A Statistical Damp Squib

No, no, it's March that's supposed to go out like a lamb ... or is it the lion at the 'out' end?  Either way, June seems to have taken its leave rather in the order of the damp squib ... very damp in some places!  So far as my work is concerned, this week has been neither a great boom nor a really powdery phut.  I suppose the best way to sum it up is to say that, of the four weeks this month, I've done the greatest number of jobs this week, and the average length of them has been the shortest!  I was concerned whether I might be getting a distorted view, affected by the most recent, seeing the past through those famous rose-tinted specs, and so on. 

So I looked back at last summer.  Let me bore you with a few statistics.  I had two weeks' holiday last July, so in the period April to September I worked 24 weeks.  In those 24 weeks, I did 36 jobs of over 150 miles, out of which three were to Scotland, two to Ireland, ten to the far west of England or Wales, and the remaining 21 to the north of England.  I always reckon that it's better to go north both because of the distance itself and also because there are more 'other places' in that direction for more chances to combine work.  These results tend to bear out that logic. 

The Bridge on Wool, Wadebridge

I then examined the work I've done since the start of April, and compared that result to last summer, allowing for the fact that I'm comparing 13 weeks this year to 24 last summer.  I found only ten jobs over 150 miles (I would have expected 19); of these one was to Scotland (I would have expected two); five were to the north of England (I would have expected eleven); and the remaining four to the west country, with none to Wales.  While I would only have expected five in this category anyway, Poole, Bristol and Hereford this year fade in their attempts to challenge Cornwall and the west coast of Wales that I enjoyed in the sunshine of 2011.

Now, where is all this leading?  Am I suggesting that last summer was typical? Or that the recession is deepening?  I have neither the time nor the patience to analyse previous summers; and even if I did, there are as many extenuating circumstances as there are good jobs or good weeks to explain away why any particular period is better or worse than another.  The truth is simply that this year is not last year, and it won't be next year either.  It is what it is, for good or ill, and that's the end of it.  All my figures prove is that it's not just my imagination: last summer was better than this one has been so far ... on the basis that I've chosen to measure them and make the comparison.  No more, no less.

Life is all variety, and this particular life that I follow is one that demonstrates its variety more than some others.  All in all, I don't think I'd swap it.  After all, in what other trade could you see fine views like the one above (last year), sample the inside of a Victorian hospital corridor (as I did two Thursdays ago), and see what documentation tortoises need for international travel (I haven't told that one yet!) . . . all potentially within the same week!

Oh, and by the way, my old friend the Repeating Genie sent me up the A10 to King's Lynn last night, and I can update you on the pink teddy bear.  Someone did give him a lift ... somewhere.

Men and Victoria

This week has been another slow creep up to an explosion.  The only highlight of Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday was this little chap, whom I spotted resting in a lay-by on the A10 on my way to Littleport.  On my way back I noticed from some distance that he was still there and just had to stop to say hello.  I hope he eventually got a lift to somewhere nice.

Thursday began in the same vein, as I struggled through the rain to deliver an envelope to Ipswich Borough Council.  I parked as near as I could to the postroom door, sprinted back to the van in good style, and promptly bashed my shin against the underside of the dashboard as I threw myself inside.

Back home, I spent half the afternoon at the computer until, at about 5.0, the phone rang and I fully expected to be given a job for the morrow.  Instead, Dave asked, "Are you likely to be bored this evening - loaded question, I know - or would you like a drive up to Birmingham?"  Hearing my admission of interest, he told me there would be an urgent collection in Hitchin at 7.0, so I set about a hasty tea, and set off.  Apart from the rain (sorry to be a weather-bore!) the journey to Perry Barr was trouble-free.  I got home bang on midnight, and was into bed by quarter past.  I woke up at 3.30, and slept little after that.

Yesterday started quite quickly, because I'd been left at the top of the list ... and I got sent to Birmingham again.  This time it was to the city centre, to deliver some computers to an insurance firm for one customer, and to collect a pass from the city council for another.  Returning by about 2.45, I thought the day was virtually exhausted ... I felt I was!  But to my surprise, I then got a couple more jobs, one to a double-glazing firm in Slough, and the other to take a computer hard drive to Bristol.  I made good use of SatNav to by-pass two potential hold-ups on the M4, delivered at 7.30, and gladly fell into a parking spot at a nearby KFC.  After about an hour resting, feeding and watching the antics of a seagull at the rubbish bin (!) I felt much better, set off for home, and was in by 11.15.  I decided to do my usual admin by way of a 'wind-down' before going to bed, and as a result had eight hours' solid and much-needed sleep.

