious. The battery wasn't charging, and the only power I had until they could replace the alternator was the fast-diminishing charge that it presently held. I decided that I'd leave the van at the garage on my way back from church, rather than use it over the weekend and risk being stranded somewhere. At least the garage is only ten minutes' walk from home. Consequently I walked to church on Sunday, had a lay-in on Monday, and only ventured forth when the garage called me mid-afternoon to say all had been fixed.
No sooner had I got home and phoned the office to say that I was no longer the proverbial 'cowboy without a horse', than the week took off. Within an hour I'd been given a job to an industrial estate on the outskirts of Peterborough, and on the way received instructions for a 7.0 collection the following morning for Norwich. The pattern for the rest of the week was set when, on the way back from Norwich I was given a job for Reading, and before I'd picked this up a further call suggested that once I'd done so, I might like to collect three boxes from a firm of advertising agents in nearby Hitchin for Newport. As darkness fell on Tuesday, therefore, I was delivering custom-made festive garlands to a cafe franchise in a supermarket 170 or so miles from home.
I stopped for a rest and a meal at Membury services, but not before I was asked if I'd be able to make a 7.30 collection in Letchworth on Wednesday morning. This went to Haverhill - a regular run - and the day looked like being a tame follow-up to the previous day's exertions. From Haverhill I returned via the office for the weekly paperwork exchange, and then home for about an hour, which neatly coincided with my landlord's agent's quarterly visit. I hadn't met this particular member of staff, who usually admits herself with the office key. On this occasion, with her key poised over the keyhole, she was somewhat startled by my arrival. Introductions were made and, after a brief but pleasant exchange, I bade her farewell and sat down to open the Christmas cards that we had collected from the doormat on entry.
Three local jobs then quickly came my way, the third of which was a return run from Haverhill to the place where the day had begun in Letchworth. I had barely returned from that when dreams of an evening to catch up on admin were shattered. Would I please visit a local company in Letchworth and collect an urgent job to go to Redditch. When I arrived there, and found that SatNav took me to the far end of an industrial estate, trying to direct me to drive through the fence at the end, memory kicked in, and I remembered a rainy lunchtime (which later research told me was exactly a year ago) when I'd made that same discovery. I knew where to find the correct destination, and just made it as the last member of staff was about to leave. A meal in the truck-stop at Rugby, and the need to negotiate a local road closure for night-time maintenance, brought the day to a conclusion at about 10.0 again.
Thursday began in a more normal manner, and after a late breakfast and a little admin I rang the office as 'available' at about 9.30. Within a few minutes I was asked to go and meet another driver across the town, who would give me a job to go to a warehouse near Ely for a well-known London store. I had been home less than an hour when I was called to collect from a factory in Flitwick, to go to Stoke Mandeville. I'd taken a few minutes to save what I was doing on the computer, and shut this down, so when the phone went again to ask how far I'd got, I had to admit that I'd only just finished entering the address on my sheet, and was about to start the engine. That was perfect, as it happened, for I was asked to visit a warehouse in Letchworth first, and collect a couple of items for a hospital in Malpas, a repeat of a job I'd done less than three weeks ago. Unfortunately, the diversion to Stoke Mandeville made it somewhat later when I got to Newport this time, and when I arrived at Magor services their restaurant had closed.
I decided to press on and stopped at the next services, Leigh Delamare, where I arrived about 8.40pm. Good, there were still people eating in the restaurant, and as I approached the servery I could see there was food in the bins. I did have to wait a while for a member of staff to appear, however, and when she arrived the lady said, "Sorry, we're closed; we close at 8.30." She didn't seem aggressive in her manner, though, and I pressed my need, explaining that I'd just had a long and arduous journey to the hospital in Newport, and - I pointed to my jersey, bearing the name 'Letchworth Couriers' - I had over 100 miles further to travel to get home. She undertook to speak to her supervisor. I repeated my tale of woe to the supervisor, a younger and more positive woman. I pointed to the steaming food beside us at the counter. She explained that they were closed, and she couldn't take any money from me because they had cashed up for the day. I offered to hand her the appropriate amount of cash to look after so that she could process it the next day. This counted for naught, and the discussion continued. Meanwhile the elder lady (how common sense comes with age!), realising no doubt, that the food before us would shortly be chucked into the bin, was filling a plate with sausages and chips. "Do you want beans?" she interjected, opening the lid to reveal a gooey mess with few actual beans present. "How about peas?" I told her peas would be lovely. She had clearly taken over from her supervisor, who stared, helpless, at what was going on. I reached for my pocket to pay; they repeated in chorus, "No, we can't take any money." and the elder lady added, pushing the plate to me, "That's all right, love, go on."
