The Ringing Weekend

The accommodation this weekend came as a distinct contrast to the Travelodge where I happened to fetch up on Tuesday night last week.  We have to acknowledge, of course, that they are aimed at a different clientele and each probably meets its own aims with the same efficiency.  I had no real compaints with either.

The organisers of our ringing weekend are faced with one overarching problem, that of finding an affordable establishment that is big enough to accommodate 12 to 20 guests, and either will provide both breakfast and an evening meal, or is sufficiently close to a pub which can offer one or both of these requirements - and even more importantly - makes a convenient base for visiting a suitable number of churches that have ringable bells in good order.

In recent years we have set our sights on the Best Western chain, and this weekend we aimed for their hotel at Blunsdon, just outside Swindon.  It seems that this was the best sector of the country for weather; their snow had already arrived by Saturday morning, providing a picturesque if unseasonal backdrop, and we missed the substantial falls at home during our absence.  The only adverse effect of the weather was that one of our party, who is elderly and not very mobile, decided not to venture out in the morning, for fear of slipping on a slushy churchyard path.  Her husband delighted to return to the hotel to fetch her for lunch, however, and she joined in the rest of the day's activities. 


The hotel drive in the snow

St. Mary, Kempsford ceiling

Perhaps one of the most beautiful sights of the morning was the magnificent crossing ceiling in St. Mary's church, Kempsford, under which we had to pass before we could climb to the ringing chamber which is above it.  Lunch was taken at the Riverside Inn by the Thames at Lechlade, before going just up the street to ring at the church of St Lawrence there.



There is always a good welcome in the ringing fraternity, and during our time at Lechlade the door of the ringing chamber opened to admit three ladies who had heard the bells and, being ringers themselves, had decided to investigate.  On learning that we were simply visitors and not there to ring for a wedding or to attempt a significant ringing achievement like a peal or quarter peal, they asked if we would mind them joining us.  We didn't of course, and our augmented band rang a couple of touches of slightly higher quality with their help before we each went our separate ways.

St Leonard, Broad Blunsdon

The first of the two churches at which we rang this morning was St Leonard, Broad Blunsdon, just up the road from the hotel, where the local band were away and our request to ring had been warmly welcomed.  It was lovely to see the church so colourful and feel its warmth as the local congregation assembled for their celebration on Palm Sunday.  Our ringing there included what we agreed was one of the best pieces of ringing of the whole weekend.  The quality and enjoyment of ringing depends on several factors: the weight of the bells, their state of maintenance, the competence of the ringers and so on.  Today on this very light ring of eight bells (tenor 5cwt, 1 qtr, 15 lbs, or about 274Kg), we rang a simple piece in a method called 'Grandsire Triples', which, in the estimation of one ringer present, equalled something in which he had taken part at Canterbury Cathedral twenty years ago, and which had stuck in his mind as particularly pleasant.

We then moved on to what was probably the worst experience of the weekend.  The five bells at St John the Baptist, Lattan, although not particularly heavy, are mounted on plain bearings (whereas most rings these days are on ball bearings ... compare it to a car with or without power steering), and are not regularly rung, although they had been recently maintained.  It is hard to appreciate that the beautiful ringing of only an hour previously could be followed - by members of the same band - by such an awkward and disjointed performance.  Some of us simply couldn't match the work required to keep the bell going properly!  If nothing else, it's part of going on tours like this to other places, to meet the challenge of other bells, the difficulties presented by other installations and, as a result, to improve our own techniques and achievements when we get home.

By lunchtime today, therefore, the party had broken up.  Some were going on to visit family or friends who happen to live nearby, and others are now at home in the bosom of their families.  For my part, I'm sorting out the aftermath of the weekend (including the writing of this blog) and looking forward (or not, in the face of this nasty wintry white stuff) to another week on the road.

My Cup Runneth Over

Last week I hinted - without second sight, I have to say - that this week might be better.  It began with a memory blank-out.  As I left the usual Monday morning breakfast, I explained to my friends that there are, effectively, three 'shifts' to our team, which change from day to day according to the work.  One is those who have been allocated work the night before and at the start of the day are already out on the road; the second is those who had returned the previous day but had not been given a job for the next; and the third is those who were out late the previous evening and now had to ring in or attend the office to be added to the list for the new day.  It was to this third shift that I belonged on Monday, I said.

