Well, it's been a good week for learning how to do retirement. As a result, there are few eventful things to record, so they stand out just that much bolder, and command full attention here. Someone commented that I've been more present this week on Facebook ... that's another consequence of having a non-work week with an almost blank diary.
Something I learned from Facebook was that this was International Book Week. One was encouraged to "Grab the closest book to you; turn to page 52, and post the fifth sentence." The post I had spotted then continued with a sentence containing a clue of its source, Dickens' Bleak House. Another follower of this trend posted something from 'popular fiction' (not a genre with which I find any affinity). Willing to take part, however, I reached for the end book on the shelf next to my desk, and followed the formula. I do wonder what people made of a reference to King James issuing a religious declaration of not shedding blood 'so long as the Catholics remain quiet'! The book I had picked up was one of many that I've bought when the opportunity arose, but am yet to read, The Gunpowder Plot - Terror and Faith in 1605 by Antonia Fraser.
The literary theme continued later in the week, when I scoured the BBC's i-Player for something to watch over dinner, and discovered a film version of L.P. Hartley's The Go-Between. I watched the first half that night, and saw the rest of it yesterday evening. I remembered the salient points of the plot from reading the book at school, where it was part of a lesson bearing the loose title 'General English'. This was the headmaster's brainchild for the cultural development of all those in the sixth form who weren't taking English at A-level and, so far as I recall, consisted of nothing more than reading a 'modern classic' around the class. Other books we tackled included The Power and the Glory by Graham Greene, and A Passage to India by E. M. Forster.
Last night I dreamed about some of the characters in The Go-Between. I suspect this might have been due to the conjunction of the origin of my knowledge of the book, and the single item in this week's diary, which has been executed this afternoon ... a class reunion of some of those with whom I passed through high school, including some who had suffered that same reading exercise. Considering that a few of us hadn't seen each other 'in the flesh' (as opposed to seeing pictures on social media) for upwards of 45 years, it was quite remarkable that more "Now, who are you?" wasn't expressed than was actually the case!
There had been such an event fifteen years ago, but on that occasion the organiser had been unable to track me down, so I wasn't present. Apparently the talk then was of professional achievement; today there was more focus on the extent of life-threatening illnesses, and our plans for making the most of our retirement. The once-active sportsmen among us were now talking of 'a seat in the stand' rather than 'being selected for the football team this week'; and golf has now taken the place of cricket in many lives. Although the lady was never mentioned, I found my thoughts drawn to a comic sketch performed by Joyce Grenfell, the words of which were placed in the mouth of one 'Lumpy Latimer', who had been living in Kenya ... 'although you have to call it Ken-ya now'!
Other achievements this week have included some preliminary preparations for what may be this year's last 'serious' outing in the motor-caravan. This will be to a site in Cambridgeshire, popular for anglers. I hasten to add that this is not my own interest; I chose the venue for the prospect of tranquillity and maybe a little fenland walking. I have a number of things to deal with that require a few less distractions than regularly present themselves at home. I wonder how many will have been progressed significantly by the time I return!
Friday, 25 September 2015
Saturday, 19 September 2015
The Smelly Side of Life
As autumn begins, a familiar smell is noticeable as I drive around the countryside. No sooner has one crop been harvested than the farmer is preparing the fields for the next one, and preparation means one thing ... muck! One of my earliest memories is of my mother grumbling about the smell when dad came home from work after muck-spreading, and her acknowledgement that it (i.e. pigs' or cows') wasn't so bad as chickens'. In that vein, I recall a few years ago taking my camper-van to a farmyard site where they kept ducks, and how they instantly reminded me of a visit at the age of about four or five to a great-uncle who lived on a farm, where there were ducks in the orchard, and how we were told to mind where we walked!
Smell is the most powerful of man's senses, they say; it's certainly connected to the brain's power of recollection, and triggers all kinds of memories from the past. Another early memory of mine is of the journey to school past the bakery, with the early-morning smell of fresh bread bringing some relief from the agonies of cycling up a steep hill.
The variety of places that my work takes me presents an equally varied selection of smells and memories, some of which I share - for good or ill - with the people I collect from or deliver to. This week, for example, I collected from a small firm working with fibreglass, and I recounted the tale of the director of one of the companies I worked for, who had an interest in small boats. He made an arrangement with a boat-builder to utilise part of the ground behind our factory, and we got involved with the administration of this new business as well as our own ... totally different in scale and attitude from the precision electronics that were our 'bread and butter'!
I often find myself at the door of a machine shop or fabrication business, and am reminded of a four-year spell working for a company that manufactured agricultural machinery. I'd not been there long, when the finance director came into our office one day and genially asked how I was getting on. After a few pleasant exchanges he looked over at my boss and, perhaps remembering what he had come in for, indicated by way of encouragement how far I might go if I were to apply myself. "Look at Snellin' there," he said. (The cost accountant's name was Snelling, but this man had a pretentious, quasi-aristocratic habit of dropping his g's.) "He's costin' a foundry." My boss had been asked to spend some time introducing a costing system at a sister company a few miles away, which made castings for our machines. One day I accompanied him on a visit and discovered - just as when, many years later, I visited Whitechapel Bell Foundry - that this is another industry that has a very distinctive smell.
Of course, when you are working in a particular environment all the while, you don't notice the smell. Just as with the things I wrote about last week, the body - in this case the sense of smell - gets used to it. Another recognisable 'fragrance', sometimes detected in the supermarket and many other places, is what I call an 'old people' smell. It's really down to a simple lack of fresh air; if you live all week with the windows and doors always shut, the air gets stale, and this staleness transfers to the clothes you wear. I sometimes notice it when I come home in the evening, but only for a minute or two. The smell hasn't gone ... I've just got used to it again. With a 'retirement' week ahead of me, I'm hoping for sunshine so that I can have my windows open a lot of the time!
Smell is the most powerful of man's senses, they say; it's certainly connected to the brain's power of recollection, and triggers all kinds of memories from the past. Another early memory of mine is of the journey to school past the bakery, with the early-morning smell of fresh bread bringing some relief from the agonies of cycling up a steep hill.
The variety of places that my work takes me presents an equally varied selection of smells and memories, some of which I share - for good or ill - with the people I collect from or deliver to. This week, for example, I collected from a small firm working with fibreglass, and I recounted the tale of the director of one of the companies I worked for, who had an interest in small boats. He made an arrangement with a boat-builder to utilise part of the ground behind our factory, and we got involved with the administration of this new business as well as our own ... totally different in scale and attitude from the precision electronics that were our 'bread and butter'!
