When I set up this blog, I chose the name Fourwheeler because I drive something with four wheels. Although I have no intention of changing the name, I have to remember that I now possess eight wheels: four on the van, and four on the motorhome ... a fact of which I was reminded with financial force this week.
Now I'm only working some weeks and not others, I try to fit servicing and detractions of that sort into the weeks when I'm not working. So I'd booked the van in for a service on Monday. While the van was at the garage, I gave the bus pass some exercise and did a couple of errands. One of these was the renewal of my passport, and once I'd got the pictures, I returned home to complete the form, which wasn't so formidable as it appeared. While I exercised my body by walking to the post office with this, I learned that the van was now ready, so made a neat circuit to complete the day's business.
Tuesday was more practical. A number of things had hit my 'to-do list' regarding preparing the motorhome for its first serious outing after Easter, so I took advantage of the warmer day to clean the roof vents, empty the water tank and fill it with fresh water, and generally clean up the interior. Then off to the tyre specialists. I had noticed that the tread pattern on one of the front tyres didn't match the other three, although the treads looked OK on them all, But you never know, appearances can be deceptive; it was well that I went. Three of the wheels were found still to have the original tyres that were fitted when the vehicle was built in 1997/8 (and the fourth was on the spare wheel underneath). The outcome was four new tyres. At least I shall know what to expect if I still have the motorhome in four years' time (the recommended change interval for this class of vehicle)!
In the evening, I decided to visit nearby Hertford, our county town. It's a pretty market town, with a long history (unlike my home town, founded in 1903), but, apart from work, I go there so rarely that I know little of it. I had seen that the local museum's Friends were hosting a talk based on the diaries of a local dignitary around the end of the 18th century. The first hurdle was coping with the car park, where a notice announced that, even though because of the hour parking was free, a ticket must be displayed. However, it wasn't clear how to persuade the machine to issue a ticket without first inserting a coin. As I mused upon this problem, a kind-spirited local came along, pushed the green button, and said, 'Here, have this one!'
I then made my way to the nearby hall. It's a modern building, with a partition across the main room, enabling it to be hired in two halves as required. Unfortunately this was still in place, so there was considerable kerfuffle while it was skillfully removed by someone who was more familiar with this that I had been with the car park machine! Then came the organisation's Annual General Meeting - unexpected, but efficiently executed - before the talk finally got under way about half an hour later than the advertised time. I did find it well worth the adventure, though, and came home satisfied.
The highlight of Wednesday was, surprisingly, a funeral. The daughter of one of our parishioners had died some weeks ago while abroad on holiday. At last the body had been recovered and all the official procedures completed, so at last the funeral could take place. I was one of a number of representatives of our congregation who had gone along to support the mother of the deceased, a small, unimposing woman, whom one would sometimes see serving coffee, but otherwise was just another 'face in the crowd'. I hadn't expected to find the church so full. However, this lady was part of a large family, and the daughter had been a successful business-woman in earlier years. There were many personal tributes, and much emotion, as one might expect, and amidst them came the moving rendition of an appropriate song by one of her daughters, possessed of a most powerful voice.
Perhaps the greatest moment of the event for me was emerging from the church to see waiting outside, with the coffin now inside it, the most magnificent hearse I have ever seen. I wouldn't have been out of place on the stage for Snowhite or Cinderella: bright white and shining gold, a crystal coach, drawn by two great white horses with red plumes, the whole crowned by a top-hatted coachman to steer the way. It was a fitting finish for someone so clearly dearly loved.
And finally ... earlier in the week my attention had been drawn to the re-showing by the BBC of a two-part journey around Ireland made at the time of his retirement by Sir Terry Wogan, and first broadcast in January 2011. I had watched it at the time, but seeing it again now it had a greater impact because of two intervening events in my life that took place a week apart in the spring of 2013. I have written about the actual trips on this blog here and here.
Because of the route Sir Terry had taken these were revealed to me in reverse order, but following the sequence of the BBC, the 'first' of these was the fact that he said that his father had been born in Enniskerry. The name rang a bell at the time, but when he explained that the whole village worked for - indeed was owned by - Lord Powerscourt, and later visited the village and estate (episode 1, about 8 minutes in), I was sure that this was where I'd delivered early on a Monday morning, before venturing into the Wicklow Hills, and to Wicklow town itself.
The second event took place some six days previously, and is more personal. About 22 minutes into episode 2, after Sir Terry's visit to Derry, suddenly out of nowhere there emerged on the screen a picture that I have only secondhand, but instantly recognised. The Wogan limo was driving around the war memorial in Enniskillen, made famous by the IRA bombing on Remembrance Day 1987. I didn't get to see it when I visited the town in search of evidence of my great uncle's family, but I am assured that on it are inscribed the names two of my father's cousins, Henry, who died on the first day of the Battle of the Somme, and his brother Samuel, who had been killed at Festubert in May 1915. Both had served in the Royal Inniskilling Fusiliers, successor to the 27th Regiment of Foot, which had taken my great uncle to Ireland in the 1870s.
Whatever you may think of Terry Wogan - I know he's a bit like Marmite - if you have any spark of interest in the Emerald Isle, I recommend these two hour-long programmes to you. The scenery is beautiful and some of the commentary quite instructive and revealing. They are available on i-Player for the next three-to-four weeks (but probably only in the UK).
Back to the road next week!
Saturday, 21 March 2015
Saturday, 14 March 2015
Slow, Quick, Slow, Slow, Quick
I think it was the dance-band leader Victor Sylvester who coined the original phrase, or at least who was the subject of it. Slow, slow, quick, quick, slow, was the time theme to one of the popular dances of his era. Not being a dancer at all, I have no intention of embarrassing myself by suggesting which one! Nevertheless, the idea of two of one sort and three of the opposite does characterise the past week in my working life.
After my usual early start on Monday for the men's breakfast at church, I returned home for quite a long wait, before I was given two jobs, one from Letchworth to Burnham (near Slough), and the other collecting on the way from Luton for an address not far from Heathrow airport. I'd just delivered this, when my onboard computer told me there was another job to interleave with the one I was left with, collecting from Colnbrook and delivering in Slough. That left me an almost complete afternoon to myself.
Tuesday was much better, with an early departure with a small box I had collected on my way home on Monday, to be delivered at Loughborough University by 8.30. I was home late morning, and there was just time to make a cup of tea - but not to drink it - before the second job of the day came, to take some luxury bathroom parts to a village not far from Portsmouth. Again I collected a job on the way home for the next morning, this time from nearby Stotfold, for a firm in Haverhill. This was the start of a busy but not very productive day, just returning home from one job to be given another one, and all of them quite short. I finished up at Stansted airport, at which point the vigilant Brentwood office (to whom I owed most of my Essex tour last Friday) spotted me, and offered me a run to Cardiff that evening. Ordinarily, I would have snapped this up, but having been up since 5.30 am, and now not in the habit of long runs, I was certain that I would need to stop for an essential sleep at least on the way home, if not on the outward leg! I quickly added to this the fact that, from Stansted, the logical way to Wales would be via the Severn bridge, with its associated toll, and decided against it.