Not so.  I had forgotten that the job that kept me out until 6.45 on Friday was classed as a local or 'back-end' job, and I was still on the list since Friday afternoon.  This became apparent when, at 7.30, I had scarcely taken my coat off, let alone made coffee and put the computer on, when the weekend controller called to send me to Hitchin to collect something for Bristol, and then call the office.  I did as I was bid, and returned home where I made my sandwiches, and generally got the working week under way.  Then, since nothing else had manifested itself, off to the grand city of the west, where I delivered just round the corner from Ashton Gate, the home of Bristol City FC.

Some years ago now, I discovered - quite by accident, since I was looking for somewhere to park while I examined the charity shop around the corner - a nice little barber's shop in Bristol's outer suburbs and, if I'm ever there when in need of a trim, I go there in preference to the one near home that is otherwise my local.  It's cheaper, and the service is of that old-fashioned, personal kind.  It may not be applicable now, of course, but one can almost imagine, as the brush is run across the shoulders (that does still happen there!) the half-whispered enquiry, 'something for the weekend, sir?'

So, freshly groomed, I set off for home.  As I travelled quite cheerfully around the M25, a cautious controller called me.  "I don't know if you'd be interested in this, Brian ..."  It's an opening that could have been guaranteed - and might indeed be used for the purpose - to prompt a 'yes' response.  The offer was a delivery on Tuesday, between 10.0 and 12.00 so no desperate pressure, in Glasgow, and an accompanying but totally separate collection in Edinburgh on Wednesday morning.  It would mean a stopover on the Tuesday night, of course.  It was like a mini-holiday, and in some ways was more exciting than I expect this weekend to be.

I collected the goods for Glasgow, and packaging materials for the collection, and came home.  A couple of hours later, with the normal weekly admin successfully passed onto and off the desk, I set off for the north, only a little apprehensive of the weather.  After a meal near Stamford (accompanied by East Enders on the TV), I was able to drive almost non-stop to Carlisle, where the carpark at the truck-stop provided a convenient venue for sleep.  I slept better than expected, had breakfast there, and arrived at my destination - a warehouse on Glasgow International Airport - at 9.35.  Staff were present, my cargo recognised, and I was away before the opening of the designated window.  I parked nearby and called my contact for the next day's collection to see what time his goods would be ready.  Although there was no specially good news, such as 'well, they're actually ready now', it was good to make contact, and I then knew that it would be no good arriving before 10.30 the next morning.

The Travelodge that I had booked would be accessable by 3.0pm, so I spent the morning sightseeing.  A gentle drive up to Loch Lomond's tourist centre proved worthwhile, and I got some interesting if not technically expert photos, including a second-best view of the magnificent Erskine Bridge over the Clyde.  I arrived about 2.30, and after a chat with the receptionist, who told me of his erstwhile career as a courier, I was able to settle myself in the room.  The snow had thus far confined itself to mere flurries, although there was lots of it to be seen by the roadside, and the worst of all was actually in the hotel car-park.  The following morning was tranquility itself, for I could sit unhindered and read or attend to some work on the laptop while I waited for the magic hour to creep up when I ought to leave to cross the city for my collection.

This too, went smoothly, apart from the need to take a circuitous route because of road works in the city centre, and by 11.30 I was debating whether to return via the east coast, or back down the M74.  I'd just reached the end of the City Bypass, the point of decision, when the office rang.  After the usual pleasantries and the hope confirmed that I had by then collected the goods in Edinburgh, I was offered a pick-up of some exhibition equipment near Hexham, supposedly ready at 4.0pm.  I explained that it would take a couple of hours to get there, and that, having found the place I would enquire when they would actually be ready.  Past experience had told me that these events usually finish well before the nominated time.  I arrived just after 2.0, and found the boxes neatly sealed and labelled for collection, sitting behind the reception desk.  By 2.15 I was once more on the way home.

