I've been thinking about light this week; and that, of course, includes lights, and more philosophical enlightenment, too.
On Monday and Tuesday I wasn't working. Instead my attention was focussed on a hospital appointment on Tuesday afternoon, when I underwent a colonoscopy procedure. As you may know, this involves a camera, and normally cameras don't operate without light. There was also light at the end of the tunnel, so to speak, when the doctor announced at the end of it that he had found nothing. Until that moment, I hadn't realised how anxious I had been about this beneath the surface, but suddenly there came a feeling of great relief, as if someone had switched on a great light!
The sky on Thursday evening was riven with more lights, as lots of fireworks were let off to mark Diwali, the Hindu Festival of Lights. I was a little apprehensive, since I had to get up early yesterday morning, but fortunately my bedroom is on the opposite side from the 'noisy quarter', and I was undisturbed.
You may think it strange, but I like driving in the evening, at night, or in the early morning. For one thing it's usually more peaceful, but often there is beauty to be seen, too. I remember one night driving home from Scotland along the A68, where a straight road on the map is actually so up and down that at times it looked as if I were driving straight at the full moon. On another occasion, I had set off early for a destination up the A1, and was able to delight in the sunrise over my right wing-mirror.
Yesterday's early departure was for Avonmouth and Weston-super-Mare, but the illumination wasn't provided by sunrise, but by a car on fire on the hard shoulder of the M25. Now when I say on fire, it wasn't just a plume of smoke, although that was there as well; there were flames shooting high into the sky, and the heat was quite intense as I passed in the second lane. It looked - thankfully - as if driver and passengers were safely standing by another vehicle some way off.
As dawn was breaking my mind was on a totally different kind of light ... or rather the lack of it. The news bulletins reported the story of the requirement by the EU of an additional contribution of £1.7 billion from the UK, according to the headlines because of our increased productivity. The main item revealed that this was actually the result of revised calculations under terms agreed nearly twenty years ago, but you wouldn't think so to hear some of the politicians interviewed, who were quick to make party capital out of the news. Terms like 'an extra tax', 'an illegal tax' were heard; later bulletins reported our PM bemoaning the short notice - which I feel is valid - but then going on to grumble about being asked to pay more anyway, when in previous years we benefitted from a rebate ... which presumably was not so objectionable. At least the interviews in this morning's news programme were more reasoned and understanding of what is going on. However, I do wish this country would for once get a grip on the fact that it is PART OF EUROPE, instead of always belly-aching about THEM and US as two sides of a constant battle!
While controversy reigns, let's turn back to the hospital I visited at the beginning of the week, where I couldn't have received better treatment ... as has always been the case. What a shame that nurses and other public sector employees were taking industrial action last week about pay. I confess to a degree of enlightenment there myself: I hadn't realised that these people earn so little that they can't afford to keep their families. I suppose, because my income fluctuates as much as it does, I've lost any feeling for seeing the same figure week after week, knowing that it won't change until the next annual review. Over the past quarter, for example, my highest weekly income was more than twice the lowest; and the lowest figure wouldn't have been enough to meet the monthly rent on my flat, let alone cover my business expenses - of which fuel alone is nearly £8,000 a year! I guess it's all a matter of balance.
And having got all that off my chest, I notice it's time to change the clocks back to GMT tonight! It sort of puts things into a greater perspective, somehow ... and gives us a bit more light in the mornings!
Saturday, 25 October 2014
Friday, 17 October 2014
It's All in the Mind ... or Not!
I recognise that the phenomenon that I call the Repeating Genie, and about which I write often here, can be explained completely by the variety of matters that are passing through my mind at any one time, and the way this mixture promts me to notice and link certain things that are going on around me. Understanding this, you will recall that I wrote last week about the Genie taking on new guises; this week I spotted another new one. I have made deliveries in and to a variety of strange places and recipients over the years, including on one occasion - which I wrote about here - to a piece of street furniture: a telephone 'cabinet'. At the beginning of last week, I delivered - for the first time, I'm sure - to a car park, more particularly the overheight car park at Heathrow Airport. A never-to-be-repeated occurrence? Not a bit of it! This Tuesday saw an almost parallel occasion, when I took some security equipment to the office on the sixth floor of a municipal multi-storey car park in one of our east Midland towns. The moral: never underestimate the power of the Genie!
Wednesday was 'words' day. On Tuesday evening, I got around to attending to something that has niggled me for months. I noticed that on my new hi-viz vest there were a number of long threads where the seams had been untidily stitched, and each time I saw them I remembered that I'd planned to snip them off. Like so many things, this had been put off until the next time I saw them ... and again ... until Tuesday evening when the deed was done. I entered the lounge on Wednesday morning, saw the hi-viz laying on the sideboard, ready alongside my lunch for my departure to the van, and a word came into my mind as straight from my father's lips. What I had cut off that garment the previous evening were fraisles, at least that's how I've written it; I've never seen the word in print, but I remember dad talking about the old, thin jacket he would wear for work in the summer time, how the cuffs had become frayed, and would need the fraisles taken off.
Many of the old Suffolk dialect words I've only ever heard from him, and I have suspicions that centuries ago they blew across the North Sea. I could even picture this one spelled in the original language as 'frayzel', but when I looked for anything similar in my Dutch dictionary there was no sign of it. Another such word, one that I'm convinced did come that way, was the 'bate' that was given to horses to eat in the morning. It was also used for the worker's breakfast. They used to start work at 6.0 in the summer time, and the horsemen even earlier, so by 9.0 (the traditional hour for breakfast) they would be getting hungry. Many years later, in the course of my work I discovered the Dutch expression for 'bed and breakfast': 'overnachting en ontbijt', and I felt I'd found the origin of the 'bate', since the Dutch 'ij' is pronounced like the flat 'a' of plate.
Later that morning I found myself driving along the motorway behind a van bearing the slogan "Services for your patients and their caregivers". Here was another strange word, I thought. Carers are common, but what are 'caregivers' and how might the two differ? My mind was once again scampering through the pages of the dictionary. If carers and caregivers were one and the same, then this slogan was certainly correct, however strange it might seem, because that's what carers do: they give care. Then I went on to think about people taking care of others, and how that, too, meant the same thing rather than the opposite: taking care as opposed to giving care, and yet meaning the same. And what about caretakers? Yes, I suppose they take care - or give care - in the same way, but more usually of buildings than people. Perhaps it was as well for my sanity that it was about then that I reached my destination.