I often find myself at the door of a machine shop or fabrication business, and am reminded of a four-year spell working for a company that manufactured agricultural machinery. I'd not been there long, when the finance director came into our office one day and genially asked how I was getting on. After a few pleasant exchanges he looked over at my boss and, perhaps remembering what he had come in for, indicated by way of encouragement how far I might go if I were to apply myself. "Look at Snellin' there," he said. (The cost accountant's name was Snelling, but this man had a pretentious, quasi-aristocratic habit of dropping his g's.) "He's costin' a foundry." My boss had been asked to spend some time introducing a costing system at a sister company a few miles away, which made castings for our machines. One day I accompanied him on a visit and discovered - just as when, many years later, I visited Whitechapel Bell Foundry - that this is another industry that has a very distinctive smell.
Of course, when you are working in a particular environment all the while, you don't notice the smell. Just as with the things I wrote about last week, the body - in this case the sense of smell - gets used to it. Another recognisable 'fragrance', sometimes detected in the supermarket and many other places, is what I call an 'old people' smell. It's really down to a simple lack of fresh air; if you live all week with the windows and doors always shut, the air gets stale, and this staleness transfers to the clothes you wear. I sometimes notice it when I come home in the evening, but only for a minute or two. The smell hasn't gone ... I've just got used to it again. With a 'retirement' week ahead of me, I'm hoping for sunshine so that I can have my windows open a lot of the time!
Saturday, 12 September 2015
It's What You Get Used To
This back-to-work week has been a bit tough. I'll try to put it into context.
Some years ago, I had a brief chat with a colleague who was playing a prominent part in our company's support in (or put another way, financial benefit from) a Scottish bank's campaign to replace all its computers. For him this meant, for a number of consecutive weeks, two return journeys per week from Hertfordshire to Edinburgh and sometimes beyond. I suggested to him that a single journey of that distance - over 370 miles by the most direct route, not allowing for diversions or variety - must be exhausting, let alone there and back twice a week! Without undue modesty, he explained that, the more you did a journey, the shorter it seemed.
Put that way, I had to agree. Indeed, I remembered some of my early jobs, when to travel up the M1 to the distribution centre at Crick (just off junction 18) seemed quite daunting, and a journey to Bradford almost into another world! After a few years - months, even - the longer jobs came to have a distinct attraction for me. Partly, I think, there was the freedom ... there is always more than one way to get somewhere and, if the destination is at some distance, the choice of one road over another becomes less significant in the overall distance and time taken for the whole journey. There was also the sense of achievement ... going to the far side of the country, and we shouldn't forget the financial rewards, too ... although the profitability of a long journey for a single job is always questionable.
As time passed, I quickly became accustomed to driving an average 300 miles a day without batting an eyelid, sometimes in a single journey, sometimes split over several separate ones. In fact, it is surprising just how quickly the body accustoms itself to changes like this. In a totally different way, I had had a similar experience a few years earlier.
When I first set foot in California in July 2000, I was reluctant to step out in the sun and made quickly for the nearest shade, so shocking was the summer heat. Yet, in only three weeks, I can remember waiting for a lift on a street corner, in full sun and not feeling any discomfort.
And that's where I came in. In recent months, work has usually stretched from 8.0 or 8.30am into the early evening. When the occasional late night has seen me arrive home around midnight, I've gone straight to bed, had a slightly later start the next morning perhaps, and thought no more of it. As to early mornings, a 7.30 pick-up has been about the limit. This week, by contrast, I had agreed to be one of three who stepped in to fill the absence of someone who regularly has a 5.30am collection. The days for which I was selected to do this were Tuesday and Thursday, and on Wednesday, I had an 8.0am delivery at a hospital in Bournemouth, which necessitated leaving home at about the same time.
Those three early starts, each followed by a day of normal working, left me drained. It was a new pattern of life to which my body hadn't adjusted. It had started to do so - on Thursday morning I woke more refreshed than on the other two - but the process was by no means complete. Let me expand the picture by taking a slightly longer view. As I've mentioned here before, I examine each week's activity and classify the good weeks as 'gold' or 'silver' according to whether the results beat my budget in the criteria of income, profitability and mileage, or just the first two. The last two weeks I've worked (and because of my phased retirement plan, that means two of the last four, which may also have some bearing on the matter), have both been 'gold', with an average of 1,465 miles per week compared to an average for this year from April of just under 1,600. This week's travels have involved 1,645 miles - by no means beyond the 'normal', but well above what my body has recently been used to.
It might seem that I'm moaning, whingeing or just being grumpy. Let me reassure you, dear reader, that this is not so. I'm happy as ever with my lot. It was fascinating, for example, to drive through Cardiff - or should I say Caerdydd? - on Wednesday afternoon viewing the roadsigns in a new light as a result of the early lessons of my Welsh course: realising why on some signs 'University' was translated as 'Pryfysgol', and on others as 'Bryfysgol'. And, even as I write this, I see that this is yet another example of the whole subject of this post: what the body - in this case the brain - gets used to.
And here I'll stop, as I debate whether or not to go and watch one of today's FA Cup ties ... more miles!
Some years ago, I had a brief chat with a colleague who was playing a prominent part in our company's support in (or put another way, financial benefit from) a Scottish bank's campaign to replace all its computers. For him this meant, for a number of consecutive weeks, two return journeys per week from Hertfordshire to Edinburgh and sometimes beyond. I suggested to him that a single journey of that distance - over 370 miles by the most direct route, not allowing for diversions or variety - must be exhausting, let alone there and back twice a week! Without undue modesty, he explained that, the more you did a journey, the shorter it seemed.
Put that way, I had to agree. Indeed, I remembered some of my early jobs, when to travel up the M1 to the distribution centre at Crick (just off junction 18) seemed quite daunting, and a journey to Bradford almost into another world! After a few years - months, even - the longer jobs came to have a distinct attraction for me. Partly, I think, there was the freedom ... there is always more than one way to get somewhere and, if the destination is at some distance, the choice of one road over another becomes less significant in the overall distance and time taken for the whole journey. There was also the sense of achievement ... going to the far side of the country, and we shouldn't forget the financial rewards, too ... although the profitability of a long journey for a single job is always questionable.