Yesterday, therefore saw the delivery of these two consignments that I'd collected, one in Harpenden, and the other in Harlesden, before a self-contained job on the way back home, and the day was rounded off with a hospital transfer, and another event collection.  This was in the middle of Cambridge, a place beset by pedestrian areas.  Eventually I was away too late for delivery yesterday, so my working week just tipped over to the fifth day, as I took these items to our customer in Stevenage this morning, before my plans and preparations for the ringing weekend ... which is about to get under way!

Where does Work end?

There are, I believe, many things in nature that perform in the way this week has done.  It staggered along for a couple of days, well below par, then lurched energetically as if regaining its prowess ... and then collapsed completely.  Even when resuscitated, it still couldn't manage complete normality.  If that sounds a rather dismal summary, you may prefer to wait for the follow-up next week, which will undoubtedly be better.  However, for those faithfully interested in the detail ...

Monday started quite optimistically, with a print delivery in Aylesbury that had been counted as a back-end, or local, job.  Then after a short wait, I was sent to collect in Stevenage for Stamford.  Unfortunately, this didn't follow the pattern of a Stamford job a few weeks ago that became transmogrified into Motherwell.  I was back in time for bell ringing practice, and had collected an envelope from a firm opposite my home to be delivered to Pinewood Studios in the morning.  Later on Tuesday I took some small machines from a firm in Stevenage for exchange at two places in Cambridge.  One was in a special box on wheels, for a university building in a quiet side street, and  the disabled access from the street made it a doddle.  The other, sadly, was just boxed, and needed to be carried to the heart of the hospital - no mean feat for an asthmatic - and needed a number of rests!

So ended the first two days, having generated between them little more than one day's income.  By contrast Wednesday started well, and got better, with a concatenation of three jobs.  The first was a delivery in Crawley, from which I went on to a collection in Ashford.  With the bad weather, this involved a diversion off the motorway because of Operation Stack.  I'd never seen this in action before, and the sight is quite amazing.  It's hard to imagine where all those lorries are going - and equally the frustration that must build up in the drivers who are unable to proceed, whether to make their delivery or to get home if they've already delivered in Britain.  While I was still on the M20, the office called to ask me to re-route my return to make another collection in Hadlow, just outside Tonbridge.  This proved to be one of those 'SatNav got it wrong' moments, which I just missed avoiding.

I could see that I was being turned off the road to the right, and could also see clearly a right-turn lane in front of me.  Not unnaturally, I put the two together, and turned in; as I did so, I noticed that on the SatNav screen the vehicle icon had made a sharper turning about 200 yards earlier.  With my attention then diverted to the correcting manoeuvre, it wasn't until I'd made a three-point turn and pulled out onto the main road, that I noticed my destination by the side of the road I was then leaving.  I followed SatNav's erroneous instruction, and entered a narrow lane between two snow-laden hedges.  Eventually I was able to turn around again, retrace my steps and make my collection.

On Thursday, nothing happpened.  Well, this isn't strictly true, of course, and about 2.0 pm I broke off from the family history project I'd been working on all day and called the office to see if I'd 'fallen off the radar'.  I was assured that it was simply a very quiet day, and a couple of hours later came a return call to instruct a collection in Leigh-on-Sea the next morning.  This is the sort of job I like, because, with the overnight warning, I can plan at leisure what time I'll need to leave, therefore what time I'll have to get up to avoid being in a rush, and where will be the best place to stop for breakfast.  This particular job involved a delivery in Ware, to a converted warehouse that I'd had great difficulty in locating the first time I'd been there a few months ago.  This time I turned boldly into the lane, holding up the traffic in the High Street as I adjusted my angle of approach to enter the narrow archway.

The records in the office had not been updated to show that I was doing this job, and the controller called me just as I was entering the town.  The conversation that ensued was a real-life copy of a stage sketch.  "Where are you, Brian?" "Ware." "Yes, where are you?" "Ware!" "Where?" "I'm in Ware!" "Oh, Ware.  I didn't realise you'd got that job - OK."  Soon after I'd got back, Ware from? <sorry - it becomes whering, no, Ware...  no, wearing after a while!>  I was sent off to Corby with some display materials to be finished at a factory there, and the day was rounded off by a job that was collected in Luton for a store on a retail park in Peterborough.  I just got there before they closed at 5.15, where I learned that, on two previous attempts to provide them with these goods, they had arrived broken, and I suddenly remembered the same cautious welcome somewhere the last time I'd done a job for this particular customer.  Maybe one day they'll learn that if they want a safe and secure delivery they must engage a professional courier, and not trust the cheap nationwide volume carriers! (end of promotional interlude).