This afternoon really took the biscuit. It was a reminder of another party to the whole courier scenario. We've got the sender, and the receiver, who is usually the sender's customer, or sometimes the sender's customer's customer. And then there are those occasions when we deliver directly from the sender's supplier to his customer. Rarely, if ever, do we have to consider the sender's customer's host. It was coming up to 5.30, and I had a pallet of printed matter to get rid of before people went home for the weekend. The address I had was clear, <name of consignee> Unit 3 <streetname>. Unfortunately, there were two separate Unit 3s in that street and which one came first? Yep, the wrong 'un. I'm not saying there was a connection, but by the time I found the right place, it looked very shut up.
But hey, there's a board outside with the right name on. At least that confirms it's the right place, and it's one of those flappy signs that stand outside on the pavement ... and the reception light is on ... and the door's ajar! Only it wasn't quite so my-lucky-day as it seemed. I walked into reception to see whether they had a fork truck they could get out and use. There was a sign on the desk and a bell push. All off a sudden, "WAAAIIIILLLL!" The alarm was sounding. I hesitated, looked around, listened ... no sound except that din outside. The Marie Celeste came to mind: there was no one around at all. After a minute or so, I went outside - no other door seemed remotely occupied. There was a phone no. above the door, so I rang it, got the predictable recording about 'leave a message and we'll get back to you', so I did, although it was obvious what was happening.
I'd just got through to my office to report the situation when the police car turned up. I told the controller I'd ring him back, and started explaining to the Sergeant what was going on, while her colleague looked around. Meanwhile another police car arrived, with two more officers, followed closely by two separate vehicles with the keyholders of the premises. Eventually the place was secured, the police satisfied, and then I piped up about my load of printed matter. The place was opened up again, and the two men helped me to unload the boxes. Then one of them exploded, "They're not even for us! Why couldn't he have told us he was expecting something?" I suggested that perhaps that was why the door had been left open ... . This only made things worse. "He hasn't been near the place all day," came the reply (indicating that it was this man's own colleague whose oversight had caused the problem). "He runs his business in a room that he rents from us. He's only here three days a week, and expects us to run around behind him for the rest of the time!"
So memo for the future ... beware the 4th party!
Wednesday was 'words' day. On Tuesday evening, I got around to attending to something that has niggled me for months. I noticed that on my new hi-viz vest there were a number of long threads where the seams had been untidily stitched, and each time I saw them I remembered that I'd planned to snip them off. Like so many things, this had been put off until the next time I saw them ... and again ... until Tuesday evening when the deed was done. I entered the lounge on Wednesday morning, saw the hi-viz laying on the sideboard, ready alongside my lunch for my departure to the van, and a word came into my mind as straight from my father's lips. What I had cut off that garment the previous evening were fraisles, at least that's how I've written it; I've never seen the word in print, but I remember dad talking about the old, thin jacket he would wear for work in the summer time, how the cuffs had become frayed, and would need the fraisles taken off.
Many of the old Suffolk dialect words I've only ever heard from him, and I have suspicions that centuries ago they blew across the North Sea. I could even picture this one spelled in the original language as 'frayzel', but when I looked for anything similar in my Dutch dictionary there was no sign of it. Another such word, one that I'm convinced did come that way, was the 'bate' that was given to horses to eat in the morning. It was also used for the worker's breakfast. They used to start work at 6.0 in the summer time, and the horsemen even earlier, so by 9.0 (the traditional hour for breakfast) they would be getting hungry. Many years later, in the course of my work I discovered the Dutch expression for 'bed and breakfast': 'overnachting en ontbijt', and I felt I'd found the origin of the 'bate', since the Dutch 'ij' is pronounced like the flat 'a' of plate.
Later that morning I found myself driving along the motorway behind a van bearing the slogan "Services for your patients and their caregivers". Here was another strange word, I thought. Carers are common, but what are 'caregivers' and how might the two differ? My mind was once again scampering through the pages of the dictionary. If carers and caregivers were one and the same, then this slogan was certainly correct, however strange it might seem, because that's what carers do: they give care. Then I went on to think about people taking care of others, and how that, too, meant the same thing rather than the opposite: taking care as opposed to giving care, and yet meaning the same. And what about caretakers? Yes, I suppose they take care - or give care - in the same way, but more usually of buildings than people. Perhaps it was as well for my sanity that it was about then that I reached my destination.
This afternoon really took the biscuit. It was a reminder of another party to the whole courier scenario. We've got the sender, and the receiver, who is usually the sender's customer, or sometimes the sender's customer's customer. And then there are those occasions when we deliver directly from the sender's supplier to his customer. Rarely, if ever, do we have to consider the sender's customer's host. It was coming up to 5.30, and I had a pallet of printed matter to get rid of before people went home for the weekend. The address I had was clear, <name of consignee> Unit 3 <streetname>. Unfortunately, there were two separate Unit 3s in that street and which one came first? Yep, the wrong 'un. I'm not saying there was a connection, but by the time I found the right place, it looked very shut up.
But hey, there's a board outside with the right name on. At least that confirms it's the right place, and it's one of those flappy signs that stand outside on the pavement ... and the reception light is on ... and the door's ajar! Only it wasn't quite so my-lucky-day as it seemed. I walked into reception to see whether they had a fork truck they could get out and use. There was a sign on the desk and a bell push. All off a sudden, "WAAAIIIILLLL!" The alarm was sounding. I hesitated, looked around, listened ... no sound except that din outside. The Marie Celeste came to mind: there was no one around at all. After a minute or so, I went outside - no other door seemed remotely occupied. There was a phone no. above the door, so I rang it, got the predictable recording about 'leave a message and we'll get back to you', so I did, although it was obvious what was happening.
I'd just got through to my office to report the situation when the police car turned up. I told the controller I'd ring him back, and started explaining to the Sergeant what was going on, while her colleague looked around. Meanwhile another police car arrived, with two more officers, followed closely by two separate vehicles with the keyholders of the premises. Eventually the place was secured, the police satisfied, and then I piped up about my load of printed matter. The place was opened up again, and the two men helped me to unload the boxes. Then one of them exploded, "They're not even for us! Why couldn't he have told us he was expecting something?" I suggested that perhaps that was why the door had been left open ... . This only made things worse. "He hasn't been near the place all day," came the reply (indicating that it was this man's own colleague whose oversight had caused the problem). "He runs his business in a room that he rents from us. He's only here three days a week, and expects us to run around behind him for the rest of the time!"