Today I have had a triply-thoughtful visit to the supermarket.  Firstly, I realised that there were far more men doing the shopping today.  I can think of no good reason for such a change, but it was a noticeable departure from normal.  Then, at the checkout I received just three coins in change, and for a moment stood looking intensely at one of them - so much so that the woman at the till thought she'd made a mistake, and asked whether everything was all right.

I explained that all was well, it was simply that the 10p was so dark I thought for a moment it was Victoria wearing the crown!  I have it here in front of me now, and it certainly does have that look about it.  It's all to do with a solid black deposit in and around the lettering, and I wondered whether this was so much a characteristic of the old queen's coinage because of all the steam engines, coal fires and heavy industry ... and where this 10p has been to acquire that appearance! 

So, to my third highlight.  As I came out of the supermarket in the van, I had to wait for someone coming up the road to the town centre.  I recognised him as Peter, a good friend and former colleague - riding a bike!  I pulled out behind him, and couldn't resist a couple of friendly toots on the horn as I followed him up to the junction.  Peter is Polish, that's to say he was originally.  He's been in this country since his teens, and apart from the accent that will never leave him, you wouldn't know he hadn't been here all his life.  Characteristically, he's a hard and willing worker, and he's now finding better rewards on his own rather than working through an agency like me.

It was he with whom I made my first trip to Northern Ireland a couple of years ago, when the two of us were sent to supervise the transshipment of some important computer equipment from the north-west of England.  We didn't actually take anything - we'd simply been engaged to act as independent supervisors to verify that the lorries that did take the computers had completed their journeys without interference.  It was the most bizarre courier assignment that we'd been asked to do, and quite enjoyable to boot!

Today, I was sorry not to have the opportuntiy for a chat.  I'd love to know why he was cycling, for example.  After turning round and recognising me, he almost fell off the bike at the corner.  I thought for a moment my hooting had annoyed him, but his face was as fully wreathed in smiles as ever, and I realised that the slope up to that junction is much steeper than you realise on four wheels!  I have to admit that I envied him the energy to tackle it, but he is about twenty years younger!

No to tackle more of those holiday plans!

Up, down and sideways!

After a good weekend, which saw the usual 'chores' of getting my bookkeeping up to date, making bread (well, encouraging the bread maker to do so, anyway) and doing the barest amount of cleaning, this week began with a leisurely session in the armchair on Monday morning, reading the latest edition of Suffolk Roots, the quarterly magazine of the Suffolk Family History Society.  Eventually the phone rang, but only to offer me a couple of fairly local jobs, and my demeanour was hardly made any better when I called in at the office later.  With all the grousing and niggling going on just as it had in the old place, I suddenly realised what an advantage it is working from home now!  I was relieved to be asked to spend the evening delivering bread rolls to two Waitrose distribution depots - although not exactly pleased to be caught in the tail-back of an accident as I travelled to collect them!

Tuesday saw me do battle with central Canterbury, where I had to deliver some equipment for a McDonalds restaurant.  On the way back I stopped for a meal at a Little Chef, where I was so pleased with the service and friendly atmosphere that I said I'd report them, and when I got home I filed a feedback report on their website.  Whether it will make any difference I doubt, but at least I felt I'd done something to express my appreciation.

The joy of Wednesday was found in Oxfordshire.  I was sent to Station Yard in Adderbury.  SatNav didn't recognise the postcode I'd been given, and there was no sign of a nearby railway to have inspired the name.  I headed for the centre of the village and tossed a virtual coin as I came to the junction.  I turned left, and had all but got out into open country again when a roadside sign indicated that I'd found my target!  I uttered a word of thanks to the Almighty, made my delivery and was on my way home again within minutes.