As time passed, I quickly became accustomed to driving an average 300 miles a day without batting an eyelid, sometimes in a single journey, sometimes split over several separate ones. In fact, it is surprising just how quickly the body accustoms itself to changes like this. In a totally different way, I had had a similar experience a few years earlier.
 |
| Taken in 2000, long before 'selfies' were the fashion, near Dublin, CA |
And that's where I came in. In recent months, work has usually stretched from 8.0 or 8.30am into the early evening. When the occasional late night has seen me arrive home around midnight, I've gone straight to bed, had a slightly later start the next morning perhaps, and thought no more of it. As to early mornings, a 7.30 pick-up has been about the limit. This week, by contrast, I had agreed to be one of three who stepped in to fill the absence of someone who regularly has a 5.30am collection. The days for which I was selected to do this were Tuesday and Thursday, and on Wednesday, I had an 8.0am delivery at a hospital in Bournemouth, which necessitated leaving home at about the same time.
Those three early starts, each followed by a day of normal working, left me drained. It was a new pattern of life to which my body hadn't adjusted. It had started to do so - on Thursday morning I woke more refreshed than on the other two - but the process was by no means complete. Let me expand the picture by taking a slightly longer view. As I've mentioned here before, I examine each week's activity and classify the good weeks as 'gold' or 'silver' according to whether the results beat my budget in the criteria of income, profitability and mileage, or just the first two. The last two weeks I've worked (and because of my phased retirement plan, that means two of the last four, which may also have some bearing on the matter), have both been 'gold', with an average of 1,465 miles per week compared to an average for this year from April of just under 1,600. This week's travels have involved 1,645 miles - by no means beyond the 'normal', but well above what my body has recently been used to.
It might seem that I'm moaning, whingeing or just being grumpy. Let me reassure you, dear reader, that this is not so. I'm happy as ever with my lot. It was fascinating, for example, to drive through Cardiff - or should I say Caerdydd? - on Wednesday afternoon viewing the roadsigns in a new light as a result of the early lessons of my Welsh course: realising why on some signs 'University' was translated as 'Pryfysgol', and on others as 'Bryfysgol'. And, even as I write this, I see that this is yet another example of the whole subject of this post: what the body - in this case the brain - gets used to.
And here I'll stop, as I debate whether or not to go and watch one of today's FA Cup ties ... more miles!
Friday, 4 September 2015
Neither One Thing, yet the Other!
As I announced last autumn here, and have mentioned in subsequent posts on this blog from time to time, I'm going through an indefinite period of 'phased retirement'. In conversation after the church service last Sunday, I found myself explaining just what this actually means and, under a title that came to mind in an echo of how my father might have described it, I'll begin this blog by sharing my thoughts.
My plan began simply with a pattern, as I described it to my then boss, of 'working complete weeks, but not so many of them'. So began a season, lasting up to a maximum of 21 months, when worker would be sandwiched with retiree, and during which I would be neither wholly one nor completely the other.
Early into this period I took a lump sum from my pension and purchased a motorhome ... more specifically a motor-caravan, although I haven't been able to decide just where the distinction between the two terms lies. Either is a bit of a mouthful, so she is commonly referred to alliteratively as 'Mary'. Sunday's conversation began with the question, 'have you been far in your motorhome?' As I mentally reviewed my travel diary to respond, I realised that the trips I've made so far don't in themselves really justify such a large financial outlay. What's Mary all about, then?
I explained that some of the early months (alongside the continuing demands of work) had been occupied with the business of equipping the vehicle, filling up some of the many cupboards and lockers with those items that are indispensable to life on the road, on the one hand making me independent of hotel accommodation and restaurant meals, and on the other eliminating the need for a major packing and carting of 'stuff' from home to vehicle every time it's used. In addition to this, has come an increasing experience of the routines involved in using the on-board equipment, such as making sure the gas is turned off, and the fridge turned over to electric operation before moving off ... quite apart from the significant differences in driving a larger and less manoeuvrable vehicle than the van I've been used to.
In thinking this through, I realise that in some ways the same can be said of this whole business of 'phased retirement'. It's a case of learning how to live a different life. Working life - especially in thirteen years of self-employ-ment - has been very largely one of discipline. If you don't get up and go to work, you don't have money to live on. With no holiday pay, or sickness benefits, there is no question of taking a day off, or 'throwing a sickie'.
As the business world has changed its dimensions over the years, so the demands on a courier's time have also changed. At the outset, I was almost always home by teatime, and evening commitments I'd entered into during paid employment could continue unabated. Slowly one after another had to be given up as I found myself unable to attend. Soon, I now realise, there will be the opportunity to take these up again ... at least where my own interests haven't also changed over the years! In the meantime, comes a time in which - during those weeks when I'm not working - I have to learn a new kind of normal life, rather looking on such weeks as just a lot more holiday.
This week began by spending the Bank Holiday - and a half-day either side of it - with my cousin, my 'second family'. When I returned home, and life quietened down, I noticed that I had become out of touch with programmes I usually listen to on the radio, or by podcast, in the van. My pattern has been to enjoy the silence of home after the constant buzz and activity of driving. So another aspect of retirement that I have to get used to is listening to the radio at home. They're all tiny things, but each requires a habit of years' standing to be consciously overturned.
Now, with the weather having taken a turn towards autumn, all the frenetic financial activity of starting a new month completed, and an air of boredom wafting around the flat, it's time to think about another few weeks on the road. An apologetic call from the office yesterday has already hinted of a couple of early starts to look forward to.
My plan began simply with a pattern, as I described it to my then boss, of 'working complete weeks, but not so many of them'. So began a season, lasting up to a maximum of 21 months, when worker would be sandwiched with retiree, and during which I would be neither wholly one nor completely the other.
Early into this period I took a lump sum from my pension and purchased a motorhome ... more specifically a motor-caravan, although I haven't been able to decide just where the distinction between the two terms lies. Either is a bit of a mouthful, so she is commonly referred to alliteratively as 'Mary'. Sunday's conversation began with the question, 'have you been far in your motorhome?' As I mentally reviewed my travel diary to respond, I realised that the trips I've made so far don't in themselves really justify such a large financial outlay. What's Mary all about, then?