So memo for the future ... beware the 4th party!
Saturday, 11 October 2014
One End of a Week ... and the Other
Although I didn't realise it at the time, last weekend I was in the midst of a unique (so far) series of jobs. My old friend the Repeating Genie had adopted a new guise and, in the space of just four days, I did no less than six jobs for one particular customer in nearby Stotfold. It's not uncommon for the same job to be repeated a number of times within a few weeks, if a customer is fulfilling a protracted delivery schedule; in fact, it makes sense for the same driver to be used, because after the first time the location and personnel are familiar and provide continuity for the customer and increased satisfaction for the driver. But amongst these six were four different jobs, and all for the same customer.
It began last Thursday afternoon, when I delivered several bundles of part-finished items from our customer's premises to a firm in Bedford to have further work carried out on them; this job was repeated on Monday afternoon and Tuesday morning. Meanwhile, my first job on Friday was to collect for them from a firm in Walsall (this was the pallet whose securing I extolled in my post last week). Monday morning's activities included the collection of materials for them from a warehouse in Bicester, upon delivery of which I collected the second load of part-processed items for Bedford, and the same thing happened at lunchtime on Tuesday, when I delivered materials I had brought for them from the delightfully-named Hampton Lovett in Worcestershire.
When the same roads figure again and again in the course of a few days' work, the mind tends to wander, and I think it was Tuesday when my eye caught a row of council houses in the village of Moggerhanger ... houses past which I must have driven hundreds of times on my way to and from Bedford. My mind went back to the estate where my cousin and I grew up in adjoining streets of such houses in Norfolk. I had often compared my home to my cousin's, without particularly wondering about the reasons for the differences between them, beyond the fact that one was about three years older than the other. I now questioned whether these that I was now passing might be the same layout as either of those houses with which I had been familiar in childhood, or of yet another design. From the outside, the style of windows and brickwork seemed to cry out "late-'forties-early-'fifties", i.e. dating from the same era as our early homes.
My father was a farm worker, and ours was one of six houses built around a small roundabout that were said to be specifically 'for farm workers'. On one hand, their designation for this purpose could simply have been to relieve the pressure caused by farmers no longer willing to provide tied cottages for their workers. On the other hand, I failed to see any way in which the design of those dwellings could provide for any specific needs of farm workers as opposed to tenants engaged in any other occupation: after all, their work would be carried out on the farm, not at home! The basic difference between my cousin's home and my own was that their kitchen extended from the back of the house into a living area with a window to the front, whereas our kitchen was confined to the rear, and the corresponding front window was in a totally separate room. Both houses had another living room stretching from front to back on the opposite side of a central hallway.
The puzzles of the past must remain there. Meanwhile I'm aware that recent posts here have neglected the minutiae of my daily assignments throughout the week. This is almost certainly a good thing, but let me just give you an insight into the variety - and busy-ness - of yesterday. When I went to Ireland the other week I had missed an evening training session. While I fundamentally disapprove of training in our own time, rather than during the day, I would have gone along with everyone else had I not been elsewhere. However, yesterday I was invited to rectify this lost opportunity once I'd completed two early jobs. I was half-way through the 'excitement' of learning how to prevent medicines becoming contaminated or spilt whilst in my custody, when the controller begged the trainer to release me in order to satisfy a particular job that was becoming urgent owing to the mysterious habit of manufacturing firms to leave off early on Friday afternoons. You'll not be surprised to know that this didn't exactly disappoint me.
On my way back from this, I was diverted to another job which is a daily regular, although I haven't done it for some weeks. Sadly the security officer at this establishment was a stand-in, and neither he nor I knew the specific detail that no one had told him, i.e. whom he should call when I arrived to collect parcels for an international forwarding company. Overcoming this deficiency involved several phone calls and took quite a while, and once the job had been successfully completed, any idea of resuming the training session was far from anyone's thoughts, as the end of a busy day drew ever nearer. I was asked whether I would be available for more work; when I said I would, I was offered a choice of two jobs to East Anglia, or a combination of Tyneside and Edinburgh. Having no desperate commitments today, I decided to choose the longer distance.
After also collecting a Tender for delivery in Southampton on Monday, I made hasty preparations for a night out, and found myself taking two items to a delightfully-designed (from what I could see by street lighting and moonlight) modern housing complex in Gateshead, and then delivering two stents to Edinburgh Royal Infirmary. This latter job was, strangely, accompanied by an instruction to call a mobile no. when I arrived. I did so, expecting the answer to come from someone within the hospital who would then emerge to take charge of the goods. Not so. My interlocutor explained that he was, in fact, in Paris; he simply advised that I should make my way to the Emergency Entrance, one place where he knew I would be able to obtain access to the hospital. Here I was given the necessary directions to the theatre suite, where I made my delivery, but I then had to overcome the difficulties presented by one-way doors only negotiable in the opposite direction by staff with the appropriate electronic pass! Amazingly, I eventually emerged nearer to my van than I had entered, and at 2.0 am began my slow journey home, interrupted by the anticipated stops for sleep and food, and food and sleep as nature dictated.
It began last Thursday afternoon, when I delivered several bundles of part-finished items from our customer's premises to a firm in Bedford to have further work carried out on them; this job was repeated on Monday afternoon and Tuesday morning. Meanwhile, my first job on Friday was to collect for them from a firm in Walsall (this was the pallet whose securing I extolled in my post last week). Monday morning's activities included the collection of materials for them from a warehouse in Bicester, upon delivery of which I collected the second load of part-processed items for Bedford, and the same thing happened at lunchtime on Tuesday, when I delivered materials I had brought for them from the delightfully-named Hampton Lovett in Worcestershire.
When the same roads figure again and again in the course of a few days' work, the mind tends to wander, and I think it was Tuesday when my eye caught a row of council houses in the village of Moggerhanger ... houses past which I must have driven hundreds of times on my way to and from Bedford. My mind went back to the estate where my cousin and I grew up in adjoining streets of such houses in Norfolk. I had often compared my home to my cousin's, without particularly wondering about the reasons for the differences between them, beyond the fact that one was about three years older than the other. I now questioned whether these that I was now passing might be the same layout as either of those houses with which I had been familiar in childhood, or of yet another design. From the outside, the style of windows and brickwork seemed to cry out "late-'forties-early-'fifties", i.e. dating from the same era as our early homes.