My comparatively early return on Friday evening meant that the weekend's chores were soon in advance of schedule, and I could apply my attentions once more to the project that has been ongoing for some months now, attempting to separate a Suffolk village's confusing web of large families with the same name, but no obvious connection otherwise. 

Perhaps the best part of the working week has been this morning, Sunday.  During my 'day off' on Thursday, a friend asked if I'd be willing to be interviewed in church today on the subject of prayer in relation to my work.  Having agreed to do this, my thoughts drifted to that topic over the last couple of days, and by this morning I'd got fairly clear in my mind what I was going to say.  Instead, her questions were more specific, and led down a route that neither of us had prepared, the outcome of which was the revelation that I had on one occasion entered behind the hallowed black door of no. 10 Downing Street, before she returned once again to the role of prayer.

While I have no actual regrets about the way this week has turned out, it would be nice if next week is a little more normal, if for no other reason than at the end of it comes the annual bellringing 'away weekend', news of which will appear here sometime, with pictures if possible.

A Day in the Life ...

Statistically, this has been a good week: fifteen jobs, few of which have been local ones.  It involved three early mornings, with deliveries on Monday and Friday at start of business in King's Lynn, and on Tuesday at 8.0 in Syston, Leics.  Wednesday found me taking two jobs to the south coast, a surgical table to a private hospital near Portsmouth, and then some point-of-sale materials to a major clothing store about to open a branch in Bournemouth.  Thursday's main task, two deliveries in Reading, was followed by a hospital transfer from Stevenage to Cambridge.

With neither great excitement nor any concerns about activity levels to report, I thought I would focus my article this week on the social side of the job.  I have often commented that this isn't the ideal occupation for a married man, both from the point of view of the unpredictable hours that the work demands, and also as regards the earnings, which wouldn't finance the running of a family household without a considerable contribution from wife or partner.  Quite apart from this is the loneliness factor.  Not only is there the isolation in the cab whilst driving, but also a severe limit on the amount of social contact during the course of the day.

I usually begin my day with a 'quiet time', a spell in my armchair with a cup of tea while I follow a course of Bible reading, reflect upon the activities of one of a number of missionary or caring charities, and commend to God the day before me.  Something prompted my thoughts yesterday morning in the direction of the limited encounters that my work allows with other people.  I think I have mentioned before that, since the relocation of the office a year or so ago, I'm now working from home; this does allow me much more time to devote to my family history researches, but I reckon it has at least halved the number of people I have contact with.  A quick count up in the quiet of yesterday revealed that in the previous 24 hours I had exchanged words with only eleven people; I now realise that this is far from unusual, for on Tuesday this week the total was one fewer.  Nerd-like, I shall bore you with the details.

I had collected on Monday afternoon the goods I was to take to Leicestershire.  They came from a printing firm in Hertford, and stayed in the van overnight.  I had decided that to arrive at the destination by 8.0, I should need to leave home about 6.0, which was unsociably early to have breakfast first, so I left a little earlier, and stopped for a meal at a diner on the A1.  My first contact was therefore with the lady who took my order, and the second the brief exchange with her colleague who brought the plate to my table.  I arrived at the factory only a couple of minutes after 8.0, and wondered why I'd been asked to be there so early.  There was no sign of life as I drove into the yard, just the company van parked in the corner.  I locked my van and took a walk around, whereupon I discovered that the front door was wide open - someone must be about!

Returning to the van, I found the bell-push and alerted a member of staff, who quickly unloaded the goods and signed my sheet - contact no. 3.  I was home by 11.00, switched on my computer and made a drink, thinking that the day was possibly over work-wise until perhaps the collection of a similar early delivery for the morrow.  Not so.  With my coffee left steaming on the desk to be re-heated when I should return, I was sent down to Broxbourne, where I was given a parcel to take to Liverpool.  These two locations are depots of the same international company and, in common with many such places, there is a strong security presence.  So at each place there were forms to be completed as I entered the site, in addition to exchanging words with the person giving me and receiveing the goods - bringing my day's total to seven persons.