After three late nights, two of them following early starts, I was glad of what seemed to be a gentle Friday. I rang in as available around 10.0, and was fairly swiftly sent to St Albans and Hounslow, the latter resulting from a collection at a farm-workshop in a tiny Hertfordshire village I'd never heard of. Home once more, I turned to my desk, where my printer had developed a rebellious streak and wasn't doing what it was told. With this still unresolved, I received a call for a local job to the middle of Hitchin. Then came the 'killer blow' of the week. Before I'd returned from this, I was called to collect some metal from Biggleswade that was required urgently in Thame; while still on the way there came another call, suggesting that I take this via Houghton Regis, where I could collect an envelope destined for a village only five miles away from Thame, and as I was on my way between these two collections, a third call announced a job going from Letchworth to Aylesbury. We agreed that this last one would add so much to the overall journey as to be a non-starter, and it was given to another driver.
The final job of the day, the envelope, was addressed to 'The Grange', which proved to be at the far end of a narrow lane. The journey to find it was surprisingly easy, until I turned into the lane. Round the first bend, I found myself face to face with a large saloon which must have emerged from one of the only two houses along the lane. With nowhere to turn round, of course, my only option was to reverse to the corner. Sadly my only option was to reverse to the corner, which isn't easy when the headlights of the car in front advance a yard-and-a-bit for every yard you reverse before it. Some people seem unable to consider the difficulties of driving a vehicle whose only rear vision is in side mirrors, into which one has to look forward!
As Christmas draws near, I can expect another week of this; at least I know that it will begin with no men's breakfast at the church - I shall be on my way to Bristol!
The week began with a kind of forced holiday. Last Saturday as I drove to church for the regular monthly coffee morning, I noticed that my battery warning light was flashing. I spun around the penultimate roundabout and went instead to the garage, confident that there would be someone there who could tell me how serious this was. It was serious. The battery wasn't charging, and the only power I had until they could replace the alternator was the fast-diminishing charge that it presently held. I decided that I'd leave the van at the garage on my way back from church, rather than use it over the weekend and risk being stranded somewhere. At least the garage is only ten minutes' walk from home. Consequently I walked to church on Sunday, had a lay-in on Monday, and only ventured forth when the garage called me mid-afternoon to say all had been fixed.
No sooner had I got home and phoned the office to say that I was no longer the proverbial 'cowboy without a horse', than the week took off. Within an hour I'd been given a job to an industrial estate on the outskirts of Peterborough, and on the way received instructions for a 7.0 collection the following morning for Norwich. The pattern for the rest of the week was set when, on the way back from Norwich I was given a job for Reading, and before I'd picked this up a further call suggested that once I'd done so, I might like to collect three boxes from a firm of advertising agents in nearby Hitchin for Newport. As darkness fell on Tuesday, therefore, I was delivering custom-made festive garlands to a cafe franchise in a supermarket 170 or so miles from home.
I stopped for a rest and a meal at Membury services, but not before I was asked if I'd be able to make a 7.30 collection in Letchworth on Wednesday morning. This went to Haverhill - a regular run - and the day looked like being a tame follow-up to the previous day's exertions. From Haverhill I returned via the office for the weekly paperwork exchange, and then home for about an hour, which neatly coincided with my landlord's agent's quarterly visit. I hadn't met this particular member of staff, who usually admits herself with the office key. On this occasion, with her key poised over the keyhole, she was somewhat startled by my arrival. Introductions were made and, after a brief but pleasant exchange, I bade her farewell and sat down to open the Christmas cards that we had collected from the doormat on entry.
Three local jobs then quickly came my way, the third of which was a return run from Haverhill to the place where the day had begun in Letchworth. I had barely returned from that when dreams of an evening to catch up on admin were shattered. Would I please visit a local company in Letchworth and collect an urgent job to go to Redditch. When I arrived there, and found that SatNav took me to the far end of an industrial estate, trying to direct me to drive through the fence at the end, memory kicked in, and I remembered a rainy lunchtime (which later research told me was exactly a year ago) when I'd made that same discovery. I knew where to find the correct destination, and just made it as the last member of staff was about to leave. A meal in the truck-stop at Rugby, and the need to negotiate a local road closure for night-time maintenance, brought the day to a conclusion at about 10.0 again.
Thursday began in a more normal manner, and after a late breakfast and a little admin I rang the office as 'available' at about 9.30. Within a few minutes I was asked to go and meet another driver across the town, who would give me a job to go to a warehouse near Ely for a well-known London store. I had been home less than an hour when I was called to collect from a factory in Flitwick, to go to Stoke Mandeville. I'd taken a few minutes to save what I was doing on the computer, and shut this down, so when the phone went again to ask how far I'd got, I had to admit that I'd only just finished entering the address on my sheet, and was about to start the engine. That was perfect, as it happened, for I was asked to visit a warehouse in Letchworth first, and collect a couple of items for a hospital in Malpas, a repeat of a job I'd done less than three weeks ago. Unfortunately, the diversion to Stoke Mandeville made it somewhat later when I got to Newport this time, and when I arrived at Magor services their restaurant had closed.