On Thursday, I took advantage of the fine weather to clean the van windows, top up the screen wash, check the oil, and so on, before being sent to Bristol.  Frenchay Hospital - at least the bits I saw - is a relic from a bygone age.  I followed signs at the entrance for 'deliveries', but these had disappeared before I had seen any sign of a receiving bay. This is not an uncommon occurrence, but its frequency doesn't add to its popularity in my opinion!  Once inside, I found myself in a long straight corridor.  The unplastered brick walls were painted a bright canary yellow; the ceiling was so low I would almost have been able to touch it if I hadn't been carrying a couple of parcels, and it disappeared into the far distance in both directions.  I found it later on Google maps and measured that corridor: it was in excess of 360 yards long!  That's over three quarters of the circuit of an athletics track (note the topical Olympic allusion!)

Yesterday almost finished the week on a low note, with two jobs well into the 'grumble' category.  One was the daily delivery to a Suffolk health centre that is known to be underpaid, and the other was said to be Cambridge, but was actually to a modern industrial park in a village over nine miles on the far side.  I returned to the office in high dudgeon, and having said my piece, I was placated by being given a quite decent job for Monday morning.  It was still not yet 5.0, and I thought I'd hang about in case there was more work.  Before I'd had time to make a drink, one of the controllers covered his phone and, before completing his call, made sure that I'd be willing to go up to Peterborough with a computer hard drive.

Realising how close I was, I decided to go to the Diner on the A1 afterwards for a meal before going back home.  While I was eating my meal and watching the Euro 2012 match on TV, a scene unfolded before me that reminded me why I don't have much time for children.  Father and son arrived and sat on the far side of the room.  The boy must have been about eight or nine, certainly not a young child, but clearly not the shiniest button in the box.  He had eaten his burger, and as his father was coming to the end of his meal, this youngster asked if he might have another drink.  Dad doled out the money and the boy went to the counter, coming back waving a bottle of pop. 

He sat down and unscrewed the cap.  Fizzzzzzzzzzzzz - about half of the contents spread themselves liberally over table, chairs, father and son!  Father, embarrasssed, speedily obtained a cloth and mopped up what he could.  Amidst comments like 'can I have another one?'  'I'm all wet!' etc., he led the way to a dry table near the exit and, as soon as he'd finished his coffee, they departed.  Soon, however, the boy was back again, to visit the gents in a futile attempt to dry himself.  Unsuccessful in this, instead of returning to the car, he came and sat in the corner of the room, sulking, and after some while his father had to come and round him up.  Finally the performance was ended, and by the time I'd finished my own meal, they'd disappeared from the car park.

Today I have been taking time out.  Instead of anything more personally productive, I've been exercising my family history skills digging out the story of the folks my family and I used to stay with on our annual seaside holidays to Great Yarmouth in my childhood.  Within only a few hours, I was able to note their several generations back to the time of Waterloo!  All this as sunshine gave way to rain outside, but now it's bright and sunny again, a perfect early summer evening with no sign of the wind that rattled the door earlier.  Now I have to decide what, if anything, to do with four pages of useless jottings!

Where to this year?

With the worst weather for days one and two of a Test Match for 48 years, this may not be the most appropriate time, but I have been thinking about holidays.  That's not to say that I've come to any conclusions - far from it!  But I have been thinking.  A few weeks ago I found in my post a flyer about the Holiday Property Bond, and I decided to ask for more information.  I found that the product of what I could afford to invest wouldn't actually generate entitlement to a holiday per year, and even if it did, there would be still additional expenses to pay.  This idea was parked as 'one step beyond my means.'

Soon afterwards, a well-known supermarket reminded me that I had some of their loyalty points which would shortly expire.  Looking further, I discovered that I could multiply their value by converting them into 'day-out vouchers.'  These would either pay for, or substantially reduce the cost of, admission to a variety of tourist attractions across the country.  While there isn't sufficient concentration of these in any particular area to occupy me anywhere for the traditional week away, a number of regional groupings did emerge.

One question that has become apparent to me in all this is, what do I actually want to do with my holiday anyway?  There are many possibilities that I immediately reject because they are for families, and are aimed at keeping children occupied.  Many more are focused on eating or drinking, neither of which appeals to me as the focus of a holiday, since I should be travelling alone, and it is my considered opinion that (bodily necessity apart) these activities are best followed at a group or couple level!