On the way to Liverpool I decided to stop for some coffee at Derby services on the A50, a favourite watering hole, and on the way back I needed to refuel, so I pulled off the motorway at Knutsford to take advantage of lower-than-motorway prices.  I also enjoyed a pleasant exchange with the cashier there, who warned me that a new pump had been installed that day for 'supreme' diesel, and that if I didn't want to find myself paying significantly more I should avoid using this by mistake on another occasion.  By now, of course, the day was moving on, and my stomach was reminding me that there was nothing in the van to eat, so I stopped at the Rugby truckstop for a meal on the way home, where the brief exchanges with chap who took my order - and later served the meal - scored my tenth interlocution of the day.

So, do I feel deprived by this apparent loneliness?  Not really, because I tend to be quite a self-sufficient sort anyway; but I am aware of the effect it can have on me, and on others who follow the same pattern of life.  On occasions, I find I have to make a distinct effort to join in the sort of 'normal' conversations that many of my acquaintances take for granted.  As a result, no doubt I come across as rather aloof or 'stand-offish', until a closer relationship has been - necessarily slowly - established.

It's very definitely a 'square-hole' job, suited only to life's self-confessed 'square-pegs!'

Uluru?!

I've long since stopped being surprised at the amazing twists and turns that this job involves.  I was looking round for something that would describe this week, and thought of Ayers Rock: something sticking up into the sky in the middle of nowhere.  Then I remembered that it's been renamed - or named back, depending on your point of view - with its Aboriginal name; when I looked this up, I found a picture revealing that it isn't the best illustration of what I had in mind in the first place.

But having found it, I'm using it - this has been a (sort of) Uluru week.

So, what's this geographical gibberish trying to say?  Let me try and answer that with some statistics.  From my ten jobs this week, I estimate I shall have earned roughly the same as the average of the last four weeks.  In each of those four weeks there was one job significantly greater than all the rest, representing from 19 to 40% of that week's earnings; in the four weeks overall, those four bigger jobs contributed over 32% of my income.  This week, however, has topped the charts!  It's been the surprise to beat surprises.  Over half my income will have come from one job, a job that has taken almost 54% of my total mileage in the week.  So, to the detail, before I bore everyone.

On Monday I left the men's breakfast saying, as usual, that I had no idea where I would be going.  I had plans of pottering about at home for much of a quiet day.  Not to be.  About 8.30, I was sent to collect two identical items, each about the size of a roll of Christmas wrapping paper.  One was to be taken to a store in Oxford, the other to a similar store in Bristol.  Oxford and Bristol would normally be a nice combination, but for a multiple job for the same customer the remuneration is far less, so I returned home thinking, 'it's only Monday, the week may improve.' and I went off to bellringing practice for the first time for a while.

Knowing I was already on the list, I settled down on Tuesday morning in much the same vein.  With predictable similarity, I was called around 9.0 to take something from Letchworth to Hertford.  I returned and waited, and waited ... and waited.  In many ways I was glad to be able to make some more progress on my background project on the Sturgeons of Stanton, but even that had paled in interest when at 4.0 the controller rang to send me round the corner to collect four boxes of plastic mouldings to go to a firm just outside Oxford the following morning. Day over - and I returned to my warm lounge and the computer with renewed vigour.

The trip to Oxford - actually it was nearer Abingdon - went hitch-free.  I rewarded myself with a bacon-and-egg baguette from the stall on the A40 on the way home, and rang in when I was back.  "I'm sure they'll be getting you out again soon," replied the office manager.  Sure enough, I hadn't waited long before the phone went, with two local jobs to keep me from being idle.  About two hours later, as I came back from the second of these, the same young controller was on the line again, with a familiar form of words, "are you all right for a long job tonight?"  This was a 'holding mechanism', and I recognised it as such;  It meant that my name had risen to the top of the list, or nearly so, and a good job was coming up which they'd rather give to me than to someone else, but it wasn't ready yet so they wouldn't tell me the details until it was confirmed.