My father was a farm worker, and ours was one of six houses built around a small roundabout that were said to be specifically 'for farm workers'. On one hand, their designation for this purpose could simply have been to relieve the pressure caused by farmers no longer willing to provide tied cottages for their workers. On the other hand, I failed to see any way in which the design of those dwellings could provide for any specific needs of farm workers as opposed to tenants engaged in any other occupation: after all, their work would be carried out on the farm, not at home! The basic difference between my cousin's home and my own was that their kitchen extended from the back of the house into a living area with a window to the front, whereas our kitchen was confined to the rear, and the corresponding front window was in a totally separate room. Both houses had another living room stretching from front to back on the opposite side of a central hallway.
The puzzles of the past must remain there. Meanwhile I'm aware that recent posts here have neglected the minutiae of my daily assignments throughout the week. This is almost certainly a good thing, but let me just give you an insight into the variety - and busy-ness - of yesterday. When I went to Ireland the other week I had missed an evening training session. While I fundamentally disapprove of training in our own time, rather than during the day, I would have gone along with everyone else had I not been elsewhere. However, yesterday I was invited to rectify this lost opportunity once I'd completed two early jobs. I was half-way through the 'excitement' of learning how to prevent medicines becoming contaminated or spilt whilst in my custody, when the controller begged the trainer to release me in order to satisfy a particular job that was becoming urgent owing to the mysterious habit of manufacturing firms to leave off early on Friday afternoons. You'll not be surprised to know that this didn't exactly disappoint me.
On my way back from this, I was diverted to another job which is a daily regular, although I haven't done it for some weeks. Sadly the security officer at this establishment was a stand-in, and neither he nor I knew the specific detail that no one had told him, i.e. whom he should call when I arrived to collect parcels for an international forwarding company. Overcoming this deficiency involved several phone calls and took quite a while, and once the job had been successfully completed, any idea of resuming the training session was far from anyone's thoughts, as the end of a busy day drew ever nearer. I was asked whether I would be available for more work; when I said I would, I was offered a choice of two jobs to East Anglia, or a combination of Tyneside and Edinburgh. Having no desperate commitments today, I decided to choose the longer distance.
After also collecting a Tender for delivery in Southampton on Monday, I made hasty preparations for a night out, and found myself taking two items to a delightfully-designed (from what I could see by street lighting and moonlight) modern housing complex in Gateshead, and then delivering two stents to Edinburgh Royal Infirmary. This latter job was, strangely, accompanied by an instruction to call a mobile no. when I arrived. I did so, expecting the answer to come from someone within the hospital who would then emerge to take charge of the goods. Not so. My interlocutor explained that he was, in fact, in Paris; he simply advised that I should make my way to the Emergency Entrance, one place where he knew I would be able to obtain access to the hospital. Here I was given the necessary directions to the theatre suite, where I made my delivery, but I then had to overcome the difficulties presented by one-way doors only negotiable in the opposite direction by staff with the appropriate electronic pass! Amazingly, I eventually emerged nearer to my van than I had entered, and at 2.0 am began my slow journey home, interrupted by the anticipated stops for sleep and food, and food and sleep as nature dictated.
Saturday, 4 October 2014
Where Were You?
It's become something of a cliché in the last fifty years. Where were you when Kennedy was shot/Elvis died/war was declared/whatever? Until quite recently, there were only two of those questions to which I could provide an answer. I remember where I was when I heard the first news of the Seven Day War in 1967 - sitting in the school library, talking to about five others, of whom I can remember only one by name. And I remember where I was when I heard the first news of the 9/11 bombings - sitting in my office in Royston, when a colleague returned from lunch, having seen the live newsreel on TV.
I realised this week that I can add a third momentous event to that catalogue.
It's funny, isn't it, how one thought leads to another and that one to another and so on until, as a friend said after reading one of my magazine articles, "I had to go back and read it all again because I just couldn't believe how you'd got from the opening comment to the final conclusion!"
Yesterday morning, I had to make a collection from an industrial unit in Walsall. It was one of those estates that is divided into blocks, presumably according to the original stages in the development of the site. The address I had was 'Unit 2A' so, quite reasonably, I thought, I'd look for unit 2, and would find it divided into two or more parts. There was no sign of unit 2. Eventually I came upon a map: an essential component of every industrial estate in my experience. Here I discovered that there were five parts of the estate - A, B, C, D and E. I had already passed the entrance to part A, assuming incorrectly that it was all one large premises, and noticing that it didn't bear the name of the firm I was looking for. By the time I'd back-tracked and located unit 2 in this area, I was about five minutes behind my scheduled arrival time.
As I approached, two men were wrapping a pallet of goods more thoroughly than I think I've ever seen before, not only horizontally, but vertically too, with the pallet perched on the tines of the fork truck, and the men passing the roll of wrapping film from one to the other over and under it. Having confirmed that it was this pallet that I had arrived to collect, one of them promptly loaded it into my van, and ushered me inside to wait for the paperwork. As he did so, I commented on their thoroughness, referring to a very badly wrapped consignment I'd carried earlier in the week. In this case, the wrapping was applied very skimpily, once the goods had been piled on the pallet inside the van. "You're not going far," said the man, "you won't be braking suddenly, will you?" I had agreed that I shouldn't, but it wasn't the braking or not that was important. As I steered around the first roundabout, at only 8 mph, a 'whoosh, clunk' came from the rear of the van: the goods had already slipped off the pallet!
I stood in this Walsall unit, and looked around me. The whole place exuded that same care that those men had shown in their wrapping. The floor was clean, and the walls, too, apart from a few cobwebs far too high to be either reachable or any threat to what was going on beneath. The operator at the far end of the workshop, carrying on his task oblivious to my studious eye, seemed to be applying the full attention to detail to meet the requirements of the most fussy customer.
As I waited, taking in all around me, I considered just what management skills might be required to run a business in these difficult times, provide work for and appropriate rewards to at least two employees - perhaps more - and make a profit at the end of it all. Still the paperwork hadn't appeared, and my attention turned to the radio that was playing in the background. It was tuned to BBC Radio 2; by then it was coming up to 9.30 am, and Sara Cox, sitting in for Chris Evans this week, was handing over to Ken Bruce. Suddenly something flashed in my mind, and I remembered clearly where I was at 9.30 am on December 18th 2009.