My next thought was to explore some extension of a regular interest.  Bellringing? no; it needs a whole team of others, or else it can only be incorporated into a holiday - as I have done many times before - as an evening diversion, going along to regular ringing practices in the area.  It's not an end of itself.  What about family history?  In its narrowest sense, I could plan a visit to distant points of research, archives or record offices, and that indeed I might do, but if there is actually to be any summer weather this year, I would like to enjoy some of it outside, rather than through the dimmed windows of a research room.  At a broader level, almost anything historic is of interest to me, and can provide background to and enlightenment of the study of family history

So, without as yet planning anything specific, I'm thinking that I might locate a convenient B&B in the general area of two or three of the places where I can use these day-out vouchers, and visit a selection of stately homes, castles or museums of some kind of social history.  I have the advantage of not being bound by the need to use a week at a time, so a few days here and there - or just there! - can be balanced by the odd research journey on another occasion, to search for some snippet of information or background detail that I can't find on the internet.

The main thing is not to spend 52 weeks working and then wonder what to do with the other ... oh dear, there aren't any more this year!

Jubilation for all

While many were by all accounts enjoying getting soaked on the banks of the Thames, I had the privilege of watching the progress of the Jubilee pageant on my cousin's TV, as I reflected on the doings of the past week.  I felt sorry for Her Majesty, wrapped in a much-needed shawl, but standing steadfastly at her post, acknowledging the cheers of her subjects.  From the comparative warmth of my own vantage point, I realised that we have much for which to be thankful - not least, in my case, quite a profitable week.

As usual, I'll pass over some of the detail and identify just the highlights of a week that has covered just over 1,500 miles and, in profile, resembles a theatrical stage, with an off-centre spotlight amidst wings of darkness.  Monday began - as is usual nowadays - at home, but I didn't have to wait long before I was sent round the corner to collect something for a village in the Cambridgeshire fens.  A diversion to Thetford led to a pleasant journey through the countryside to get there.  Later, jobs to High Wycombe and Wokingham were crowned by a phone call sending me further for a collection in Thatcham afterwards.  I was nearly there when another call announced that this had been cancelled - but will be paid for!

Ringing practice on Monday evening was a time of mixed emotions.  The ringing itself was quite well discharged, but much of it was of a low level, owing to the attendance of a couple of gents who rarely come to practices because of other hobbies and a comparatively casual interest in ringing.  As a result their skill level is less advanced and I confess to a degree of impatience and intolerance whenever they turn up.  Alongside this quite regular irritation, my young friend and fellow-ringer who is expecting her first baby in August, had returned from holiday looking bonnier than ever.  It is no surprise that her condition makes her the focus of social attention, and I felt sidelined.  When I returned home, I reflected how unreasonable this attitude was, which only added to my discomfort.

Tuesday yielded two jobs in another east anglian trip, and Wednesday found me revisiting a known factory near Basingstoke Town FC's ground before exploring the delights of Romsey.  Then came the spotlight of the week.  I returned from Romsey to the office to hand in my paperwork, and was there at just the right time.  Confirmation was awaited of a collection the next morning in Co Durham for a building site in north London.  All the other drivers had either been allocated work or gone home, and the controller found it convenient to ask me to wait until the e-mail arrived, rather than get his evening colleague to find a driver for it once the job was 'on.'  Thus it was that I returned home at 6.30 for a quick turnaround in order to be out soon after 4.0 am on Thursday.

My journey north was uneventful, and I stopped at Markham Moor for breakfast before arriving at the factory in Birtley - within sight of the famous Angel of the North statue - at 9.30.  After a short wait, I was loaded and heading south.  Five boxes of assorted 'building ironmongery' were destined for the same site in North London that I'd visited a few weeks ago, right opposite the British Library's Newspaper Archive in Colindale.  My previous visit was on a rainy evening when, there being no one about, I had made phone calls and, upon instruction, had left two boxes of door handles on the pavement outside the locked gate in the rain - a most unsatisfactory outcome, in my opinion.  This time things turned out much better.  I arrived mid afternoon, drove straight onto the site and up to the site office, where I met the chap whom I had phoned on the previous occasion.  Delivery made, I gladly made my way home for a lazy evening and early bed.