Forewarned, then, I came home and assembled a few essentials, but got sent out on another local job before eventually collecting a box of metalwork for a firm of industrial services people.  My guess is that they are doing a job for a client in the offshore oil/gas industry, because I was to deliver the box to the premises of a shipping company on the Aberdeen quayside for onward transmission to the northern isles.

After a leisurely meal at Markham Moor Truckstop, it was just a straightforward case of 'drive till tired, sleep till cold, and repeat' throughout the night.  I remember stopping at the place in Carlisle where I'd slept on the way back from Motherwell last week, because I popped into the 'pay-at-the-pump' Asda across the road for some fuel, but I can't recall how many other breaks there were.  What should have been an eight-and-a-half-to-nine hours' drive filled thirteen to fourteen hours.  I just let SatNav have its way and followed where it led.  Arriving at about 6.45, I decided to have a wander round to get my bearings, see whether there were any sign of life that early, and then get back into the warm van to wait until whenever someone might turn up.  I discovered that it was a much larger depot than the place where I'd parked indicated - I must have been at the end of the building.

As I turned to walk back to the van, someone parked beside me and asked if I were looking for something.  I explained that I was making a delivery, and on learning what firm it was for was told they wouldn't be there until 8.0, but what had I got?  When he learned that it was a box I was able to carry, my new friend told me to drive round to the pedestrian gate beyond where I'd parked, and he would accept it there.  Sure enough, in the time it took me to return to my van and drive the 50 yards further, he had opened up and walked through the premises.  By 7.0 I had made my delivery and was on my way out of the quayside area, with my eye open for a BP Connect I'd passed earlier, where I could get something warm to eat and drink!

The return journey was much more enjoyable, although too cold to hang around sightseeing.  I decided to take the shortest 'decent' route, and began by exploring the 'Coastal Trail' A92 as an alternative to the main A90 route that I'd used every time I've been to Aberdeen as yet.  Seen in bright daylight, unhindered by driving into the sun, it was often quite charming, starting at Stonehaven and going through Montrose, Arbroath and into Dundee from the east.  In fact, I followed A92 across the Tay Bridge and through Fife to Cowdenbeath, joining the A90 in time to cross the Forth Bridge and find the Edinburgh Bypass.  I then picked up the A7, and passed some of the places I'd visited on my Borders holiday three years ago, before arriving in late afternoon at the same junction on the A6 where I'd visited the Asda fuel station eighteen hours before.

By then tiredness had begun to kick in again, and I was pleased to stop at Wetherby on the A1 for a decent break before hitting the last leg home.  When I finally returned home at 10.20, the only thing on my mind was bed, and I slept almost solidly until about 8.0 on Friday morning.  There was the admin to attend to, but when I rang in to get added to the list - hoping for a light day - I was told they were very busy, would I wait while they checked whether there was something I could get on to straight away.  There was, of course, and so began a normal busy Friday, involving trips to an unexpected office on a Reading housing estate, and then Stansted airport before finishing with a local delivery of some printed matter to a private house in rural Bedfordshire.

Now, with chores done, and admin too, I'm looking forward to a leisurely weekend ... oh dear, it's almost over!

Sliced and diced

My few hobbies include bell ringing, where many of the tunes ('methods' we call them) are named after places.  One of the earliest methods encountered by a novice ringer is Cambridge, being one of a number that are rung on six bells and as a group are called Surprise Minor.  A few years ago, with this safely under my belt, I was invited to ring Primrose ... a method of which I'd never heard, although I quickly realised that it was a re-arrangement of the five blocks which make up Cambridge, simple arranged into a different order.  A few weeks later the invitation was Ipswich, and after studying this I found that it consisted of the same blocks as Cambridge and Primrose, but this time each block had been split in half, making ten smaller chunks of the Cambridge method, stitched together, as it were, in an unfamiliar sequence.