Instead, on my way home I was asked to collect the regular run to Pinewood Studios, and this week I was in no mind to argue with that. Thursday morning, therefore, found me almost home, but turned around at one of the Stevenage junctions to collect from Hertford for Milton Keynes. I was back by 12.45pm, but by then the day had - almost literally - finished. I learned the next day that the phones hadn't rung at all after 2.0 pm! In a way this was a blessing in a completely different direction, however, for I found a crie-de-coeur in my inbox when I checked my e-mails, from a friend who was feeling quite swamped by pressures from a number of different sources, and sought advice and prayer. With no interruptions from incoming jobs, and yet tied to my phone and desk by still being 'on call', I was able to give considerably more time and thought than might otherwise have been the case, to devising my response.
Friday began with a regular Lenten prayer meeting at church, during which I was asked how my week was going. I suggested a long job would ease my situation greatly, and someone suggested 'perhaps Lincoln ... that's a nice peaceful direction'. A couple of hours later I was sent first to Bishops Stortford, and was almost back from there when two jobs appeared. One was to Huntingdon, the other to Hull, so the prayer was rather answered more than 100%. I returned via the truck stop near Peterborough, and was home soon after 8.30pm.
Today - apart from joining with some other men from the church making posies for tomorrow's Mothering Sunday services - I've been digging into my past, via an old photo album. Just over 25 years ago, I took my children on a camping holiday in France, and when this came up in an e-mail exchange with my daughter the other day, it revealed how different our memories were of what had taken place.
That's not to say either's recollections were in error, but simply that each of us recalled different incidents. It was the work of a little longer than I had anticipated to scan some of the pictures to send her, since this isn't something I do every day, but at last a successful transmission had been achieved, and I was able to turn my attention to the usual Saturday chores.
All in all, I think I have danced through the week quite well. It's worth trading a bow for a courtsey, anyway!
After my usual early start on Monday for the men's breakfast at church, I returned home for quite a long wait, before I was given two jobs, one from Letchworth to Burnham (near Slough), and the other collecting on the way from Luton for an address not far from Heathrow airport. I'd just delivered this, when my onboard computer told me there was another job to interleave with the one I was left with, collecting from Colnbrook and delivering in Slough. That left me an almost complete afternoon to myself.
Tuesday was much better, with an early departure with a small box I had collected on my way home on Monday, to be delivered at Loughborough University by 8.30. I was home late morning, and there was just time to make a cup of tea - but not to drink it - before the second job of the day came, to take some luxury bathroom parts to a village not far from Portsmouth. Again I collected a job on the way home for the next morning, this time from nearby Stotfold, for a firm in Haverhill. This was the start of a busy but not very productive day, just returning home from one job to be given another one, and all of them quite short. I finished up at Stansted airport, at which point the vigilant Brentwood office (to whom I owed most of my Essex tour last Friday) spotted me, and offered me a run to Cardiff that evening. Ordinarily, I would have snapped this up, but having been up since 5.30 am, and now not in the habit of long runs, I was certain that I would need to stop for an essential sleep at least on the way home, if not on the outward leg! I quickly added to this the fact that, from Stansted, the logical way to Wales would be via the Severn bridge, with its associated toll, and decided against it.
Instead, on my way home I was asked to collect the regular run to Pinewood Studios, and this week I was in no mind to argue with that. Thursday morning, therefore, found me almost home, but turned around at one of the Stevenage junctions to collect from Hertford for Milton Keynes. I was back by 12.45pm, but by then the day had - almost literally - finished. I learned the next day that the phones hadn't rung at all after 2.0 pm! In a way this was a blessing in a completely different direction, however, for I found a crie-de-coeur in my inbox when I checked my e-mails, from a friend who was feeling quite swamped by pressures from a number of different sources, and sought advice and prayer. With no interruptions from incoming jobs, and yet tied to my phone and desk by still being 'on call', I was able to give considerably more time and thought than might otherwise have been the case, to devising my response.
Friday began with a regular Lenten prayer meeting at church, during which I was asked how my week was going. I suggested a long job would ease my situation greatly, and someone suggested 'perhaps Lincoln ... that's a nice peaceful direction'. A couple of hours later I was sent first to Bishops Stortford, and was almost back from there when two jobs appeared. One was to Huntingdon, the other to Hull, so the prayer was rather answered more than 100%. I returned via the truck stop near Peterborough, and was home soon after 8.30pm.
Today - apart from joining with some other men from the church making posies for tomorrow's Mothering Sunday services - I've been digging into my past, via an old photo album. Just over 25 years ago, I took my children on a camping holiday in France, and when this came up in an e-mail exchange with my daughter the other day, it revealed how different our memories were of what had taken place.
 |
| The barrel-maker's house in beautifully medieval Riquewihr, Alsace |
All in all, I think I have danced through the week quite well. It's worth trading a bow for a courtsey, anyway!
Saturday, 7 March 2015
Looking up!
I suspect it's been that way since the stone age. As the days pass, and the sunshine - when it happens - gets warmer, we see more and more signs of spring, and we realise that the dismal days of winter are behind us. In my case, there have been other signs of the passage of time. Apart from my transition into retirement, I recall a couple of years ago when our firm moved into new offices on an industrial estate about five miles away. For those of us who live locally, this meant an additional ten unproductive miles per day, and there were a few mutterings. Then it was realised that we could be more useful if we stayed at home, nearer to the customer-base and, happily, so it proved. Last week saw the next move, as the office sorted itself out in another new location. This time it's to a modern unit here in Letchworth, and the layout is very much in keeping with other CitySprint offices I've seen in the last few months, with the control room on the upper floor. Whether the staff enjoy going up and down the stairs all day is another matter!
The week began for me with a prompt start. Having located the new office and delivered some outstanding paperwork, I was out on a job by 8.0, on my way to collect in a nearby village for an equally rural delivery near Dunmow. The day was completed by a pair of jobs to Slough and High Wycombe, which were delayed by a motorway accident. Tuesday was off to a slow start but eventually I was sent to Buckingham. After my return came a collection in Cheshunt for a customer in Buntingford. I'm always surprised how much my van will carry. This challenge accentuated my surprise, as two trolleys were wheeled out, one with three large boxes, the other with four! With one standing on end, these just filled the van, and also nonplussed the consignee, who had requested delivery to his home, only to find that these seven boxes filled the hallway and virtually prevented him going upstairs! As ever, I have no idea of the contents; I only hope he was able to deal with them before domestic upset ensued!
I've written here before about my suspicions concerning the balance between the recovery of work levels after the new year break and the possibility of uneven allocation of jobs. On Tuesday afternoon, after unrewarded availability since 2.30, I gently rejected an invitation at 4.0 to collect the next morning's delivery to Pinewood Studios, and after the controller said he'd find someone else and respected my decision to wait for something better, I wondered if I'd put my foot in it. Not so; about half-an-hour later another call brought me two 8.0 a.m. collections. One was in Stevenage for St Albans, and the other in Welwyn Garden City for Abingdon. Both the controller and I were aware that the Stevenage pick-up was from an office that opened at 7.30, and the staff there had three small boxes all ready for collection when I arrived. A nice early start like that meant that I was home in time to do other work afterwards, so when I arrived at church in the evening for a Lent study gathering (admirably complemented by an optional evening meal!), I was in a good mood!