I had just come to the end of one of those tricky, overnight jobs where you pick up the goods during the evening, and you know it's not really worth going home, because you'll only get a couple of hours' sleep before you need to be up to leave to drive across the country in order to make your delivery time. So you drive, slowly at first until it seems ridiculous, then normally; and you stop at an amazing number of services in order to get coffee, use the toilet or choose an attractive chocolate bar. You find a lay-by where you can grab a few minutes' sleep to keep safe for the rest of the night, and by 7.0 you get to your destination when there's no one about. You run the engine to keep warm, hoping that you don't disturb nearby residents. In between dozing, you see people going about their business as the town wakes up. Eventually someone comes and opens the shop ...
That morning I made my one and only ever delivery to a chemist's shop in Caernarfon, having purposely driven all the way up the A5 from Milton Keynes, knowing that it would take far longer than any normal route. And I listened to Radio 2 as I began the next leg of my 565-mile assignment, to collect from Liverpool for the same customer. I think that was the last morning I listened to Radio 2 - it just had no more appeal without that soft Limerick voice.
So, where were you when Sir Terry Wogan signed off for the last time?
I realised this week that I can add a third momentous event to that catalogue.
It's funny, isn't it, how one thought leads to another and that one to another and so on until, as a friend said after reading one of my magazine articles, "I had to go back and read it all again because I just couldn't believe how you'd got from the opening comment to the final conclusion!"
Yesterday morning, I had to make a collection from an industrial unit in Walsall. It was one of those estates that is divided into blocks, presumably according to the original stages in the development of the site. The address I had was 'Unit 2A' so, quite reasonably, I thought, I'd look for unit 2, and would find it divided into two or more parts. There was no sign of unit 2. Eventually I came upon a map: an essential component of every industrial estate in my experience. Here I discovered that there were five parts of the estate - A, B, C, D and E. I had already passed the entrance to part A, assuming incorrectly that it was all one large premises, and noticing that it didn't bear the name of the firm I was looking for. By the time I'd back-tracked and located unit 2 in this area, I was about five minutes behind my scheduled arrival time.
As I approached, two men were wrapping a pallet of goods more thoroughly than I think I've ever seen before, not only horizontally, but vertically too, with the pallet perched on the tines of the fork truck, and the men passing the roll of wrapping film from one to the other over and under it. Having confirmed that it was this pallet that I had arrived to collect, one of them promptly loaded it into my van, and ushered me inside to wait for the paperwork. As he did so, I commented on their thoroughness, referring to a very badly wrapped consignment I'd carried earlier in the week. In this case, the wrapping was applied very skimpily, once the goods had been piled on the pallet inside the van. "You're not going far," said the man, "you won't be braking suddenly, will you?" I had agreed that I shouldn't, but it wasn't the braking or not that was important. As I steered around the first roundabout, at only 8 mph, a 'whoosh, clunk' came from the rear of the van: the goods had already slipped off the pallet!
I stood in this Walsall unit, and looked around me. The whole place exuded that same care that those men had shown in their wrapping. The floor was clean, and the walls, too, apart from a few cobwebs far too high to be either reachable or any threat to what was going on beneath. The operator at the far end of the workshop, carrying on his task oblivious to my studious eye, seemed to be applying the full attention to detail to meet the requirements of the most fussy customer.
As I waited, taking in all around me, I considered just what management skills might be required to run a business in these difficult times, provide work for and appropriate rewards to at least two employees - perhaps more - and make a profit at the end of it all. Still the paperwork hadn't appeared, and my attention turned to the radio that was playing in the background. It was tuned to BBC Radio 2; by then it was coming up to 9.30 am, and Sara Cox, sitting in for Chris Evans this week, was handing over to Ken Bruce. Suddenly something flashed in my mind, and I remembered clearly where I was at 9.30 am on December 18th 2009.
I had just come to the end of one of those tricky, overnight jobs where you pick up the goods during the evening, and you know it's not really worth going home, because you'll only get a couple of hours' sleep before you need to be up to leave to drive across the country in order to make your delivery time. So you drive, slowly at first until it seems ridiculous, then normally; and you stop at an amazing number of services in order to get coffee, use the toilet or choose an attractive chocolate bar. You find a lay-by where you can grab a few minutes' sleep to keep safe for the rest of the night, and by 7.0 you get to your destination when there's no one about. You run the engine to keep warm, hoping that you don't disturb nearby residents. In between dozing, you see people going about their business as the town wakes up. Eventually someone comes and opens the shop ...
That morning I made my one and only ever delivery to a chemist's shop in Caernarfon, having purposely driven all the way up the A5 from Milton Keynes, knowing that it would take far longer than any normal route. And I listened to Radio 2 as I began the next leg of my 565-mile assignment, to collect from Liverpool for the same customer. I think that was the last morning I listened to Radio 2 - it just had no more appeal without that soft Limerick voice.
So, where were you when Sir Terry Wogan signed off for the last time?
Saturday, 27 September 2014
Good, Better, Best!
I wrote last week about 'bad days': my definition of them, and how difficult they can be to cope with. This week's principal story is an extension of that theme. Monday brought me four jobs, which took me to Crawley, Bourne End, Colnbrook and, in the evening, to Ash Vale, near Aldershot: although financially beneficial, definitely in the 'bad' range. Tuesday began with prayer for something 'generally north'. (I like north for many reasons; not least the attraction of a number of possible eating places - aka truck stops!) In contrast, the working day began with a job to Greenford and then one around the M25 from Cuffley to Esher.
As I made my way homeward, a call came to ask if I'd like 'a trip to the Emerald Isle.' 'I would, sir,' I replied, rolling the 'r' in an attempt at an Irish burr. A job was then described that could be collected on my way home, for delivery 'in Belfast' the next morning. Thankfully it turned out to be to a hotel some distance away from the city, to the north-west.