Why am I baffling my readers with all this technical guff?  Quite simply, because the term I coined then to describe Ipswich Surprise Minor was 'Cambridge, not sliced but diced!' and that's how this week has seemed to me.  It began on Sunday, when I was staying at my cousin's to take part in the celebrations for her husband's 70th birthday.  As always, when I'm there for a weekend, I went along to St Mary's church in the town, to join in worship with a growing number of friends there.  I stood in the hall after the service, clutching my coffee and wondering if there was a face that I recognised.  All of a sudden I was seized from behind, and steered gently to a table to join three folks who confessed that they were anxious to know who I was - had I just moved into the town, and so on.  I explained that I was only there for the weekend, as I had been on a number of occasions, and that I also write articles for their parish magazine (which appear in the companion blog to this one)

So by the time I returned home, I felt pleased that I had gained some new friends.  After the regular early breakfast on Monday, enjoying the company of a cluster of well-established friends, my attack on the working week was different from normal.  I had arranged for my van to have its annual MOT test, and since it was booked in for 12.0, I was reluctant to ask for a job before this, knowing the great propensity for jobs to be finished by a certain time to overrun.  I took the van around to the garage mid-morning so there would be a chance to get any minor work done in advance of the actual test.  Meanwhile, I completed my January accounts, submitted my VAT Return, and tidied up a number of other items on my desk.  I also rang my GP about an annoying condition that has bugged me for a while now, but had drifted into that category of things that I'd get around to 'one day'.  One day, I decided, had come!

After recovering the van, I rang in for work, and was sent to Stevenage to collect something for Stamford, the town of spires in Lincolnshire that formed a wonderful backdrop for a TV presentation of Middlemarch a few years ago.  I had only got a little farther than Letchworth when a call offered me a run to Motherwell instead.  When I said yes, I was asked to go to the office to pass the Stamford job to someone else. Meanwhile, I was told, the package for Motherwell was being collected for me, and I could receive this from another driver at Stevenage shortly.  While I waited there I was told of a small item to be collected near Bedford to be delivered in West Bromwich on the way.  I was really pleased at this, because so often a job to Scotland goes alone.  I made the midland destination by 6.30, and headed north, along the M6 that I absolutely detest, breaking the journey for a snack at Hilton Park services.  By the time I'd delivered at Motherwell it was 1.0 am, and I'd all but exhausted my selection of podcasts.  I followed the pattern of a few weeks ago when I'd delivered in Livingston, and aimed for Carlisle.  Here I settled into the car park at the truckstop and had a few hours refreshing sleep before going inside for breakfast about 7.0; after that there was little else to note of the journey, and I was back to the office about 2.30pm.

The day finished with a run to St Albans hospital, and a collection in Letchworth for delivery at 8.0 in Cambridge the next morning.  I was already confused - was it Tuesday, or Wednesday?  I'd just got home the following morning after that Cambridge delivery when I was sent straight off to Stevenage to collect the first of two jobs for Leicester, which took me until well into the afternoon.  This would have satisfied me, but the day wasn't yet over.  There was time for a short run to St Neots.  The following morning I had purposely kept clear in order to visit the surgery, where the ever-busy GP spent a regimented ten minutes dealing with my problem.  Armed with a whole bag of goodies from the pharmacy next door, I sped home and had time to change the bed and fill the washing machine before setting off on a job to Basildon.  I had also taken some of the tablets I'd brought home, giving no thought for the instruction that they were to be taken with food.  Consequently, I felt very tired, and the return from Basildon took a good two and a half hours!

Notwithstanding this, I was sent over to Sandy to collect a van load of small items for delivery in Haverhill early this morning, and while there I decided to get a few items of shopping from the Co-op on my way home.  On my return, I set the washing machine going - usually a Friday evening job, as is the shopping.  This morning, once I'd returned from Haverhill, I started the day anew, sitting  with my breakfast in front of the computer, and then got all the ironing done before wondering where the next job would send me.  Just as I was thinking about lunch, I was sent to collect the first of two jobs, one to Milton Keynes, and the other to Rugby.

I'm now situated at a pinnacle of comfort, at the start of the weekend but with all the regular weekend jobs done already - shopping, washing, ironing all crossed off the list.  I can look forward to a well-earned lay-in tomorrow, followed by a gentle run down to Hillingdon for the family history meeting.  And the sunshine this afternoon reminded me that after the MOT, the need was highlighted for a new windscreen, so that is tentatively booked for next week.  Life is looking good, settled and calm.  What other demands could there be on my time?