I explained that some of the early months (alongside the continuing demands of work) had been occupied with the business of equipping the vehicle, filling up some of the many cupboards and lockers with those items that are indispensable to life on the road, on the one hand making me independent of hotel accommodation and restaurant meals, and on the other eliminating the need for a major packing and carting of 'stuff' from home to vehicle every time it's used. In addition to this, has come an increasing experience of the routines involved in using the on-board equipment, such as making sure the gas is turned off, and the fridge turned over to electric operation before moving off ... quite apart from the significant differences in driving a larger and less manoeuvrable vehicle than the van I've been used to.
In thinking this through, I realise that in some ways the same can be said of this whole business of 'phased retirement'. It's a case of learning how to live a different life. Working life - especially in thirteen years of self-employ-ment - has been very largely one of discipline. If you don't get up and go to work, you don't have money to live on. With no holiday pay, or sickness benefits, there is no question of taking a day off, or 'throwing a sickie'.
As the business world has changed its dimensions over the years, so the demands on a courier's time have also changed. At the outset, I was almost always home by teatime, and evening commitments I'd entered into during paid employment could continue unabated. Slowly one after another had to be given up as I found myself unable to attend. Soon, I now realise, there will be the opportunity to take these up again ... at least where my own interests haven't also changed over the years! In the meantime, comes a time in which - during those weeks when I'm not working - I have to learn a new kind of normal life, rather looking on such weeks as just a lot more holiday.
This week began by spending the Bank Holiday - and a half-day either side of it - with my cousin, my 'second family'. When I returned home, and life quietened down, I noticed that I had become out of touch with programmes I usually listen to on the radio, or by podcast, in the van. My pattern has been to enjoy the silence of home after the constant buzz and activity of driving. So another aspect of retirement that I have to get used to is listening to the radio at home. They're all tiny things, but each requires a habit of years' standing to be consciously overturned.
Now, with the weather having taken a turn towards autumn, all the frenetic financial activity of starting a new month completed, and an air of boredom wafting around the flat, it's time to think about another few weeks on the road. An apologetic call from the office yesterday has already hinted of a couple of early starts to look forward to.
Saturday, 29 August 2015
More Interest!
I described last week as 'interesting'. This week was possibly more so; I leave it to my readers to decide which meaning they apply to the word this time. Monday was a good day. When I received a mail order delivery on Tuesday evening, the driver saw my uniform as I answered the door and asked me about working for CitySprint. 'How many jobs do you get in a day?' he asked. He has to take well over 100, as a multi-drop driver, and only gets paid for the ones he actually delivers. I told him 'anything from one to eight', and used Monday's experience as an 'average' illustration.
I began with a visit to a tiny village near Oundle, where all the houses are in 'Main Street', and have names instead of numbers. As usual, I found the right one on my way back through the village, and delivered to the man who had waved to me as I went past on my first pass. On then, to Grantham and District Hospital, a neat and modern place, much of which is on a single floor. By late morning I was almost home again, and given two more jobs, one from Letchworth to Welwyn Garden City, and the other from Stevenage to High Wycombe. I think it was while driving round the M25, that I was asked to collect some white goods in Hemel Hempstead on my way home, for delivery in Hereford for 8.0 the next morning. I had nearly got to High Wycombe when a change of plan was announced. In my present location, I was the only chance, the controller decided, of achieving a collection that afternoon from the John Radcliffe Hospital in Oxford, to be returned that evening to our depot in Letchworth. Any fear of an early start the next morning was cast aside, and I went to bellringing practice as usual, where there were many old faces, some of whom hadn't been there for a considerable time.
Tuesday started off in fine form, as I hoped for a long job to make up for losing Hereford. A collection from Bedford for Milton Keynes was complemented by a pick-up in Flitwick on the way back for exchange at Elstree film studios, and return to our customer. Now, Tuesday morning was subject to sporadic but heavy rain showers, and as I passed Toddington Services on my way back to Flitwick, my windscreen wipers decided to take a holiday. In fact one part beneath the surface had had enough, after going to and fro for a quarter of a million miles. I completed my delivery and then made my way to the garage, seeking restoration of rain-shifting services. Sadly, the required part couldn't be delivered until the following morning, but one of the staff was able to arrange a temporary 'fix', using the wiper mechanism from his own car to keep me going. Wednesday, therefore started on time in the morning, but consisted only of a handful of very local jobs, until I attended the garage in mid-afternoon for the job to be completed.
As I reported to the office my status as once more available, I was asked if I'd like an 8.0 am collection in Letchworth on Thursday. This was a job to Gloucester that had been requested by the Swindon office. I accepted this, and duly presented myself at a factory opposite my home at the required hour. Unfortunately (the job having been arranged by their customer), they weren't aware that I would be calling so early for the goods; these were already packed, but I had to wait some while for the paperwork to be completed. Once this job had been delivered, I called Swindon, with a fair hope, I thought, of getting more work from them. I wasn't disappointed, and a few minutes later they called me back with a pick-up in Bishop's Cleeve near Cheltenham, for central Birmingham. In the afternoon, the triangle was completed by a job from the Warwick office, collecting in Nuneaton, for delivery in Harlow.
I had called the office on my way home to explain my situation, because this delivery couldn't be made until the following morning. However, the message wasn't passed on in its entirety, because when I received a call about an hour later, it was to ask if I fancied a trip to Wales ... that evening! I pointed out that, while this would be quite acceptable (it would compensate nicely for the work I'd lost through the wiper malfunction earlier in the week), I wouldn't be home early enough to contemplate an 8.0 delivery almost thirty miles from home the next morning! "Leave it with me." I was told.
When there's a willing driver to do a potentially awkward job, there's usually a way, and someone was coerced to make the Harlow delivery yesterday morning. I took the goods to the depot and made my way to our customer in Hitchin. Since venturing to North Wales in my motorhome in June, I've decided to pick up once more the Welsh tutorial that I'd abandoned some forty-five years ago and, as I drove up to the customer's premises, I realised that I could now form an appropriate sentence. There are building works going on in the yard, so I stopped where I could be seen some distance from the door, and got out of the van. As the customer walked over with the expected lightweight parcel, I greeted him with "Yr wyf i yn mynd i Gymru!" I had to stifle my smile at the man's face: something between shock and amusement. "Are you Welsh, then?" he asked. I explained, but decided not to translate, leaving him to think that it was something more elaborate than 'I'm going to Wales.'