I decided to press on and stopped at the next services, Leigh Delamare, where I arrived about 8.40pm. Good, there were still people eating in the restaurant, and as I approached the servery I could see there was food in the bins. I did have to wait a while for a member of staff to appear, however, and when she arrived the lady said, "Sorry, we're closed; we close at 8.30." She didn't seem aggressive in her manner, though, and I pressed my need, explaining that I'd just had a long and arduous journey to the hospital in Newport, and - I pointed to my jersey, bearing the name 'Letchworth Couriers' - I had over 100 miles further to travel to get home. She undertook to speak to her supervisor. I repeated my tale of woe to the supervisor, a younger and more positive woman. I pointed to the steaming food beside us at the counter. She explained that they were closed, and she couldn't take any money from me because they had cashed up for the day. I offered to hand her the appropriate amount of cash to look after so that she could process it the next day. This counted for naught, and the discussion continued. Meanwhile the elder lady (how common sense comes with age!), realising no doubt, that the food before us would shortly be chucked into the bin, was filling a plate with sausages and chips. "Do you want beans?" she interjected, opening the lid to reveal a gooey mess with few actual beans present. "How about peas?" I told her peas would be lovely. She had clearly taken over from her supervisor, who stared, helpless, at what was going on. I reached for my pocket to pay; they repeated in chorus, "No, we can't take any money." and the elder lady added, pushing the plate to me, "That's all right, love, go on."
After three late nights, two of them following early starts, I was glad of what seemed to be a gentle Friday. I rang in as available around 10.0, and was fairly swiftly sent to St Albans and Hounslow, the latter resulting from a collection at a farm-workshop in a tiny Hertfordshire village I'd never heard of. Home once more, I turned to my desk, where my printer had developed a rebellious streak and wasn't doing what it was told. With this still unresolved, I received a call for a local job to the middle of Hitchin. Then came the 'killer blow' of the week. Before I'd returned from this, I was called to collect some metal from Biggleswade that was required urgently in Thame; while still on the way there came another call, suggesting that I take this via Houghton Regis, where I could collect an envelope destined for a village only five miles away from Thame, and as I was on my way between these two collections, a third call announced a job going from Letchworth to Aylesbury. We agreed that this last one would add so much to the overall journey as to be a non-starter, and it was given to another driver.
The final job of the day, the envelope, was addressed to 'The Grange', which proved to be at the far end of a narrow lane. The journey to find it was surprisingly easy, until I turned into the lane. Round the first bend, I found myself face to face with a large saloon which must have emerged from one of the only two houses along the lane. With nowhere to turn round, of course, my only option was to reverse to the corner. Sadly my only option was to reverse to the corner, which isn't easy when the headlights of the car in front advance a yard-and-a-bit for every yard you reverse before it. Some people seem unable to consider the difficulties of driving a vehicle whose only rear vision is in side mirrors, into which one has to look forward!
As Christmas draws near, I can expect another week of this; at least I know that it will begin with no men's breakfast at the church - I shall be on my way to Bristol!
Saturday, 7 December 2013
More Bread and Butter
It's been another of those busy weeks when most of the work has been fairly short-range, but with a couple of longer jobs to bulk it up. Monday started with a trip from Royston to Long Eaton, with a little job from a nearby village to Huntingdon on the way . . . but then it finished, because by the time I'd returned home it was almost dark, and time to look to the next day. The evening's ringing was quite fun, though.
Tuesday was almost similar. Coventry was the morning's destination, but the factory I visited was right beside the eastbound A45. In quieter times, it had had an entrance from the main road, but this has long since been locked, and grass has grown all round the gate. Instead access is now from a local road, involving a detour of several miles once I'd passed the beautiful art deco front of the building. Again home well into the afternoon, but two complementary jobs to Luton finished the day nicely, and I was also allocated an early start for the following morning.
6.00am found me at a depot in Shefford, to collect some kerbstones - special ones with inspection 'lids' - to deliver to the site of what appears to be quite a substantial extension to Bristol Parkway station. It was the preliminary to quite a long day, because when almost home I was diverted onto a local job, and then on to a strange pairing of Haverhill with Thetford that kept me out until about 9.30pm, by the time I'd enjoyed a Little Chef curry on my way home.
Thursday was quite revealing (apart from being rather wet!) After a delivery in Stewartby - a strange village whose history I have yet to learn, but is, I believe, all tied up with the former brick-making industry - I was off to Birmingham, where I delivered to an inner-city factory. As I took a sharp left-hand turn into the street, I was quite intrigued by a small estate of modern houses on the side opposite me. I then saw two Victorian warehouses on the near side, with a narrow passage between them, and the name of my target company on a board on one side of the opening. Driving down was no real problem, and the heavy rainfall made it essential, to get as close to the destination as possible. I did have misgivings about reversing out into the street afterwards, though. I needn't have worried.