Realising that there could then be an interval before the departure of the return ferry, my thoughts turned to my family history, and the problem of confirming that a will, of which I'd obtained a copy some while ago, was actually that of my great-uncle. The name was right, George Evans, and the date was certainly possible, but this man's profession as a farmer, and his location, were at odds with what I already knew of my great-uncle's life; and his son and executor had 'acquired' an additional forename I'd not known before. I'm fairly sure this problem can only be satisfactorily resolved in Belfast - if at all - so I left home armed with all the details in case this might be an opportunity to take the matter forward a stage.
I've said here before that my preference is always to go to Ireland via Holyhead, to avoid the long trek to Stranraer. Although the M1 north from the end of the excellent Port Tunnel (only a €3.00 toll outside the rush-hour!) is now becoming familiar, I confess to not having previously appreciated the Mary McAleese Boyne Valley Bridge, although it's been there since June 2003!
Maybe my eye caught the roadside announcements of its change of name last year in honour of the former president; the last time I had passed over it would have been before that event.
As I drove on up the A1 towards Newry, my PDA bleeped, and I noticed at the same moment a text message on my phone. These had originated from the ever-vigilant Milton Keynes office, who had spotted on their screens that I was prowling around on the other side of the Irish Sea, and had linked this with a request for a collection from a military base not far from my destination. In my twelve years of this work, I've only been to Ireland eight times, and up to now I've neither achieved, nor heard of other drivers enjoying, a return load on such a trip.
The job proved no more difficult than to any other military establishment. The main difficulty is always identifying to the security staff just where your contact is to be located. On the last such occasion I found myself trying to make a delivery to someone who was no longer there! Once that hurdle was overcome, it was simply a case of sitting and waiting; the boxes were brought to me, loaded into the van, and I was on my way, all thoughts of any diversion to the Public Record Office completely forgotten. Instead I enjoyed a drive round the country lanes of Antrim and Down, before rejoining the A1 for my journey south.
As I neared my destination, pleased with a likely arrival in Dublin just before the check-in time, the phone rang. It was Dave, my controller. "I hear you went into an Irish church, and came out with another job," he said, with teasing geniality. When I replied that there had been no church involved, implying simply prayer - although not expecting so generous an outcome! - he said how pleased he was that I'd been able to do the extra job, and asked whether I'd still be able to make the ferry booking, since this had been made on the basis of just the one job. I have to confess to not a little pride as I told him, "No problem. I'm driving through the Port Tunnel as we speak!"
The fact of a job to Ireland was 'better' than the 'something north' that I'd prayed for; the extra job was something even better, but for me, Dave's call was the icing on the cake ... the 'best' of this week's headline. It wasn't until later that I noticed another fine detail. Our ferry bookings are usually made showing the vehicle on the outward journey as 'laden', i.e. carrying goods, but on the return journey as 'empty'. On this occasion, both journeys were declared as 'laden'. A slip of the pen or ...?
After an early delivery of the goods I'd picked up, I spent the rest of Thursday in recovery mode, and yesterday was fairly normal, beginning with jobs to Haywards Heath and Hove. When I was then offered an evening ride to Salford, I had to say no, but collected the goods from West Drayton for another driver to take north.
Today, our ringers were supposed to take part in the county Striking Competition, but had to withdraw at the last minute owing to illness, so I'm left with the opportunity to visit one of the FA Cup ties taking place this afternoon. I'm fortunate in having little cause for boredom, the curse of so many these days!
As I made my way homeward, a call came to ask if I'd like 'a trip to the Emerald Isle.' 'I would, sir,' I replied, rolling the 'r' in an attempt at an Irish burr. A job was then described that could be collected on my way home, for delivery 'in Belfast' the next morning. Thankfully it turned out to be to a hotel some distance away from the city, to the north-west.
Realising that there could then be an interval before the departure of the return ferry, my thoughts turned to my family history, and the problem of confirming that a will, of which I'd obtained a copy some while ago, was actually that of my great-uncle. The name was right, George Evans, and the date was certainly possible, but this man's profession as a farmer, and his location, were at odds with what I already knew of my great-uncle's life; and his son and executor had 'acquired' an additional forename I'd not known before. I'm fairly sure this problem can only be satisfactorily resolved in Belfast - if at all - so I left home armed with all the details in case this might be an opportunity to take the matter forward a stage.
.jpg) |
| Mary McAleese Boyne Valley Bridge (picture - RTÉ) |
Maybe my eye caught the roadside announcements of its change of name last year in honour of the former president; the last time I had passed over it would have been before that event.
As I drove on up the A1 towards Newry, my PDA bleeped, and I noticed at the same moment a text message on my phone. These had originated from the ever-vigilant Milton Keynes office, who had spotted on their screens that I was prowling around on the other side of the Irish Sea, and had linked this with a request for a collection from a military base not far from my destination. In my twelve years of this work, I've only been to Ireland eight times, and up to now I've neither achieved, nor heard of other drivers enjoying, a return load on such a trip.
The job proved no more difficult than to any other military establishment. The main difficulty is always identifying to the security staff just where your contact is to be located. On the last such occasion I found myself trying to make a delivery to someone who was no longer there! Once that hurdle was overcome, it was simply a case of sitting and waiting; the boxes were brought to me, loaded into the van, and I was on my way, all thoughts of any diversion to the Public Record Office completely forgotten. Instead I enjoyed a drive round the country lanes of Antrim and Down, before rejoining the A1 for my journey south.
As I neared my destination, pleased with a likely arrival in Dublin just before the check-in time, the phone rang. It was Dave, my controller. "I hear you went into an Irish church, and came out with another job," he said, with teasing geniality. When I replied that there had been no church involved, implying simply prayer - although not expecting so generous an outcome! - he said how pleased he was that I'd been able to do the extra job, and asked whether I'd still be able to make the ferry booking, since this had been made on the basis of just the one job. I have to confess to not a little pride as I told him, "No problem. I'm driving through the Port Tunnel as we speak!"
The fact of a job to Ireland was 'better' than the 'something north' that I'd prayed for; the extra job was something even better, but for me, Dave's call was the icing on the cake ... the 'best' of this week's headline. It wasn't until later that I noticed another fine detail. Our ferry bookings are usually made showing the vehicle on the outward journey as 'laden', i.e. carrying goods, but on the return journey as 'empty'. On this occasion, both journeys were declared as 'laden'. A slip of the pen or ...?
After an early delivery of the goods I'd picked up, I spent the rest of Thursday in recovery mode, and yesterday was fairly normal, beginning with jobs to Haywards Heath and Hove. When I was then offered an evening ride to Salford, I had to say no, but collected the goods from West Drayton for another driver to take north.