The job itself was not difficult, although it would have been easier in daylight. It was to a private house in a one-street village, where a group of new houses have been given a separate name. SatNav - misguidedly helpful as ever - decided that this was another street, running parallel to the real one. It tried to find me the right lane to use to get there, as a result of which I now have an intimate knowledge of several inapplicable garage drives. Fortunately the parcel's recipient had heard a slow-moving van passing to and fro, and opened her door! The rest echoes the history of many previous late-night jobs; I was home and snug in bed by about 3.30 am.
The protracted nature of Thursday meant that Friday began at lunchtime, and I confess I was not expecting anything exciting. Au contraire, the controller was most relieved to take my call. He was runned off his feet, and didn't even need to call me back to request a collection in Hitchin for a hospital in Nottingham, and a pick-up in Biggleswade for a factory in Newark on the way. A leisurely drive to places I'm familiar with, on a sunny afternoon at the end of the week was ... delightful!
Today has seen a bit of tidying up, before going to watch a football match. We all stood in silence for a minute before the start in memory of players Matt Grimstone and Jacob Schilt of Worthing Utd. and the others killed in the Shoreham Airshow tragedy last weekend. In keeping with the last match I saw, two weeks ago, the team I support - in this case Biggleswade Town - was one goal down soon after the start, but on this occasion things livened up in the second half. There were four more goals, at least three yellow cards, two sendings-off, one saved penalty, and the result was a 3-2 home win. Oh, and the man sitting next to me won a prize in the raffle ... the nearest I've been to a prize in years!
Now for another 'retired week', beginning with a family visit for the Bank Holiday.
I began with a visit to a tiny village near Oundle, where all the houses are in 'Main Street', and have names instead of numbers. As usual, I found the right one on my way back through the village, and delivered to the man who had waved to me as I went past on my first pass. On then, to Grantham and District Hospital, a neat and modern place, much of which is on a single floor. By late morning I was almost home again, and given two more jobs, one from Letchworth to Welwyn Garden City, and the other from Stevenage to High Wycombe. I think it was while driving round the M25, that I was asked to collect some white goods in Hemel Hempstead on my way home, for delivery in Hereford for 8.0 the next morning. I had nearly got to High Wycombe when a change of plan was announced. In my present location, I was the only chance, the controller decided, of achieving a collection that afternoon from the John Radcliffe Hospital in Oxford, to be returned that evening to our depot in Letchworth. Any fear of an early start the next morning was cast aside, and I went to bellringing practice as usual, where there were many old faces, some of whom hadn't been there for a considerable time.
Tuesday started off in fine form, as I hoped for a long job to make up for losing Hereford. A collection from Bedford for Milton Keynes was complemented by a pick-up in Flitwick on the way back for exchange at Elstree film studios, and return to our customer. Now, Tuesday morning was subject to sporadic but heavy rain showers, and as I passed Toddington Services on my way back to Flitwick, my windscreen wipers decided to take a holiday. In fact one part beneath the surface had had enough, after going to and fro for a quarter of a million miles. I completed my delivery and then made my way to the garage, seeking restoration of rain-shifting services. Sadly, the required part couldn't be delivered until the following morning, but one of the staff was able to arrange a temporary 'fix', using the wiper mechanism from his own car to keep me going. Wednesday, therefore started on time in the morning, but consisted only of a handful of very local jobs, until I attended the garage in mid-afternoon for the job to be completed.
As I reported to the office my status as once more available, I was asked if I'd like an 8.0 am collection in Letchworth on Thursday. This was a job to Gloucester that had been requested by the Swindon office. I accepted this, and duly presented myself at a factory opposite my home at the required hour. Unfortunately (the job having been arranged by their customer), they weren't aware that I would be calling so early for the goods; these were already packed, but I had to wait some while for the paperwork to be completed. Once this job had been delivered, I called Swindon, with a fair hope, I thought, of getting more work from them. I wasn't disappointed, and a few minutes later they called me back with a pick-up in Bishop's Cleeve near Cheltenham, for central Birmingham. In the afternoon, the triangle was completed by a job from the Warwick office, collecting in Nuneaton, for delivery in Harlow.
I had called the office on my way home to explain my situation, because this delivery couldn't be made until the following morning. However, the message wasn't passed on in its entirety, because when I received a call about an hour later, it was to ask if I fancied a trip to Wales ... that evening! I pointed out that, while this would be quite acceptable (it would compensate nicely for the work I'd lost through the wiper malfunction earlier in the week), I wouldn't be home early enough to contemplate an 8.0 delivery almost thirty miles from home the next morning! "Leave it with me." I was told.
When there's a willing driver to do a potentially awkward job, there's usually a way, and someone was coerced to make the Harlow delivery yesterday morning. I took the goods to the depot and made my way to our customer in Hitchin. Since venturing to North Wales in my motorhome in June, I've decided to pick up once more the Welsh tutorial that I'd abandoned some forty-five years ago and, as I drove up to the customer's premises, I realised that I could now form an appropriate sentence. There are building works going on in the yard, so I stopped where I could be seen some distance from the door, and got out of the van. As the customer walked over with the expected lightweight parcel, I greeted him with "Yr wyf i yn mynd i Gymru!" I had to stifle my smile at the man's face: something between shock and amusement. "Are you Welsh, then?" he asked. I explained, but decided not to translate, leaving him to think that it was something more elaborate than 'I'm going to Wales.'
The job itself was not difficult, although it would have been easier in daylight. It was to a private house in a one-street village, where a group of new houses have been given a separate name. SatNav - misguidedly helpful as ever - decided that this was another street, running parallel to the real one. It tried to find me the right lane to use to get there, as a result of which I now have an intimate knowledge of several inapplicable garage drives. Fortunately the parcel's recipient had heard a slow-moving van passing to and fro, and opened her door! The rest echoes the history of many previous late-night jobs; I was home and snug in bed by about 3.30 am.
The protracted nature of Thursday meant that Friday began at lunchtime, and I confess I was not expecting anything exciting. Au contraire, the controller was most relieved to take my call. He was runned off his feet, and didn't even need to call me back to request a collection in Hitchin for a hospital in Nottingham, and a pick-up in Biggleswade for a factory in Newark on the way. A leisurely drive to places I'm familiar with, on a sunny afternoon at the end of the week was ... delightful!