My good mood was maintained the next day, with another early duo, this time to St Albans and Aldershot, followed by a couple of local jobs. I'd just got home from these, when the controller asked if I was able to do a hospital run from Stevenage to Cambridge. Of course I was, and this was rather mirrored by the first job I did on Friday morning, this time between hospitals in Hitchin and Sawbridgeworth. Along with this came another job to Billericay and, as I made my way along the A127 on the last stretch of that journey, I was spotted on the computer screen by the controller at Brentwood, who asked if I were interested in deliveries for him in Colchester and Braintree. I was pleased to be asked, and enjoyed the trip in the sunshine.
Luckily, although it was the first of the two to be collected, I noticed that the Braintree job was 'for delivery by 16:00', while the other was more urgent. So I was in the middle of Colchester when I received another job, this time for collection in Brightlingsea. Coincidence - or was it that Genie, since Colchester appears on my radar an average of two or three per year? - dictated that this delivery was in the next street to the one I'd just made. Even after that, the Braintree delivery was well within the time limit, and I was warmly received by the receptionist in the showroom of a new development on the outskirts of the town. The day closed with a transfer to the office in Hemel Hempstead, and I thought this might be the end of the week, but with lots of work today, my help was sought in clearing up a very local job at 8.0 this morning, covering a distance of just two miles between one depot and another of the same customer.
This has enabled me to fit in the conclusion of an experimental re-orientation of my bedroom, aimed at making better use of the heater, which is in one corner of the room. As in so many rooms, the distribution of electrical sockets in that room has never suited precisely where they were needed. For years now, I have had an extension lead stretching across the floor, under the bed, and waiting to trip me up if I'm either exceptionally tired at night, or still half asleep when I get up. Now, I've re-sourced the supply from a different socket located behind a cupboard on the other side of the room. To do this, of course, I had to empty the cupboard to move it out - inevitably prompting incidental cobweb removal - fit the plug of the extension lead, and then replace and refill the cupboard: a classic case of a two-minute job taking an hour!
Pleased with my success, I decided to take advantage of the sunshine and walk up to the local football ground, where the reserve team were playing a side from a nearby town. Sadly, although the team is called 'the Eagles', they played more like sciatic sparrows, rather in the schoolboy 'kick the ball anywhere' mode that I recall from my own young days. It's wrong of me, I know, to be so cutting without making allowances for the fact that this match was four to six leagues lower than those I usually watch, but I found it less than satisfying, and so left after the interval. I did enjoy the walk home, though, and can now look forward to another few days of fine spring weather stretching into next week. What will it hold, I wonder? ... watch this space!
The week began for me with a prompt start. Having located the new office and delivered some outstanding paperwork, I was out on a job by 8.0, on my way to collect in a nearby village for an equally rural delivery near Dunmow. The day was completed by a pair of jobs to Slough and High Wycombe, which were delayed by a motorway accident. Tuesday was off to a slow start but eventually I was sent to Buckingham. After my return came a collection in Cheshunt for a customer in Buntingford. I'm always surprised how much my van will carry. This challenge accentuated my surprise, as two trolleys were wheeled out, one with three large boxes, the other with four! With one standing on end, these just filled the van, and also nonplussed the consignee, who had requested delivery to his home, only to find that these seven boxes filled the hallway and virtually prevented him going upstairs! As ever, I have no idea of the contents; I only hope he was able to deal with them before domestic upset ensued!
I've written here before about my suspicions concerning the balance between the recovery of work levels after the new year break and the possibility of uneven allocation of jobs. On Tuesday afternoon, after unrewarded availability since 2.30, I gently rejected an invitation at 4.0 to collect the next morning's delivery to Pinewood Studios, and after the controller said he'd find someone else and respected my decision to wait for something better, I wondered if I'd put my foot in it. Not so; about half-an-hour later another call brought me two 8.0 a.m. collections. One was in Stevenage for St Albans, and the other in Welwyn Garden City for Abingdon. Both the controller and I were aware that the Stevenage pick-up was from an office that opened at 7.30, and the staff there had three small boxes all ready for collection when I arrived. A nice early start like that meant that I was home in time to do other work afterwards, so when I arrived at church in the evening for a Lent study gathering (admirably complemented by an optional evening meal!), I was in a good mood!
My good mood was maintained the next day, with another early duo, this time to St Albans and Aldershot, followed by a couple of local jobs. I'd just got home from these, when the controller asked if I was able to do a hospital run from Stevenage to Cambridge. Of course I was, and this was rather mirrored by the first job I did on Friday morning, this time between hospitals in Hitchin and Sawbridgeworth. Along with this came another job to Billericay and, as I made my way along the A127 on the last stretch of that journey, I was spotted on the computer screen by the controller at Brentwood, who asked if I were interested in deliveries for him in Colchester and Braintree. I was pleased to be asked, and enjoyed the trip in the sunshine.
Luckily, although it was the first of the two to be collected, I noticed that the Braintree job was 'for delivery by 16:00', while the other was more urgent. So I was in the middle of Colchester when I received another job, this time for collection in Brightlingsea. Coincidence - or was it that Genie, since Colchester appears on my radar an average of two or three per year? - dictated that this delivery was in the next street to the one I'd just made. Even after that, the Braintree delivery was well within the time limit, and I was warmly received by the receptionist in the showroom of a new development on the outskirts of the town. The day closed with a transfer to the office in Hemel Hempstead, and I thought this might be the end of the week, but with lots of work today, my help was sought in clearing up a very local job at 8.0 this morning, covering a distance of just two miles between one depot and another of the same customer.
This has enabled me to fit in the conclusion of an experimental re-orientation of my bedroom, aimed at making better use of the heater, which is in one corner of the room. As in so many rooms, the distribution of electrical sockets in that room has never suited precisely where they were needed. For years now, I have had an extension lead stretching across the floor, under the bed, and waiting to trip me up if I'm either exceptionally tired at night, or still half asleep when I get up. Now, I've re-sourced the supply from a different socket located behind a cupboard on the other side of the room. To do this, of course, I had to empty the cupboard to move it out - inevitably prompting incidental cobweb removal - fit the plug of the extension lead, and then replace and refill the cupboard: a classic case of a two-minute job taking an hour!
Pleased with my success, I decided to take advantage of the sunshine and walk up to the local football ground, where the reserve team were playing a side from a nearby town. Sadly, although the team is called 'the Eagles', they played more like sciatic sparrows, rather in the schoolboy 'kick the ball anywhere' mode that I recall from my own young days. It's wrong of me, I know, to be so cutting without making allowances for the fact that this match was four to six leagues lower than those I usually watch, but I found it less than satisfying, and so left after the interval. I did enjoy the walk home, though, and can now look forward to another few days of fine spring weather stretching into next week. What will it hold, I wonder? ... watch this space!
Friday, 27 February 2015
A 'Healthy' Week
I've chosen that title, not because I've been doing a lot of exercise, or visited a health farm, or anything so virtuous. It's just that my health seems to have been fairly well up in the week's agenda. This has been the second week of my much trumpeted 'Phased Retirement Plan' (I promise to put the trumpet away soon ... the same tune can get boring!), so once more there are no exciting travels to report.