As I discovered when I examined the location on Google Earth in the evening, the site is triangular, with one point being the entrance into which I now drove. The opposite side of the triangle is formed by a large building, the far side of which faces the Birmingham Canal. My delivery was to the factory on the left, and after he'd moved their lorry from in front of it, the man who greeted me indicated that I should drive right inside. I should think it was half the size of a football pitch, with a roof almost entirely of glass, so it was quite light and airy. A delivery that I had first viewed with trepidation proved to be a doddle!
Yesterday, too, was interesting - although in a completely different way. Two familiar jobs began the day, first to Pinewood Studios and then over to Suffolk to a factory on a former airfield near Beccles. Returning home about 4.00, I could be forgiven for thinking that, on past performance, the working week was now over. Not so. An hour later, I was asked to collect a small consignment of wine to go to a nearby luxury restaurant-cum-golf course. I arrived in darkness, but SatNav took me to the very door. The problem was that they had already received their wine delivery. This was for an event taking place in another part of the estate. I tried in vain to locate this, following one path and then another in the darkness. Then suddenly, a young lady on a golf buggy drove up and asked if I needed any help. My explanation was greeted by an expression of delight, "You're a life-saver! That's for us - shall I lead the way?" "I'm usually told that when I visit a hospital," I retorted gently, but my problem was solved and I was more than happy to accept the offer.
On the home front, I have been pleased this week to renew my electronic acquaintance with a distant cousin in the USA. She has furnished me with some more details of our common ancestry, so once a few regular chores are out of the way I shall look forward to digging into these with a view to extending my family tree by a few more twigs.
Tuesday was almost similar. Coventry was the morning's destination, but the factory I visited was right beside the eastbound A45. In quieter times, it had had an entrance from the main road, but this has long since been locked, and grass has grown all round the gate. Instead access is now from a local road, involving a detour of several miles once I'd passed the beautiful art deco front of the building. Again home well into the afternoon, but two complementary jobs to Luton finished the day nicely, and I was also allocated an early start for the following morning.
6.00am found me at a depot in Shefford, to collect some kerbstones - special ones with inspection 'lids' - to deliver to the site of what appears to be quite a substantial extension to Bristol Parkway station. It was the preliminary to quite a long day, because when almost home I was diverted onto a local job, and then on to a strange pairing of Haverhill with Thetford that kept me out until about 9.30pm, by the time I'd enjoyed a Little Chef curry on my way home.
Thursday was quite revealing (apart from being rather wet!) After a delivery in Stewartby - a strange village whose history I have yet to learn, but is, I believe, all tied up with the former brick-making industry - I was off to Birmingham, where I delivered to an inner-city factory. As I took a sharp left-hand turn into the street, I was quite intrigued by a small estate of modern houses on the side opposite me. I then saw two Victorian warehouses on the near side, with a narrow passage between them, and the name of my target company on a board on one side of the opening. Driving down was no real problem, and the heavy rainfall made it essential, to get as close to the destination as possible. I did have misgivings about reversing out into the street afterwards, though. I needn't have worried.
As I discovered when I examined the location on Google Earth in the evening, the site is triangular, with one point being the entrance into which I now drove. The opposite side of the triangle is formed by a large building, the far side of which faces the Birmingham Canal. My delivery was to the factory on the left, and after he'd moved their lorry from in front of it, the man who greeted me indicated that I should drive right inside. I should think it was half the size of a football pitch, with a roof almost entirely of glass, so it was quite light and airy. A delivery that I had first viewed with trepidation proved to be a doddle!
Yesterday, too, was interesting - although in a completely different way. Two familiar jobs began the day, first to Pinewood Studios and then over to Suffolk to a factory on a former airfield near Beccles. Returning home about 4.00, I could be forgiven for thinking that, on past performance, the working week was now over. Not so. An hour later, I was asked to collect a small consignment of wine to go to a nearby luxury restaurant-cum-golf course. I arrived in darkness, but SatNav took me to the very door. The problem was that they had already received their wine delivery. This was for an event taking place in another part of the estate. I tried in vain to locate this, following one path and then another in the darkness. Then suddenly, a young lady on a golf buggy drove up and asked if I needed any help. My explanation was greeted by an expression of delight, "You're a life-saver! That's for us - shall I lead the way?" "I'm usually told that when I visit a hospital," I retorted gently, but my problem was solved and I was more than happy to accept the offer.
On the home front, I have been pleased this week to renew my electronic acquaintance with a distant cousin in the USA. She has furnished me with some more details of our common ancestry, so once a few regular chores are out of the way I shall look forward to digging into these with a view to extending my family tree by a few more twigs.
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