Today has seen a bit of tidying up, before going to watch a football match. We all stood in silence for a minute before the start in memory of players Matt Grimstone and Jacob Schilt of Worthing Utd. and the others killed in the Shoreham Airshow tragedy last weekend. In keeping with the last match I saw, two weeks ago, the team I support - in this case Biggleswade Town - was one goal down soon after the start, but on this occasion things livened up in the second half. There were four more goals, at least three yellow cards, two sendings-off, one saved penalty, and the result was a 3-2 home win. Oh, and the man sitting next to me won a prize in the raffle ... the nearest I've been to a prize in years!
Now for another 'retired week', beginning with a family visit for the Bank Holiday.
Friday, 21 August 2015
An 'Interesting' Week
I use the word 'interesting' in the sense I first discovered in the words of an erstwhile Rhodesian colleague, who applied it to the sort of incident that was unforseen, and the resolution of which would require some ingenuity. And, in that sense, I have to confess to some exaggeration, too; for most of the week did not fall into that category.
And so to the detail. Monday got off to a slow, but triumphant start. I related last week the problems associated with the aquisition of the laptop computer. This was delivered on Monday morning, but not until an hour or so before the actual event did I know precisely when this would be, so I was uncertain whether I would be doing any work that day or not. In the event, it was so conveniently early that I was able to achieve a most acceptable job to the hospital at Cosham, just outside Portsmouth, and be home in time for bell-ringing practice.
Tuesday saw the first of three jobs this week to the Manchester area. Before making this delivery I had already been spotted and given a collection 'just round the corner' (in fact about five miles away) to take to a private address in Maidenhead. It was then that the week's 'interesting' elements began, because to cover those five miles took an absolute age owing to a hole having appeared just before the evening rush-hour (so I was told) in one of the city's key through routes. Certainly the traffic on the south side of centre was gridlocked!
I made my pick-up about 6.30, and stopped at a filling station to collect something for tea. In my excitement, I must have omitted to set the handbrake for, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed my van moving as I walked away from it. I wasn't quick enough to stop it, and it rolled gently into the back of the taxi parked in front of it. Fortunately, there was no apparent damage to either vehicle, and I was most relieved when the driver, emerging from the store, agreed with me, clasped me by the shoulder and went on his way. I then discovered that SatNav - not for the first time - was working on its internal battery rather than from the lead plugged into the van. If left unheeded, the eventual outcome of this would have been a complete lack of power, and no directions so, once I had established the best route across country, I switched it off until I neared my target. The remedy to this unfortunate state, I have discovered, is to plug it into the computer to update it, which I did next day.
After this administrative chore Wednesday was, by contrast, almost uneventful with a local collection to start, and then deliveries to Aldershot and Alton. Once more my presence was noticed by another office, and I collected fourth job in Bordon to bring me halfway home. At this point it was discovered that the Alton job also involved a return leg, so I had to divert to pick this up on my way back. By then it was too late to deliver this before the end of the working day, so it had to be taken to our customer in Hertford the following morning.
Thursday followed that same pattern, with a local collection, followed by two deliveries, this time to Leicester and Salford. After picking up the second of these in Hitchin, I set SatNav to take me to the first delivery point ... Leicester. When I realised that, in order to get to my target, I was being taken out of the city towards Peterborough, I began to lose faith in my electronic 'friend' once again. Surely, in this instance, it would have been quicker to avoid Leicester itself, and go via Peterborough, than to be tormented by the continuing miles of roadworks and speed restrictions on the M1?
I'm not sure whether it was the lingering frustration at this apparent lack of judgement, or the test match commentary, or simply the flow of traffic that cause me to be in the wrong lane for my motorway exit. Whatever the cause, I therefore had to take a cross-country route to get to Manchester. It was beautiful, but took at least half an hour more. Fortunately the recipient was willing to wait for me to arrive ... and there were no holes to delay me this time! With no return job, I was able to enjoy a much needed leisurely break and meal on my way home.
Today, when I eventually declared myself 'fully turned around' after the late night return from Salford, I was surprised - nay astonished - to discover that the first job I was given was from nearby Melbourn to Stockport! I decided there and then that I wouldn't be looking for anything else, but that a leisurely drive there and back would round off the week nicely. So I was making my way up the A14, with the cricket commentary for company when I noticed that the image in the mirror by my side was unsteady. In what seemed to be quite a long moment, I remember thinking to myself, 'Uh oh, I know what's going to happen in a minute ...' and by the time I'd managed to cross the intervening traffic lane and get onto the verge, it had happened. The glass from my offside mirror was laying on the road some distance behind me, and I was sitting in a vehicle that I could no longer drive!
I called the office to arrange another driver to take my job off me, and the AA for rescue. Meanwhile I had been spotted by a passing police patrolman, whose main concerns - given that there is no hard shoulder there, and about a fifth of my van's width was still actually on the carriageway - were to get it and me to a place of safety, and to remove the risk of an accident being caused as passing traffic might swerve to avoid me. He explained the strategy that we would adopt, which seemed quite straightforward. I would drive slowly along the road the quarter-mile or so to the next exit, keeping to the extreme edge of the carriageway. Meanwhile, he would be a short but safe distance behind me, blue lights flashing, keeping well over to the other side of the lane, as a shield. I would then park in the layby just off the roundabout.
It seemed so simple, and was quickly executed; but at the end of it, I was shaking. As I said to the officer when he walked up to make sure all was well, "You have no idea how scarey that was!" Actually, he probably did have, but ... After assuring me that to remain there, in what was actually a bus stop, would be OK, he was on his way. My load was transferred to an Aberdeen driver who had been delivering nearby and was embarking on an empty journey home, and as we were discussing his best route out of England via Stockport, the AA man arrived. After completing formalities, he went to collect a replacement mirror, and later duly returned to fit it and arrange payment. Although, once home again, I presented myself as once more available for work, I was rather glad not to be called.
The weekend has started a little early this week, and I'm hoping it will lack the 'interest' of the week it follows.
And so to the detail. Monday got off to a slow, but triumphant start. I related last week the problems associated with the aquisition of the laptop computer. This was delivered on Monday morning, but not until an hour or so before the actual event did I know precisely when this would be, so I was uncertain whether I would be doing any work that day or not. In the event, it was so conveniently early that I was able to achieve a most acceptable job to the hospital at Cosham, just outside Portsmouth, and be home in time for bell-ringing practice.