The week began as usual with the early prayer breakfast for the men's group at the church. The leader's printer had run out of ink at the weekend, so he 'made do' by very efficiently reading the notes from his mobile phone! Then came my first health-y act of the week, a visit to the surgery for the annual review of how I'm coping with my mild asthma condition. This went smoothly and, after praising me for losing some weight and extolling my blood pressure, the nurse asked if I'd ever had my cholesterol level checked. When I said I didn't think so, she printed out a form for me to get an appointment to this end. Amazingly, this was arranged for the next morning, in the adjoining town.
In odd moments for the last couple of weeks I've been thinking about, and reacting to, an environmental problem posed by my motorhome. It has nothing to do with polluting the atmosphere, however, but rather with the internal environment. I'm feeling 'lost' in such a large cab, after spending much of the last twelve years and more driving a car-derived van, and I decided that a suitably modified top fitted to an existing plastic box would both overcome the difficulty of where to put things within reach, but not free to roll all over the floor, and also deal with the absence of anywhere to park a drink while on the move.
Once the idea had formed in my mind, schooldays were recalled, and the skills I'd learned in technical drawing lessons fifty years ago came to the fore. In less than an hour I'd created plans and elevations, and determined precisely how such a device could be made. The next weekend found me in a convenient DIY store purchasing materials, and this Tuesday, having returned from providing a blood sample, I was able to complete the final stages of its construction.
Wednesday's endeavours were not for my own health, but for that of the motorhome. A few weeks ago a friend pointed out some evidence of damp having been a problem in the past. Although there were no signs that water was still getting in, when I spoke to the dealer, he could see where the problem had been, and said that, to be sure that all was well now, he'd like to re-seal the mounting of the ladder on the back of the vehicle. This was the purpose of my morning excursion. Next, I performed the pre-season ritual of filling the fresh-water tank and applying a sterilising agent, in time to empty and refill it before my first 'live' expedition at Eastertime.
Fired with enthusiasm, I decided to clean the toilet, where someone - probably me - had been treading the floor with muddy shoes. While I did so, it seemed a good idea to open the window for some fresh air. The catch seemed not to meet exactly and I wondered if the window itself had slid out of alignment with the frame. A quick attempt at adjusting this sent all thoughts of the interior cleaning from my mind, as I found myself with one hand supporting the weight of the window while the other was trying to refit the top edge into the channel whence it had fallen! It soon became apparent that the only remedy was another trip to the dealer, to get it done properly ... well, in fact, to get it done at all! What a relief, I thought, to have taken the wise decision to buy the motorhome from a local dealer. How would I have coped, I wondered, if the only source of help, instruction and co-operation had been even fifty miles away ... and many of the vehicles I'd considered were being sold at the far end of the country!
Thursday was a bit of an admin day. It was raining, but I needed some shopping, and I'd also remembered that I needed to call in at the library, so why not put the two together? Sadly, after walking a few hundred yards in the rain, I discovered that the library was closed! Home once more, I dried out, and focussed my attention on tidying the desk and catching up on delayed TV programmes that had been queuing up to be watched.
Today, though, it was back to the health itinerary, with an aortic aneurism screening appointment. They do seem to focus more these days on preventative medicine, which is very reassuring. I decided to make the trip to the surgery in Hitchin for this appointment on the bus. It was an absolute delight to sit at the front and as I watched the driver navigate his long vehicle through the traffic, I recalled teenage holidays at Great Yarmouth, when I'd done the same thing. I used to follow those 'sixties drivers intently, watching how and when they used the pre-selector gearbox - something that is probably quite out of date these days - and I wonder whether the experiences of those times may have kindled my desire to drive a bigger vehicle, an ambition that I'm now able to fulfil with the motorhome.
The scan revealed no problems, but when I got home and opened the post, I found the results of the blood test, which revealed a 'raised' cholesterol level. Unexpectedly, and helpfully, this news was accompanied by some welcome notes of what foods would be useful to combat this situation, and which ones I ought to avoid. I now have a mental list of certain contents of my store-cupboard that 'should be eaten up, and then not replaced'. I felt encouraged by sentences like 'don't try to change everything at once' and 'a small change can often make a lot of difference'.
Now I'm rather looking forward to the exercise offered by a return to work on Monday!
The week began as usual with the early prayer breakfast for the men's group at the church. The leader's printer had run out of ink at the weekend, so he 'made do' by very efficiently reading the notes from his mobile phone! Then came my first health-y act of the week, a visit to the surgery for the annual review of how I'm coping with my mild asthma condition. This went smoothly and, after praising me for losing some weight and extolling my blood pressure, the nurse asked if I'd ever had my cholesterol level checked. When I said I didn't think so, she printed out a form for me to get an appointment to this end. Amazingly, this was arranged for the next morning, in the adjoining town.
In odd moments for the last couple of weeks I've been thinking about, and reacting to, an environmental problem posed by my motorhome. It has nothing to do with polluting the atmosphere, however, but rather with the internal environment. I'm feeling 'lost' in such a large cab, after spending much of the last twelve years and more driving a car-derived van, and I decided that a suitably modified top fitted to an existing plastic box would both overcome the difficulty of where to put things within reach, but not free to roll all over the floor, and also deal with the absence of anywhere to park a drink while on the move.
Once the idea had formed in my mind, schooldays were recalled, and the skills I'd learned in technical drawing lessons fifty years ago came to the fore. In less than an hour I'd created plans and elevations, and determined precisely how such a device could be made. The next weekend found me in a convenient DIY store purchasing materials, and this Tuesday, having returned from providing a blood sample, I was able to complete the final stages of its construction.
Wednesday's endeavours were not for my own health, but for that of the motorhome. A few weeks ago a friend pointed out some evidence of damp having been a problem in the past. Although there were no signs that water was still getting in, when I spoke to the dealer, he could see where the problem had been, and said that, to be sure that all was well now, he'd like to re-seal the mounting of the ladder on the back of the vehicle. This was the purpose of my morning excursion. Next, I performed the pre-season ritual of filling the fresh-water tank and applying a sterilising agent, in time to empty and refill it before my first 'live' expedition at Eastertime.
Fired with enthusiasm, I decided to clean the toilet, where someone - probably me - had been treading the floor with muddy shoes. While I did so, it seemed a good idea to open the window for some fresh air. The catch seemed not to meet exactly and I wondered if the window itself had slid out of alignment with the frame. A quick attempt at adjusting this sent all thoughts of the interior cleaning from my mind, as I found myself with one hand supporting the weight of the window while the other was trying to refit the top edge into the channel whence it had fallen! It soon became apparent that the only remedy was another trip to the dealer, to get it done properly ... well, in fact, to get it done at all! What a relief, I thought, to have taken the wise decision to buy the motorhome from a local dealer. How would I have coped, I wondered, if the only source of help, instruction and co-operation had been even fifty miles away ... and many of the vehicles I'd considered were being sold at the far end of the country!
Thursday was a bit of an admin day. It was raining, but I needed some shopping, and I'd also remembered that I needed to call in at the library, so why not put the two together? Sadly, after walking a few hundred yards in the rain, I discovered that the library was closed! Home once more, I dried out, and focussed my attention on tidying the desk and catching up on delayed TV programmes that had been queuing up to be watched.