Friday set off much earlier than I had expected, with a call to make a collection from a familiar site in Northampton, and from that point one local job followed another until by 7.30 pm I'd visited three hospitals and a nursing home, and achieved a total of six jobs in the day - once not an uncommon phenomenon, but now a rarity achieved only once since August 2010.

After a lazy morning I gave SatNav permission to lead me via a 'non-motorway' route to my cousin's, which proved an interesting introduction to a weekend of family chatter and comfortably low-key Jubilee celebrations.

A Spike, a Shell, Smells and Bells

It's been a good week for many reasons, not least that summer has got its act together at last.  And despite my usual craving for 'jobs up north' because they're the ones with greater distances, with more likelihood of being able to combine jobs, and hence with greater profits ... only once did I get beyond Watford Gap.

Monday started the week in good style, with two interesting jobs into East Anglia that I would have absolutely hated in bad weather.  The first was to a site just by the roadside near Thetford, where some electrical engineers were in need of an earth spike.  I had been told 'three miles out'; consequently I'd been expecting to find them three miles away from the by-pass.  Instead, what was meant was clearly three miles out of the town, and I was lucky to notice their characteristic orange generator as I sped past.  Fortunately there was a convenient gateway in which to turn round, and the delivery was made without further ado.

On then to Wisbech, with a wide variety of consumables for a Shell filling station.  It was one of those balmy afternoons when you can drive along the country roads paying little attention to where you're going until you get there.  With half my mind on SatNav and half on the mp3-player, I was only mildly curious why I was being led through all kinds of pretty fenland villages instead of straight up the A10 to the big roundabout on the edge of King's Lynn.  My reverie came to an abrupt halt when I stopped at a dead end, with the traffic of the A47 clearly visible on the other side of the field in front of me.

After finding my way 'round the block', I located my target, and drove around to the rear entrance.  Here the girls on duty had no knowledge of the consignment being on the way, but suggested that I start unloading the goods onto  the concrete footway outside the back door.  Soon the manager appeared, and insisted on checking every item of about five pages of detail ... and, of course, there was one thing missing!  We happily agreed that it must have been omitted from a sealed box from the outset, exchanged signatures to this effect, and I was on my way.

Tuesday's excitement came after three other jobs that were 'local', but only relatively so, and had taken me until early afternoon.  The pick-up was at a grand estate near Marlow, Bucks., but instead of delivery near home, it was for a residential address in Faversham, Kent.  Here the roads were named after English kings of the ninth to eleventh centuries although, judging from the age of the properties, this clearly wasn't a 21st-century quirk of someone in the planning department.  I supressed an urge to smile when the householder, amidst his expressions of gratitude, hoped that on this hot afternoon "the journey hasn't been too arduous for you!"

The weather has really been a delight, and with a decent fan in this new van, I've not been too unbearably hot.  That's not to say that the breeze outside hasn't provided welcome relief on occasions.  On Thursday, I enjoyed a fairly frequent job to West Bromwich, where we have to wait for our customer's goods to be processed and then bring them back.  There is a nearby Asda where it's pleasant to spend a couple of hours behind a mug of coffee or, if the time is right, enjoy a cooked midday meal instead of sandwiches.  When I emerged this week, a whiff of barbecue caught my nose as I strolled across the car park and, with the breeze gently diluting the sunshine on my bare arms and legs, I could almost imagine myself on holiday in France again.

For the most part, the rest of the week's toings and froings have been to places I've visited before, although in some cases I've not realised this until turning the final corner.  This afternoon I joined seven friends to ring the bells for a wedding - something I don't often do these days because of the vagaries of work demands.  For a while yesterday morning I was wondering how I could best tender my apologies for this one, after a gentle enquiry from the office whether or not I would be prepared to make a delivery last night in Aberdeen.  A second call about an hour later restored my equilibrium, as it was revealed that the job, delivery of a passport from an office in central London, wouldn't be happening.  It seemed that the passenger was flying at 6.0 last evening - well before anyone could drive there from London!  We presumed that arrangements were made for the passport to be flown there for collection on his departure.

Now, with a freshly-cleaned van at the ready, I'm wondering what next week will offer.