Tuesday saw the first of three jobs this week to the Manchester area. Before making this delivery I had already been spotted and given a collection 'just round the corner' (in fact about five miles away) to take to a private address in Maidenhead. It was then that the week's 'interesting' elements began, because to cover those five miles took an absolute age owing to a hole having appeared just before the evening rush-hour (so I was told) in one of the city's key through routes. Certainly the traffic on the south side of centre was gridlocked!
I made my pick-up about 6.30, and stopped at a filling station to collect something for tea. In my excitement, I must have omitted to set the handbrake for, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed my van moving as I walked away from it. I wasn't quick enough to stop it, and it rolled gently into the back of the taxi parked in front of it. Fortunately, there was no apparent damage to either vehicle, and I was most relieved when the driver, emerging from the store, agreed with me, clasped me by the shoulder and went on his way. I then discovered that SatNav - not for the first time - was working on its internal battery rather than from the lead plugged into the van. If left unheeded, the eventual outcome of this would have been a complete lack of power, and no directions so, once I had established the best route across country, I switched it off until I neared my target. The remedy to this unfortunate state, I have discovered, is to plug it into the computer to update it, which I did next day.
After this administrative chore Wednesday was, by contrast, almost uneventful with a local collection to start, and then deliveries to Aldershot and Alton. Once more my presence was noticed by another office, and I collected fourth job in Bordon to bring me halfway home. At this point it was discovered that the Alton job also involved a return leg, so I had to divert to pick this up on my way back. By then it was too late to deliver this before the end of the working day, so it had to be taken to our customer in Hertford the following morning.
Thursday followed that same pattern, with a local collection, followed by two deliveries, this time to Leicester and Salford. After picking up the second of these in Hitchin, I set SatNav to take me to the first delivery point ... Leicester. When I realised that, in order to get to my target, I was being taken out of the city towards Peterborough, I began to lose faith in my electronic 'friend' once again. Surely, in this instance, it would have been quicker to avoid Leicester itself, and go via Peterborough, than to be tormented by the continuing miles of roadworks and speed restrictions on the M1?
I'm not sure whether it was the lingering frustration at this apparent lack of judgement, or the test match commentary, or simply the flow of traffic that cause me to be in the wrong lane for my motorway exit. Whatever the cause, I therefore had to take a cross-country route to get to Manchester. It was beautiful, but took at least half an hour more. Fortunately the recipient was willing to wait for me to arrive ... and there were no holes to delay me this time! With no return job, I was able to enjoy a much needed leisurely break and meal on my way home.
Today, when I eventually declared myself 'fully turned around' after the late night return from Salford, I was surprised - nay astonished - to discover that the first job I was given was from nearby Melbourn to Stockport! I decided there and then that I wouldn't be looking for anything else, but that a leisurely drive there and back would round off the week nicely. So I was making my way up the A14, with the cricket commentary for company when I noticed that the image in the mirror by my side was unsteady. In what seemed to be quite a long moment, I remember thinking to myself, 'Uh oh, I know what's going to happen in a minute ...' and by the time I'd managed to cross the intervening traffic lane and get onto the verge, it had happened. The glass from my offside mirror was laying on the road some distance behind me, and I was sitting in a vehicle that I could no longer drive!
I called the office to arrange another driver to take my job off me, and the AA for rescue. Meanwhile I had been spotted by a passing police patrolman, whose main concerns - given that there is no hard shoulder there, and about a fifth of my van's width was still actually on the carriageway - were to get it and me to a place of safety, and to remove the risk of an accident being caused as passing traffic might swerve to avoid me. He explained the strategy that we would adopt, which seemed quite straightforward. I would drive slowly along the road the quarter-mile or so to the next exit, keeping to the extreme edge of the carriageway. Meanwhile, he would be a short but safe distance behind me, blue lights flashing, keeping well over to the other side of the lane, as a shield. I would then park in the layby just off the roundabout.
It seemed so simple, and was quickly executed; but at the end of it, I was shaking. As I said to the officer when he walked up to make sure all was well, "You have no idea how scarey that was!" Actually, he probably did have, but ... After assuring me that to remain there, in what was actually a bus stop, would be OK, he was on his way. My load was transferred to an Aberdeen driver who had been delivering nearby and was embarking on an empty journey home, and as we were discussing his best route out of England via Stockport, the AA man arrived. After completing formalities, he went to collect a replacement mirror, and later duly returned to fit it and arrange payment. Although, once home again, I presented myself as once more available for work, I was rather glad not to be called.
The weekend has started a little early this week, and I'm hoping it will lack the 'interest' of the week it follows.
Saturday, 15 August 2015
A 'Winter Holiday' Week
I've chosen my title for this week's blog in recollection of of times when - in certain industries at least - holidays had to be taken within set periods of the year. My dad, for example, was entitled to a week in the summer and a week in the winter. While it was a valuable break from the hard work of the other fifty weeks, the winter week was always a bit flat for him. Once he'd done what he needed to get the garden straight, I don't think he knew what to do with the rest of the time.
For me, this week has been dominated by three things ... one of which shouldn't have been a dominant item in the first place. I agreed to use my van to take some of the inevitable post-holiday club 'clutter' from the church to the local dump: one van-load would save a number of car trips, so it made sense. At least it did until I got there on Monday morning. There I learned that a new permit scheme for all vehicles other than cars had been in force since the beginning of the year. I was annoyed, because I had been there within the last few months to dispose of an item I'd replaced in the home, and had been admitted without let or hindrance. I therefore knew nothing of the permit scheme. The permit is free, but needed to be applied for on line ... from an office in Liverpool! I made the application immediately, of course, but I'm still waiting for the permit to arrive! The cardboard, meanwhile, has been 'parked' in the motorhome.
Last weekend, I noticed that there was a small puddle of oil beneath said motorhome, so another task on Monday was to have this checked over. Now that I've got all the equipment I think I need to make proper use of the vehicle, I felt it would be a good point at which to check the overall weight against that permitted according to the official plate in the cab, so I also incorporated a trip to the nearest public weighbridge, where I learned I have about half a tonne capacity to spare! The garage cleaned the bottom surfaces and told me to run it for a few days and return.
On Tuesday, therefore, I sought somewhere interesting to visit not far from home, and discovered a nature reserve near Tring called Cottage Lake, which fulfilled both purposes i.e. a journey in the vehicle, and the ideal of time away from work: relaxation. When I returned to the garage on Thursday, there was no sign of a leak, so apart from keeping an eye out, all seems to be well.