Today, though, it was back to the health itinerary, with an aortic aneurism screening appointment. They do seem to focus more these days on preventative medicine, which is very reassuring. I decided to make the trip to the surgery in Hitchin for this appointment on the bus. It was an absolute delight to sit at the front and as I watched the driver navigate his long vehicle through the traffic, I recalled teenage holidays at Great Yarmouth, when I'd done the same thing. I used to follow those 'sixties drivers intently, watching how and when they used the pre-selector gearbox - something that is probably quite out of date these days - and I wonder whether the experiences of those times may have kindled my desire to drive a bigger vehicle, an ambition that I'm now able to fulfil with the motorhome.
The scan revealed no problems, but when I got home and opened the post, I found the results of the blood test, which revealed a 'raised' cholesterol level. Unexpectedly, and helpfully, this news was accompanied by some welcome notes of what foods would be useful to combat this situation, and which ones I ought to avoid. I now have a mental list of certain contents of my store-cupboard that 'should be eaten up, and then not replaced'. I felt encouraged by sentences like 'don't try to change everything at once' and 'a small change can often make a lot of difference'.
Now I'm rather looking forward to the exercise offered by a return to work on Monday!
Saturday, 21 February 2015
A Curate's Egg of a Week!
Yes, it's been a right mixture this week. In particular, good at the edges and bad in the middle. Monday was definitely a good day. It began with a 'regular' delivery to Pinewood Studios, after which there was time for coffee before I was sent to pick up two jobs in Stevenage, one to Cambridge, and the other to Hinchingbrooke Hospital in Huntingdon. The one to Cambridge was to a laboratory that I hadn't been to for some years, and it brought to mind an amusing exchange on that previous occasion. As she received the box I had brought her, the young lady mused, "OK, What have we here?" While she examined the paperwork, I announced that we never know what we are carrying: "It could be anything from eggs to alligators!" After what I think must have been just the right delay, I added, "mmm ... I'm not sure about the eggs, though." Seeing the bemused and rather puzzled look on her face, I explained that only a few weeks before I had been sent to a shop in Romford to collect 'a box', which was securely tied, had airholes in it, and made noises. When I delivered it, I asked what it was that I had brought, and was told that it contained two baby alligators!
Talking of humour, rural octogenarians are perhaps one of the richest sources. It was at Hinchingbrooke that I found myself walking down a corridor behind an elderly gent pushing his wife in a wheelchair. As I overtook them, I heard the lady ask her beloved, "I'm not too heavy for you to push, am I, John?" Quick as a flash, John replied, "No, dear, but that's a heavy old chair, though!"
After these amusements, I took a drinks delivery to a small pub in Attleborough, which brought the day's returns up to a most acceptable level, which was as well, for Tuesday and Wednesday were filled with annoyingly local jobs, and are best forgotten. So, too, is Thursday, although it did begin with an interesting visit to today's equivalent of a stately home, for which the modern term is - according to the board outside - 'classically styled detached villa'. This was on the outskirts of Maidenhead, where I found the actual building just about complete, and now awaiting a balustrade on the sweeping staircase in the main hall, and all the other interior floorings, fixtures and fittings. The stone above the portico reads '2015', so it's clearly intended that it will be finished this year, although it looks far from it at present.
By the time I came around the M25 on my return, the rain was just starting, and I was asked if I would do a pick-up in Welwyn Garden City on my way past to go to Dunstable. Naturally, I said this was OK, but when I got there I began to regret my willingness to co-operate. 'Dunstable' was elaborated as 'Toddington Services', and when I asked, "North- or South-bound?" I was told "both." I was then loaded with forty cases of soft drinks, duly segregated into two separate deliveries, and sent on my way. I think that it took about two hours to drive the 22 miles, locate the delivery point, attract someone's attention, unload and transfer the goods to the required location, and then cross the motorway and repeat the whole process again ... in the rain. By the time I left I was not the 'happy bunny' I prefer to be! And to crown it all, having returned home about 2.0 pm, there was no further job that afternoon. The only consolation was the later announcement that I could start Friday with a nice gentle run to Southend-on-Sea.
This was indeed pleasant, and provided a welcome contrast to the foregoing. My load was ten 25-litre containers of 'fluid', being taken to a small shop, with a parking bay right outside, in a street that wasn't too busy. I have no idea what sort of 'fluid' it was; I was simply thankful that the consignee was willing, with good humour, to carry all ten containers from the pavement into the shop. There was even a glimpse of the sea as I drove away.
Our church had decided that, on the Fridays of Lent, our normal monthly practice of a day's prayer and fasting would become a weekly event for those wishing to take part. It was therefore somewhat ironic, as I drove out of Southend on my way home, that the controller rang and said. "Pull over and have some breakfast ..." He had a pick up for me at an industrial estate in Basildon, but not for about an hour. I was pleased, though, to drive to the estate, listen to the end of a play and watch the antics of a robin and two brace of sparrows in the tree opposite. It proved a relaxing prelude to what was to follow. Having made my collection I was nearly back to Letchworth with it, when another call asked me to meet another driver, who had a chilled box to be taken on to Newmarket as soon as I had delivered my own consignment. By the time I had done this, it was about 2.0, and I could see the day ending as had the one before.
Not so. Within an hour or so, I was given two more jobs that seemed made for each other. One was from Letchworth to Northolt, the other a pick-up near Potters Bar to go to Twickenham. As I drove down the A1(M) to make the second collection, I realised that on one screen of my PDA the destination was given as TW11, but on the other it was TN11. I rang in to have this clarified, and soon afterwards the TN11 was changed to match. However, when I made the collection, I found that it was addressed to a firm in Sevenoaks! By then it was too late to have any hope of making both deliveries by the required 6.0 pm, whichever sequence I might adopt, so I sought advice from the office. After a delay of about 40 minutes, another driver met me, and we exchanged the Sevenoaks delivery for a film to be taken to a cinema in Croydon.
I made my delivery in Northolt, and SatNav then decided that the fastest route to Croydon - it was Friday evening, remember - would be an almost straight line on the map. I can't recall exactly which boroughs I passed through; many of the roads were familiar, many weren't. Some were the perfect operation of the Repeating Genie, for they were the same that I'd used last Friday morning when going from Pinewood Studios to make further deliveries in Thornton Heath and Wimbledon. I'm not a particular fan of London: in fact, when I started this work nearly thirteen years ago, I had previously driven only a handful of times anywhere within the M25! I was very glad in those early days to be stopped by a red traffic light, so I could check on the map which road I needed. Now with SatNav, however - complain about it though we might - things are totally different. With no worries at all about where I was going, all I had to think about was the traffic around me, and driving through inner London on a winter's evening was magical!
It was a long day; I didn't get home until about 10.50pm. But it was different, and in many ways the best ending for a week that would otherwise have been very 'flat.'
Talking of humour, rural octogenarians are perhaps one of the richest sources. It was at Hinchingbrooke that I found myself walking down a corridor behind an elderly gent pushing his wife in a wheelchair. As I overtook them, I heard the lady ask her beloved, "I'm not too heavy for you to push, am I, John?" Quick as a flash, John replied, "No, dear, but that's a heavy old chair, though!"