Today, our ringers were supposed to take part in the county Striking Competition, but had to withdraw at the last minute owing to illness, so I'm left with the opportunity to visit one of the FA Cup ties taking place this afternoon. I'm fortunate in having little cause for boredom, the curse of so many these days!
Saturday, 20 September 2014
So, what HAS changed?
It seems that 'change' is the in-word at the moment, especially in the light - and the aftermath - of the Scottish Referendum. Since I referred to this at length last week, I'll just make one observation and pass on. It seems that greater minds than mine had noticed the 'English unfairness'; the NO vote may have triggered some movement on this aspect. Whether greater or lesser movement remains to be seen, but it will dominate our domestic news bulletins for months to come.
The big change in my own life - again mentioned here a number of times - has been the takeover of our operation by a national courier company. After eight weeks, I feel I can make a fairly balanced assessment of its effects. Earlier this year, I wrote here about my 'gold and silver' analysis scheme for comparing the results of each week. This weekend I've been comparing the seventeen weeks, from the start of the financial year in April to the takeover, to the eight weeks since. In the longer period there were three silver weeks and one gold; in the eight weeks since the change five weeks have been 'silver' and one gold.
I think it was Disraeli who gets the blame for the comment about 'lies, damned lies, and statistics', and it's certainly true that figures can, in large measure, be massaged according to the desired message. So I throw out these comparisons with no guarantee of their being connected or inter-related or evidence of cause-and-effect. Rather, in my father's simple wisdom, I just 'speak as I find'. Since the change of régime, my average weekly income has increased by almost a quarter; the average distance travelled each day is almost 14% more, and the earnings per mile driven is up by over 11%. The number of jobs in a week has also increased, from 12.2 in the earlier weeks to 15.6 more recently. I have explained about getting work from other depots, which is a significant departure from our previous isolated operation; such assignments account for about 12% of my income since the takeover, but even eliminating these completely, the jobs from our own area have risen to 13.9 per week.
Enough figures!
One thing that hasn't changed is the existence of so-called 'bad' days, and my reaction to them. Let me be clear: not all 'bad' days are financially unproductive; into that category I consign any day that has seemed in any way unsatisfying. Conversely, a day when I've done just one job that has been interesting, or which might have involved overcoming a particular problem would definitely not be a bad day at all ... such as the sunny Friday afternoon I spent at a caravan park near Skegness, trying to find out what to do with a van-load of medication for a hospital out-patient arriving for his holiday the following day! Usually, after a succession of two or three 'bad' days, I find depression kicks in, bringing thoughts of 'being singled out for the rubbish' or 'left off the list', or simply being deliberately overlooked.
This week began with two of those 'bad' days. On Monday I began with a journey to Bedford; next came one to Braintree, and then in the afternoon came a pair of deliveries to Hatfield and Bishop's Stortford, on the return from which I was diverted to Hertford, to collect for Witham. If you're interested enough to check out the map, you'll see that I had to negotiate the notorious junction at Little Hadham no less than six times in the day, and didn't venture more than one county away from base all day. Tuesday began with the exact same job to Bedford again, and then fell into a similar limited frame, as two jobs followed one after the other, with no return home until the day was done: one from Biggleswade to Milton Keynes, the other collected from Bedford with deliveries in Baldock and Harefield.
Then came the day that redeemed the week. Up long before daylight, I took some air-conditioning equipment to a shop that is being refurbished in the centre of Bath. I was also loaded with a collection of important envelopes, the first of which had to be delivered to an office next to Temple Meads station in the middle of Bristol before 9.0 am! Then the pressure was off, as I took the remaining envelopes to addresses in Chippenham, Torquay and Brixham.
Finishing at 1.30, I could then spend the rest of the day getting home. I called the office in Plymouth, just in case there should be a job going in my direction, but to no avail and, after a lovely half-hour relaxing in the sunshine by this war memorial in Churston Ferrers, I made my way back to the motorway.
After such a day the rest of the week, which included trips to a remote farm near Whittlesey, Cambs., Gillingham Hospital in Kent, and Crowmarsh Gifford in rural Oxfordshire, paled into insignificance proving that (in the words of a BBC Radio 4 programme title) it's 'All in the Mind'!
The big change in my own life - again mentioned here a number of times - has been the takeover of our operation by a national courier company. After eight weeks, I feel I can make a fairly balanced assessment of its effects. Earlier this year, I wrote here about my 'gold and silver' analysis scheme for comparing the results of each week. This weekend I've been comparing the seventeen weeks, from the start of the financial year in April to the takeover, to the eight weeks since. In the longer period there were three silver weeks and one gold; in the eight weeks since the change five weeks have been 'silver' and one gold.
I think it was Disraeli who gets the blame for the comment about 'lies, damned lies, and statistics', and it's certainly true that figures can, in large measure, be massaged according to the desired message. So I throw out these comparisons with no guarantee of their being connected or inter-related or evidence of cause-and-effect. Rather, in my father's simple wisdom, I just 'speak as I find'. Since the change of régime, my average weekly income has increased by almost a quarter; the average distance travelled each day is almost 14% more, and the earnings per mile driven is up by over 11%. The number of jobs in a week has also increased, from 12.2 in the earlier weeks to 15.6 more recently. I have explained about getting work from other depots, which is a significant departure from our previous isolated operation; such assignments account for about 12% of my income since the takeover, but even eliminating these completely, the jobs from our own area have risen to 13.9 per week.
Enough figures!
One thing that hasn't changed is the existence of so-called 'bad' days, and my reaction to them. Let me be clear: not all 'bad' days are financially unproductive; into that category I consign any day that has seemed in any way unsatisfying. Conversely, a day when I've done just one job that has been interesting, or which might have involved overcoming a particular problem would definitely not be a bad day at all ... such as the sunny Friday afternoon I spent at a caravan park near Skegness, trying to find out what to do with a van-load of medication for a hospital out-patient arriving for his holiday the following day! Usually, after a succession of two or three 'bad' days, I find depression kicks in, bringing thoughts of 'being singled out for the rubbish' or 'left off the list', or simply being deliberately overlooked.