Oh, by the way, I've never managed to ring Ipswich Surprise Minor!

Coming Together

Somewhere, in a film, I think - answers anyone? - I once heard the expression, "Don't you just love it when a plan comes together?"  This morning I'm feeling a bit like that, because it seems that, during the last week, a number of strands of life have gelled, if not together, at least so as to work they way they should.  I fear my explanation may turn out as garbled as this opening paragraph ... I hope not.

For a number of weeks - perhaps since the new year - there have been a couple of things that I've had on my to-do list that keep getting postponed because one Saturday after another gets taken over by something more pressing.  One is the upcoming expiry of my mobile phone contract.  Even as long ago as November, while I was driving, I had a cold call from a phone agency about a new contract, with attractive terms and a brand new, up-to-the-minute handset.  It wasn't until I learned later that it wasn't with the provider I've now got used to, and with whom I wanted to stay, that I managed in time to pull out, and I resolved that, to avoid yet another cold-call pitfall (I've suffered from a number over the last couple of years), I should go to the showroom in nearby Stevenage, talk to the experts and get things sorted out to my satisfaction, and in my own time.  The other was the ever-increasing need for a haircut (!)

Last weekend I managed to get the tyres checked on my van - another much-delayed operation.  Fortunately it was just before they had become illegal, so I was able to get them replaced, at the expense of a greater slice of my Saturday!  They replaced a set that had taken me 43,500 miles since last July, so I have no real complaints.  The afternoon was taken up by the long awaited visit to the phone shop.  Here I discovered that my former contract, the product of one of those expensive cold calls, was with the business division.  Not only are they closed on Saturdays, but also it proved impossible simply to replace that contract with a new personal one for the deal I'd seen advertised, giving me a much more comprehensive service than I had, for little more than half the cost.  After much toing and froing, I managed to return home with a new phone, sufficiently similar to the old one that I needed only one evening to master the basics, and a couple of delays during the course of this week to enable me to become comfortably familiar with it.

Monday began with the church breakfast as usual, and afterwards came an admin session before work became 'live'.  The first call was to the phone company to cancel the business contract; I discovered that I was just in time to give them the required month's notice that I didn't want the 24-month term to be automatically extended, for which I was grateful.  Next came another sequence of calls which brought to a satisfactory conclusion another matter that has dragged on since the end of November.  On my way back from a tiring journey to Aberdeen and back, I'd called at a local filling station to refuel for the next day.  An administrative mix-up had resulted in my paying for someone else's fuel in addition to my own, and I have been chasing both the garage and the fuel card company to get the extra charge, which duplicated the payment made by the other driver, refunded.  As a result of Monday's calls I now have the credit note in my files, to be set against future purchases.

As soon as these things had been addressed, I had a call from the office, sending me to Liverpool, where I made my delivery to a private hospital right next to Penny Lane, of Beatles fame.  Tuesday was full, but uneventful, and ended with my weekly visit to the office to deal with paperwork and collect my self-billing invoice, showing how much I would be paid for the previous week.

Wednesday was a flat day for small vans, and the only job I did was a local one midway through the afternoon.  A morning at home proved most productive, enabling me to complete my accounts for January, and then my quarterly VAT Return and some outstanding correspondence with my IFA regarding my pension arrangements.  I then turned my attention to family history, and made further progress on the project on which I've been working for some weeks, detailing the history of the Sturgeon families in the village of Stanton, Suffolk, in the nineteenth century.  As it happens, this fitted in well with the second of my Thursday jobs, which were a delivery in Leicester, followed by a collection in Bedford which needed delivery to central Suffolk.  From there it was easy to re-route my journey home through Stanton, although there was no time for photos! 

Yesterday began with a regular run from an industrial unit just opposite my home to Pinewood Studios.  Then I was sent over to East Anglia again, with a delivery in Colchester, and an attempted one to the library in Wivenhoe, which proved to be closed, following the local authority expense cuts.  The goods were therefore returned to the depot, and more effective attempt will be made next week, now that the office knows the opening hours.

And today - in an echo of 'Penny Lane' - the long awaited haircut ... bliss!