After these amusements, I took a drinks delivery to a small pub in Attleborough, which brought the day's returns up to a most acceptable level, which was as well, for Tuesday and Wednesday were filled with annoyingly local jobs, and are best forgotten. So, too, is Thursday, although it did begin with an interesting visit to today's equivalent of a stately home, for which the modern term is - according to the board outside - 'classically styled detached villa'. This was on the outskirts of Maidenhead, where I found the actual building just about complete, and now awaiting a balustrade on the sweeping staircase in the main hall, and all the other interior floorings, fixtures and fittings. The stone above the portico reads '2015', so it's clearly intended that it will be finished this year, although it looks far from it at present.
By the time I came around the M25 on my return, the rain was just starting, and I was asked if I would do a pick-up in Welwyn Garden City on my way past to go to Dunstable. Naturally, I said this was OK, but when I got there I began to regret my willingness to co-operate. 'Dunstable' was elaborated as 'Toddington Services', and when I asked, "North- or South-bound?" I was told "both." I was then loaded with forty cases of soft drinks, duly segregated into two separate deliveries, and sent on my way. I think that it took about two hours to drive the 22 miles, locate the delivery point, attract someone's attention, unload and transfer the goods to the required location, and then cross the motorway and repeat the whole process again ... in the rain. By the time I left I was not the 'happy bunny' I prefer to be! And to crown it all, having returned home about 2.0 pm, there was no further job that afternoon. The only consolation was the later announcement that I could start Friday with a nice gentle run to Southend-on-Sea.
This was indeed pleasant, and provided a welcome contrast to the foregoing. My load was ten 25-litre containers of 'fluid', being taken to a small shop, with a parking bay right outside, in a street that wasn't too busy. I have no idea what sort of 'fluid' it was; I was simply thankful that the consignee was willing, with good humour, to carry all ten containers from the pavement into the shop. There was even a glimpse of the sea as I drove away.
Our church had decided that, on the Fridays of Lent, our normal monthly practice of a day's prayer and fasting would become a weekly event for those wishing to take part. It was therefore somewhat ironic, as I drove out of Southend on my way home, that the controller rang and said. "Pull over and have some breakfast ..." He had a pick up for me at an industrial estate in Basildon, but not for about an hour. I was pleased, though, to drive to the estate, listen to the end of a play and watch the antics of a robin and two brace of sparrows in the tree opposite. It proved a relaxing prelude to what was to follow. Having made my collection I was nearly back to Letchworth with it, when another call asked me to meet another driver, who had a chilled box to be taken on to Newmarket as soon as I had delivered my own consignment. By the time I had done this, it was about 2.0, and I could see the day ending as had the one before.
Not so. Within an hour or so, I was given two more jobs that seemed made for each other. One was from Letchworth to Northolt, the other a pick-up near Potters Bar to go to Twickenham. As I drove down the A1(M) to make the second collection, I realised that on one screen of my PDA the destination was given as TW11, but on the other it was TN11. I rang in to have this clarified, and soon afterwards the TN11 was changed to match. However, when I made the collection, I found that it was addressed to a firm in Sevenoaks! By then it was too late to have any hope of making both deliveries by the required 6.0 pm, whichever sequence I might adopt, so I sought advice from the office. After a delay of about 40 minutes, another driver met me, and we exchanged the Sevenoaks delivery for a film to be taken to a cinema in Croydon.
I made my delivery in Northolt, and SatNav then decided that the fastest route to Croydon - it was Friday evening, remember - would be an almost straight line on the map. I can't recall exactly which boroughs I passed through; many of the roads were familiar, many weren't. Some were the perfect operation of the Repeating Genie, for they were the same that I'd used last Friday morning when going from Pinewood Studios to make further deliveries in Thornton Heath and Wimbledon. I'm not a particular fan of London: in fact, when I started this work nearly thirteen years ago, I had previously driven only a handful of times anywhere within the M25! I was very glad in those early days to be stopped by a red traffic light, so I could check on the map which road I needed. Now with SatNav, however - complain about it though we might - things are totally different. With no worries at all about where I was going, all I had to think about was the traffic around me, and driving through inner London on a winter's evening was magical!
It was a long day; I didn't get home until about 10.50pm. But it was different, and in many ways the best ending for a week that would otherwise have been very 'flat.'
Saturday, 14 February 2015
Wandering Mind
Have you ever emerged from a pleasant reverie and questioned just what thought sequence had led you down that track? I hesitate to call it old age, but this was my experience the other morning. Try as I might, I can't recollect what it was in either St Peter's first Epistle, or my Bible notes, that triggered this diversion, but I found myself thinking of shops in Diss during my childhood, and the fact that the names above the windows rarely matched the people inside.
Take, for example, the one that I wrote about here at some length almost three years ago. The shop was called W. Bale & Son, and I can just remember seeing the original William Bale, a short man with glasses, and also his son, another William (but always known as Billy), who had already retired when I worked in the shop in my schooldays. By then it had been sold as a going concern to the firm who ran the wine merchants across the road, John Lovibond & Sons.
Before wine had come along, these premises were part of what I suppose had been a small deparment store, known as 'Bobby's'. Here was the place to go for quality tailoring, but also for crockery and - I believe - furniture, too. One of the younger generation of the family was only a few years older than me, and I recall being in the store one day when someone came in to see him. I recall my stifled amusement when the man behind the counter referred to him as 'Mr. James'; so far as I knew the boys at school just called him Jimmy Bobby!
Just across Market Hill from this store was a chemist's shop, with a great stone façade. Carved into this, in the manner of a giant tombstone, was the name 'Gosling & Co.' The man who ran this business was William Black, a tall man with grey hair. I believe there was another man before him, a Mr. Fox, but of that I can't be sure. I think the original proprietor Mr Gosling, died early in the century. There was another chemist's shop on the opposite side of the block (which is now known for tourism purposes as the Heritage Triangle), called 'Batley & Stratton'. I remember the front opened on to a narrow pavement, made even narrower by the existence of rails outside the window. These were very useful for parking one's bicycle! Opposite this ancient store, with its double doors, so narrow that one could scarcely pass through if only one were open, was a rather shabby shopfront that was far from off-putting, in fact very attractive to young boys and girls.
The wider door of this shop opened into a broad room in which was a great table where, stacked in orderly manner, were all kinds of sweets, still in the boxes they had come in from the wholesaler. On shelves behind were large jars of more sweets, to be pulled down and weighed out by the quarter-pound ... although if our pocket money was tight, it was no trouble to provide just two ounces if we wanted. On the opposite side of the room was a display of pipes, cigarettes and tobacco, for the sign above the window - not that we ever looked at it, of course! - read 'Tobacconist and Confectioner'. My memory isn't clear, but I think the name on this sign was Hurren, although the shop was run by a couple named Forsdyke. Their advert in the parish magazine said 'AF & GB Forsdyke', anyway. I suspect that the old lady who welcomed us to her sweet emporium may have been the daughter of the original Hurren, for my mother always referred to the shop as Hurren's, and to this lady as 'Miss Hurren', which would imply that at some point she had married a Mr G. Forsdyke. Mr Forsdyke may have had another job, because he wasn't seen much in the shop. My recollection of him is of a tall slim man, usually in a formal suit, who had an elegant way of holding his cigarettes from underneath.