A Follow-up Week

In many ways this week has been a follow-up to last.  I have often spoken about the 'Repeating Genie' that seems to be a characteristic of the courier life.  It seems that ours isn't the only profession where this occurs, and in a newsletter I received this week there was a request for contributions to a survey into coincidence, of which this type of experience is one example.  By Wednesday morning, I was beginning to realise a new manifestation of this phenomenon - teenage recollections.

You may recall that last Friday I visited Great Yarmouth with a consignment of wine.  This was for a holiday camp on the North Denes; if you have any knowledge of the resort, you'll know that this is - predictably - at the north end of the town, beyond the extent of conventional residential development.  It's also beyond, i.e. to the seaward side of, the site of the old M&GN railway line that used to go from the former Yarmouth Beach station out through broadland and ultimately to Cromer.  Access to this part of the town is past the racecourse and over a railway bridge that nowadays appears to cross nothing but a car park.  If my memory serves, it was on that car park, or one nearby, that I spent a number of evenings with my first girlfriend, who lived in nearby Gorleston-on-Sea.

Wednesday morning's job took me to the centre of Norwich, and SatNav - newly refurbished but mischievous as ever - turned me off the main road one junction too soon, and through a sequence of back streets that I'd not frequented for the last forty-odd years.  Apart from being close to the office where I worked for almost a year in the late 1960's, it's also where that same girlfriend and I parked one Saturday afternoon on a visit to the city.

Another hazard for the unsuspecting courier - one I don't think I've mentioned before in these narratives - raised its head twice this week.  I call it the "cost of postcode generalisation."  I don't think customers do it on purpose, but one could be forgiven for being suspicious.  The way it works is this.  You have a consignment for a small place that is some miles beyond its post-town, or that city which gives its name to the postcode district; you summon a courier to go to the post-town, and unless the driver complains, that's where your job is charged.  The poor driver bears the cost of the extra distance, which could amount to quite a discount in some cases.  One example is the regular drugs delivery that I did twice last week, which is priced to Bury St Edmunds, although it's actually to a village about 9 miles further.  Once the precedent has been established, it seems to be cast in stone, and everyone loses out.

This week's two incidences were on Tuesday morning, when I took some electronic equipment to Hedge End, which was described as 'Southampton', and on Wednesday afternoon, when I suffered Groby being narrated as 'Leicester'.  Sometimes this does work in our favour, which is one reason I don't believe it to be a deliberate trick on the part of the customer; unless it promises to be a regular job, or is a great injustice one way or the other, I tend to ignore it and hope that 'swings will equate to roundabouts.'

It's been quite refreshing to see fuel costs tumbling in the last couple of weeks.  Strangely, the same thing happened about a year ago, and after adjusting my budget for a higher fuel price at the start of the financial year, I spent the whole year with an apparent saving.  Whether connected to this or not, I had a call this week offering me another fuel card.  The caller had previously been with the company that provides one of the two cards I use at present, and I decided to reject his kind offer.  There's a limit to the amount of plastic with which one can juggle, after all!

The end of the week got to be somewhat nose-to-tail although, with one job at a time, still not as profitable as the busy-ness would indicate.  No sooner was I home from Groby (or Leicester!) than I was in bed, ready for an early morning collection to go back up the M1 for Rugby.  And just as I thought Thursday had come to a natural conclusion, I was invited to take a laptop from Hertford to Hereford, which meant that I was out until 1.0 am.  I was quite content to be given just two jobs yesterday that went together with a nice lot of undemanding rural driving, to Bedford and Oxford.

An unexpected casualty of the new pattern of working from a home base has been the time spent reading magazines.  Whilst waiting between jobs on Wednesday, I picked up one that had been sitting unopened for a week or so, and yesterday's post brought another monthly publication before I'd finished the last edition!

And finally in the follow-up stakes, came the delivery on Wednesday morning of that birth certificate that I'd ordered for one of my uncle's nephews.  I'm always amazed at the distortion created by large families.  This man, who would have been my first cousin, was born little more than five months after my father!  Now I have the information from his birth certificate, I've found his parents' marriage, his father's appearance on two earlier censuses, and have the wherewithal to track his mother down as well ... when time permits.
Now, where did I put my reading glasses?