Then there's the matter of the laptop. I decided it was time to replace my computer, which is getting a bit tired and, since it's a desktop machine, it puts me at a disadvantage when I go to meetings or for research, in that I need to use a less capable intermediate device. Following good advice, I ordered on line, thinking it would be in my hands by now. Sadly there was a problem with the credit card ... well actually a card-user interface difficulty, i.e. I had made an error when I filled out the order document on line ... and the simplest solution was to let that order lapse and re-order it 'properly' later. I was waiting until this morning, therefore, for confirmation of the order and provision of a delivery date in order to know that all is well at last.
When things aren't going well, I find I tend to think of times long ago, and the other morning I recalled an office where I'd worked some 45 years ago. In particular, I recalled a typist at that establishment who had a comparatively uncommon surname, and I wondered how easy it would be to find anything out about her now. I have to praise findmypast.co.uk (although I did complain heavily about their new website last year). Within little more than half an hour I'd traced the girl's marriage, the birth of her daughter, and a recent address and, thanks to Google Maps, I had found a picture of the neat dwelling that she and her family have occupied for the last thirty-odd years. Fantastic!
This weekend has seen the first encounters in a competition that will end next May with two top football teams meeting at Wembley ... yes, it's the extra-preliminary round of the FA Cup. As on the Friday evening of the comparable weekend two years ago, I ventured into Norfolk to support my native team, Diss Town in their efforts. Sadly, as on that previous occasion at Thetford, today's match ended in a home win, but what a different Diss team set foot on the park at the Elgood Fenland Stadium. The eighth minute goal that determined the result was very much against the run of play, even up to that early point in the game. All through the ninety minutes, whenever there was a loose ball, there seemed to be an orange shirt to meet it, and most of the activity seemed to be in the Wisbech half. The only - but crucial - thing Diss seemed to lack was finishing power. So many shots landed directly in the goalkeeper's hands and, while not denying that man's power and skill, he didn't have a lot of work to do.
Today also marks the 70th anniversary of VJ-Day. I had felt that I wouldn't be observing the occasion at all, apart from pondering over my researches concerning the uncle whom I grew up being told that I closely resembled, and who died of malaria while a PoW working on the Burma Railway. This morning, however, as I drove into town, I happened to notice a gathering by the war memorial. Putting two and two together, I walked back after parking the van, and was able to join in a short service of commemoration. Having been unable to take part in the ringing of bells for the occasion, owing to a mis-match of other commitments among the ringers, I felt this more than compensated.
For me, this week has been dominated by three things ... one of which shouldn't have been a dominant item in the first place. I agreed to use my van to take some of the inevitable post-holiday club 'clutter' from the church to the local dump: one van-load would save a number of car trips, so it made sense. At least it did until I got there on Monday morning. There I learned that a new permit scheme for all vehicles other than cars had been in force since the beginning of the year. I was annoyed, because I had been there within the last few months to dispose of an item I'd replaced in the home, and had been admitted without let or hindrance. I therefore knew nothing of the permit scheme. The permit is free, but needed to be applied for on line ... from an office in Liverpool! I made the application immediately, of course, but I'm still waiting for the permit to arrive! The cardboard, meanwhile, has been 'parked' in the motorhome.
Last weekend, I noticed that there was a small puddle of oil beneath said motorhome, so another task on Monday was to have this checked over. Now that I've got all the equipment I think I need to make proper use of the vehicle, I felt it would be a good point at which to check the overall weight against that permitted according to the official plate in the cab, so I also incorporated a trip to the nearest public weighbridge, where I learned I have about half a tonne capacity to spare! The garage cleaned the bottom surfaces and told me to run it for a few days and return.
 |
| Ducks doing what ducks do best |
Then there's the matter of the laptop. I decided it was time to replace my computer, which is getting a bit tired and, since it's a desktop machine, it puts me at a disadvantage when I go to meetings or for research, in that I need to use a less capable intermediate device. Following good advice, I ordered on line, thinking it would be in my hands by now. Sadly there was a problem with the credit card ... well actually a card-user interface difficulty, i.e. I had made an error when I filled out the order document on line ... and the simplest solution was to let that order lapse and re-order it 'properly' later. I was waiting until this morning, therefore, for confirmation of the order and provision of a delivery date in order to know that all is well at last.
When things aren't going well, I find I tend to think of times long ago, and the other morning I recalled an office where I'd worked some 45 years ago. In particular, I recalled a typist at that establishment who had a comparatively uncommon surname, and I wondered how easy it would be to find anything out about her now. I have to praise findmypast.co.uk (although I did complain heavily about their new website last year). Within little more than half an hour I'd traced the girl's marriage, the birth of her daughter, and a recent address and, thanks to Google Maps, I had found a picture of the neat dwelling that she and her family have occupied for the last thirty-odd years. Fantastic!
This weekend has seen the first encounters in a competition that will end next May with two top football teams meeting at Wembley ... yes, it's the extra-preliminary round of the FA Cup. As on the Friday evening of the comparable weekend two years ago, I ventured into Norfolk to support my native team, Diss Town in their efforts. Sadly, as on that previous occasion at Thetford, today's match ended in a home win, but what a different Diss team set foot on the park at the Elgood Fenland Stadium. The eighth minute goal that determined the result was very much against the run of play, even up to that early point in the game. All through the ninety minutes, whenever there was a loose ball, there seemed to be an orange shirt to meet it, and most of the activity seemed to be in the Wisbech half. The only - but crucial - thing Diss seemed to lack was finishing power. So many shots landed directly in the goalkeeper's hands and, while not denying that man's power and skill, he didn't have a lot of work to do.
Today also marks the 70th anniversary of VJ-Day. I had felt that I wouldn't be observing the occasion at all, apart from pondering over my researches concerning the uncle whom I grew up being told that I closely resembled, and who died of malaria while a PoW working on the Burma Railway. This morning, however, as I drove into town, I happened to notice a gathering by the war memorial. Putting two and two together, I walked back after parking the van, and was able to join in a short service of commemoration. Having been unable to take part in the ringing of bells for the occasion, owing to a mis-match of other commitments among the ringers, I felt this more than compensated.
"When you go home, tell them of us and say,
For your tomorrow, we gave our today."
- Kohima Epitaph
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