Behind Batley & Stratton, was a wholesale grocers, where I was often sent on errands. It was called Aldrich & Bryant, and just around the corner, beyond the Midland Bank, was the established firm of solicitors, Lyus, Burne and Lyus, always known locally as Lyus & Burne. I think both Lyuses had long since departed this life, but Dick Burne was still around in those days, a regular communicant at the early service at the parish church, and his wife was a customer at Bales'.
Like Batley & Stratton and Aldrich & Bryant, many of the other shops and businesses in the town probably began as partnerships, such as the ironmongers, Larter & Ford, whose premises ran down to the Mere, a six-acre lake around which the old town grew up. Then at the apex of the triangle was another clothing business, Aldiss & Hastings. I'm sure each of these businesses catered for their own sector of society, for there seemed ever to be a sort of 'us and them' distinction into which I grew up. So, for our clothing needs, my father - and I in his wake - would go to another shop where the name didn't fit the proprietor, Cullens, managed by Mr Alan Bailey, a very helpful man who lived on the same estate as us, and who spoke with a lisp.
And finally to mention a business that I had no dealings with, a partnership that made its fortune from that noisy invention, the motor car. Mr. Watson and Mr. Smith owned the showroom that eventually became the town's Vauxhall dealer, and - possibly in common with others in the town's history - invested their profits in the erection of houses. This pair of substantial semi-detached houses were called Cherwell Croft and Willow Brae, and stood only a little way back from that prestigious entrance to the town, Victoria Road. I have a vague recollection of the two widows, Mrs Smith being a tall lady, and Mrs Watson considerably shorter, and having a mouth always on the go ... by which I don't mean to suggest that she was a gossip, rather that she suffered from a nervous twitch. By the time I knew her, she had moved to a bungalow next door to the original houses, and it was into a flat in one of these houses - I never knew who had owned which - that I moved with my bride when first married.
All this goes to show what an uninteresting week it has been, work-wise. Although not particularly unproductive, the only day that was really full nose-to-tail was yesterday, which brought four of the week's thirteen jobs. The other days tended to stagger to a close - rather than end - mid-afternoon, and Thursday began late, because I had to resort to the van-doctor when I was threatened by that most sinister of icons in the modern vehicle, the picture of the car partly obliterated by a giant spanner! In this case the diagnosis was straightforward - replacement of glow-plugs required, but it does disrupt the flow of the week.
Take, for example, the one that I wrote about here at some length almost three years ago. The shop was called W. Bale & Son, and I can just remember seeing the original William Bale, a short man with glasses, and also his son, another William (but always known as Billy), who had already retired when I worked in the shop in my schooldays. By then it had been sold as a going concern to the firm who ran the wine merchants across the road, John Lovibond & Sons.
Before wine had come along, these premises were part of what I suppose had been a small deparment store, known as 'Bobby's'. Here was the place to go for quality tailoring, but also for crockery and - I believe - furniture, too. One of the younger generation of the family was only a few years older than me, and I recall being in the store one day when someone came in to see him. I recall my stifled amusement when the man behind the counter referred to him as 'Mr. James'; so far as I knew the boys at school just called him Jimmy Bobby!
Just across Market Hill from this store was a chemist's shop, with a great stone façade. Carved into this, in the manner of a giant tombstone, was the name 'Gosling & Co.' The man who ran this business was William Black, a tall man with grey hair. I believe there was another man before him, a Mr. Fox, but of that I can't be sure. I think the original proprietor Mr Gosling, died early in the century. There was another chemist's shop on the opposite side of the block (which is now known for tourism purposes as the Heritage Triangle), called 'Batley & Stratton'. I remember the front opened on to a narrow pavement, made even narrower by the existence of rails outside the window. These were very useful for parking one's bicycle! Opposite this ancient store, with its double doors, so narrow that one could scarcely pass through if only one were open, was a rather shabby shopfront that was far from off-putting, in fact very attractive to young boys and girls.
The wider door of this shop opened into a broad room in which was a great table where, stacked in orderly manner, were all kinds of sweets, still in the boxes they had come in from the wholesaler. On shelves behind were large jars of more sweets, to be pulled down and weighed out by the quarter-pound ... although if our pocket money was tight, it was no trouble to provide just two ounces if we wanted. On the opposite side of the room was a display of pipes, cigarettes and tobacco, for the sign above the window - not that we ever looked at it, of course! - read 'Tobacconist and Confectioner'. My memory isn't clear, but I think the name on this sign was Hurren, although the shop was run by a couple named Forsdyke. Their advert in the parish magazine said 'AF & GB Forsdyke', anyway. I suspect that the old lady who welcomed us to her sweet emporium may have been the daughter of the original Hurren, for my mother always referred to the shop as Hurren's, and to this lady as 'Miss Hurren', which would imply that at some point she had married a Mr G. Forsdyke. Mr Forsdyke may have had another job, because he wasn't seen much in the shop. My recollection of him is of a tall slim man, usually in a formal suit, who had an elegant way of holding his cigarettes from underneath.
Behind Batley & Stratton, was a wholesale grocers, where I was often sent on errands. It was called Aldrich & Bryant, and just around the corner, beyond the Midland Bank, was the established firm of solicitors, Lyus, Burne and Lyus, always known locally as Lyus & Burne. I think both Lyuses had long since departed this life, but Dick Burne was still around in those days, a regular communicant at the early service at the parish church, and his wife was a customer at Bales'.
Like Batley & Stratton and Aldrich & Bryant, many of the other shops and businesses in the town probably began as partnerships, such as the ironmongers, Larter & Ford, whose premises ran down to the Mere, a six-acre lake around which the old town grew up. Then at the apex of the triangle was another clothing business, Aldiss & Hastings. I'm sure each of these businesses catered for their own sector of society, for there seemed ever to be a sort of 'us and them' distinction into which I grew up. So, for our clothing needs, my father - and I in his wake - would go to another shop where the name didn't fit the proprietor, Cullens, managed by Mr Alan Bailey, a very helpful man who lived on the same estate as us, and who spoke with a lisp.
And finally to mention a business that I had no dealings with, a partnership that made its fortune from that noisy invention, the motor car. Mr. Watson and Mr. Smith owned the showroom that eventually became the town's Vauxhall dealer, and - possibly in common with others in the town's history - invested their profits in the erection of houses. This pair of substantial semi-detached houses were called Cherwell Croft and Willow Brae, and stood only a little way back from that prestigious entrance to the town, Victoria Road. I have a vague recollection of the two widows, Mrs Smith being a tall lady, and Mrs Watson considerably shorter, and having a mouth always on the go ... by which I don't mean to suggest that she was a gossip, rather that she suffered from a nervous twitch. By the time I knew her, she had moved to a bungalow next door to the original houses, and it was into a flat in one of these houses - I never knew who had owned which - that I moved with my bride when first married.
All this goes to show what an uninteresting week it has been, work-wise. Although not particularly unproductive, the only day that was really full nose-to-tail was yesterday, which brought four of the week's thirteen jobs. The other days tended to stagger to a close - rather than end - mid-afternoon, and Thursday began late, because I had to resort to the van-doctor when I was threatened by that most sinister of icons in the modern vehicle, the picture of the car partly obliterated by a giant spanner! In this case the diagnosis was straightforward - replacement of glow-plugs required, but it does disrupt the flow of the week.
Saturday, 7 February 2015
One a day, and Sussex by the Sea!
After a week off, whether holiday (as some might have thought) or the start of phased retirement (as indeed was the case), it's always a slow build-up back to normal levels of activity, and this was no different. The situation is complicated by the usual slow build-up of 'normal activity' after the new year anyway. But there was at least some highlight to each day, above a background of what I call 'bread and butter', local work.
Monday found me utilising my Dart-charge account for the first time in nearly two months, as I went to Swanscombe for a customer in Ashwell, whose goods were delivered to a delightful modern office building, aptly named 'The Observatory', for it offered excellent views in every direction.
The next day was a definite 'damp squib' work-wise, because the highlight was being stuck - along with thousands of others - on the M1 for several hours owing to an accident not very far from home, at junction 13. It was feared that there had been a fatality, but the TV news bulletin that evening suggested that there were two serious injuries only. It seems that a lorry had crossed the central reservation and taken out a car. I wondered later whether the lorry might have come from the Bedford direction, and perhaps the driver had been confused by the new layout of the junction. It's certainly esoteric - I don't know of another like it - with lots of subordinate junctions on either side of the motorway, quite apart from those that actually interact with it.
Wednesday began with a straightforward collection from a distribution centre along the A14 at Thrapston. As I approached the gate, I recalled the confusion that I had had to overcome on my one previous visit. When the security official had booked me in, and told me where I should go to make a collection - as he'd done on that other occasion - I explained that I had then found I needed to be 'over there' ... and I pointed in the opposite direction. Adopting a welcome relaxed and co-operative attitude, the official said he wasn't really bothered where I went: it was my choice. Since it was nearer the gate, I went where I had gone before and began my 'I hope I'm in the right place ...' script. It worked, in within minutes I was back on the road.
The week's fourth highlight, like the second, was not to my advantage, although unlike that accident, this one was predictable. I was called on my way back from a delivery in Reading by another depot, who suggested - quite logically - that I might like to do a pick-up in St Albans for a destination in Stevenage on the way. Unfortunately this was a collection of samples from the renal unit at the hospital. Not surprisingly, these require special secure carriage and, although I have received the necessary training, the little box I'm provided with for this purpose wouldn't have accommodated even one of these large containers ... and there were at least ten! There was no alternative but to ring in and get another driver, suitably equipped, to make the collection.
Friday was more like a 'normal day'. It started with the collection of some bespoke export packaging in Letchworth. As I was leaving the town, bound for Berkshire, the controller rang: how much room did I have? There was one small box to be collected in Tring, for the south coast. This was the 'first overlap'. I collected the box, and then made my way to a private estate - automatic gates at every entrance - near Slough to deliver the empty boxes. The men there had anticipated a much larger vehicle; I had brought them four boxes, they were expecting about fifty. They explained that this house had been sold for £10 million (!) and that the new owners had just arrived. There seemed to be no real anxiety, however, and as I left one said to the other, "we'll have an easier day with just four boxes to fill!"
Then came the 'second overlap' for, as I drove around the M25, making for Rustington, near Littlehampton, with my box from Tring, I had a call from the Guildford office. They had spotted me heading in their general direction, and wondered if I would be interested in a collection in Guildford going to St Leonards-on-Sea. I told them I couldn't see why not, and after collecting a small box there I had the treat of a cross-country journey to the seaside. The sunshine was almost summer-like (if you didn't look at the dashboard thermometer!) and I learned just how long is 'Good old Sussex by the Sea'. It was a very pleasant journey indeed, ending with another Dartford crossing, after which I was home about 6.40pm.
Monday found me utilising my Dart-charge account for the first time in nearly two months, as I went to Swanscombe for a customer in Ashwell, whose goods were delivered to a delightful modern office building, aptly named 'The Observatory', for it offered excellent views in every direction.
The next day was a definite 'damp squib' work-wise, because the highlight was being stuck - along with thousands of others - on the M1 for several hours owing to an accident not very far from home, at junction 13. It was feared that there had been a fatality, but the TV news bulletin that evening suggested that there were two serious injuries only. It seems that a lorry had crossed the central reservation and taken out a car. I wondered later whether the lorry might have come from the Bedford direction, and perhaps the driver had been confused by the new layout of the junction. It's certainly esoteric - I don't know of another like it - with lots of subordinate junctions on either side of the motorway, quite apart from those that actually interact with it.
Wednesday began with a straightforward collection from a distribution centre along the A14 at Thrapston. As I approached the gate, I recalled the confusion that I had had to overcome on my one previous visit. When the security official had booked me in, and told me where I should go to make a collection - as he'd done on that other occasion - I explained that I had then found I needed to be 'over there' ... and I pointed in the opposite direction. Adopting a welcome relaxed and co-operative attitude, the official said he wasn't really bothered where I went: it was my choice. Since it was nearer the gate, I went where I had gone before and began my 'I hope I'm in the right place ...' script. It worked, in within minutes I was back on the road.
The week's fourth highlight, like the second, was not to my advantage, although unlike that accident, this one was predictable. I was called on my way back from a delivery in Reading by another depot, who suggested - quite logically - that I might like to do a pick-up in St Albans for a destination in Stevenage on the way. Unfortunately this was a collection of samples from the renal unit at the hospital. Not surprisingly, these require special secure carriage and, although I have received the necessary training, the little box I'm provided with for this purpose wouldn't have accommodated even one of these large containers ... and there were at least ten! There was no alternative but to ring in and get another driver, suitably equipped, to make the collection.
Friday was more like a 'normal day'. It started with the collection of some bespoke export packaging in Letchworth. As I was leaving the town, bound for Berkshire, the controller rang: how much room did I have? There was one small box to be collected in Tring, for the south coast. This was the 'first overlap'. I collected the box, and then made my way to a private estate - automatic gates at every entrance - near Slough to deliver the empty boxes. The men there had anticipated a much larger vehicle; I had brought them four boxes, they were expecting about fifty. They explained that this house had been sold for £10 million (!) and that the new owners had just arrived. There seemed to be no real anxiety, however, and as I left one said to the other, "we'll have an easier day with just four boxes to fill!"
Then came the 'second overlap' for, as I drove around the M25, making for Rustington, near Littlehampton, with my box from Tring, I had a call from the Guildford office. They had spotted me heading in their general direction, and wondered if I would be interested in a collection in Guildford going to St Leonards-on-Sea. I told them I couldn't see why not, and after collecting a small box there I had the treat of a cross-country journey to the seaside. The sunshine was almost summer-like (if you didn't look at the dashboard thermometer!) and I learned just how long is 'Good old Sussex by the Sea'. It was a very pleasant journey indeed, ending with another Dartford crossing, after which I was home about 6.40pm.
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