This week began with two of those 'bad' days. On Monday I began with a journey to Bedford; next came one to Braintree, and then in the afternoon came a pair of deliveries to Hatfield and Bishop's Stortford, on the return from which I was diverted to Hertford, to collect for Witham. If you're interested enough to check out the map, you'll see that I had to negotiate the notorious junction at Little Hadham no less than six times in the day, and didn't venture more than one county away from base all day. Tuesday began with the exact same job to Bedford again, and then fell into a similar limited frame, as two jobs followed one after the other, with no return home until the day was done: one from Biggleswade to Milton Keynes, the other collected from Bedford with deliveries in Baldock and Harefield.
 |
| War memorial, Churston Ferrers, Devon |
Finishing at 1.30, I could then spend the rest of the day getting home. I called the office in Plymouth, just in case there should be a job going in my direction, but to no avail and, after a lovely half-hour relaxing in the sunshine by this war memorial in Churston Ferrers, I made my way back to the motorway.
After such a day the rest of the week, which included trips to a remote farm near Whittlesey, Cambs., Gillingham Hospital in Kent, and Crowmarsh Gifford in rural Oxfordshire, paled into insignificance proving that (in the words of a BBC Radio 4 programme title) it's 'All in the Mind'!
Saturday, 13 September 2014
It's Personal!
Personal - adj. - one's own; done or made in person; directed to or concerning an individual; existing as a person, not as an abstraction or thing - Oxford English Dictionary (selections).
Most of my work is the collection and delivery of goods the ownership of which is being transferred from one inanimate entity to another. By contrast, the work is carried out by receiving the goods from an employee of one company and later having them signed for by an employee of another company. I receive them from one person and give them to another person ... in that way, it's a personal service: rarely, if ever, does it take place without the passage of words - more likely a brief conversation - between us.
Some of the people I collect from are already known to me, like Martin, who used to be a fellow bell-ringer, and whom I sometimes encounter watching the same football match on a Saturday. Others I have come to know through regular contact, some by name, like Shazad, who usually sends me on my way with a friendly comment like 'take care, mate!'; others simply by being the same face at the same door every time. On the delivery side, regular jobs often involve meeting the same people each time I deliver there. Sometimes a single delivery can generate conversation sufficient to warrant the parting greeting, 'see you again', or 'see you next time', even when there is little likelihood of my ever going there again. Often peculiar situations make specific people or jobs easy to recall. This week, for example, I delivered a piece of equipment to a dental practice in Liverpool. It was heavy, and the occasion was memorable for the genial conversation between myself, the recipient, with whom I carried it from the van to the office, and his female assistant, who dealt with the doors.
I'm reminded of another dental delivery some months ago, this time for a different customer, and to a practice in Oswestry. Here the goods consisted of a single box, less than 12" cube, but exceedingly heavy. It was as much as I could do to lift it from the floor to the van. When I arrived, the nearest I could park to the door was several yards away, and the comment that sprang into my mind, as I asked if there was someone who could carry it in, has lodged there ever since. I said to the woman who answered the door, 'I don't know what's in that box, but it's far heavier than something that size has any right to be!' The smile of sympathetic amusement that accompanied the reply, 'I'll fetch our young man,' underlines the personal nature of my work.
This line of thought was prompted by two separate incidents this week. On Wednesday, I did a job for one of our oldest customers, whose goods are always fragile. When he gave me the job the previous evening, the controller said, "I'm not sure I should tell you this, but they asked for you in particular to do it: 'can we have the man with the cross, please?' " I have to explain that, for many years now, I have consistently worn a small wooden cross around my neck. It is usually overlooked, perhaps thought of as a mere eccentricity, or unmentioned because of familiarity or for lack of something appropriate to say. Occasionally, however, it attracts a passing comment like 'that's a nice cross', or a direct question, 'are you a Christian, then?' Sometimes it can introduce confusion when people assume - wrongly - that I wear it because I'm a priest. Explanations can vary from complex, to embarrassing, to dismissive, according to the personalities involved. In this case, it was a convenient means of personally identifying their preferred driver.
The second incident won't reach its conclusion until next Thursday, but already it is dominating the news bulletins to the point of exasperation. I refer, of course, to the Referendum on Scottish Independence. When it first arose, I think I considered the whole thing a bit of a nonsense; they've been part of the UK since 1707, why on earth should things change after over 300 years? As 'R-Day' has drawn closer, however, and the debates have become more heated, I have found myself thinking more deeply about the matter. The 'magic' date of 1707 only marked the final union of the two parliaments; soon after his succession as King of England in 1603, James I (who as James VI had already been King of Scotland for over 35 years) was dreaming of the two kingdoms becoming one and declared himself to be King of Great Britain. Against this, it is arguable that the countries themselves have never been one. Scotland, for example, still has its own legal system which, though generally similar, is different in countless ways from that of England and Wales.
Listening to the most recent discussions on the radio - my constant companion on the road - I learn that the main thrust of the pro-independence argument is the claim that, despite once more having its own Parliament in Edinburgh, Scotland still finds itself fundamentally governed from Westminster by a Parliament which does not reflect the political balance of the votes cast in Scotland. Whatever additional powers might be granted to the Scottish Parliament in the event of a 'No' vote, this basic situation would still prevail, keeping Scotland subject to English domination and whim, very much like a colony, with its own control only over those matters that the dominant power decides to allow.
I find myself in sympathy with the 'Yes' side, and experience the same kind of feelings that characterise my deep, though unexplained, interest in all things Irish, of which I have written before in this blog. I have questioned why this should be, since - at least as my family history researches have shown up to now - I'm English through and through. The only thought that seems to stand further scrutiny is some kind of post-devolution envy. Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland each has its own assembly to control essentially domestic matters, but control of the corresponding domestic affairs of England are inextricably inter-woven within the legislature that governs the whole Union. This lop-sided situation is unfair to England, which has never had its own exclusive parliament since the Act of Union (with Wales) in 1536; at the same time, it is unfair to the other parts of the UK, since it underlines the thought expressed above - if nowhere else - that Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland are but colonies, allowed to run certain things for themselves, but within strict limits defined by the motherland.
Everything is personal, whether it's the reaction of other people to me or with me, or mine to them, or the thoughts that clutter my mind on the road. Sooner or later it all comes out here in the blog, so watch this space for more personal revelations!
Most of my work is the collection and delivery of goods the ownership of which is being transferred from one inanimate entity to another. By contrast, the work is carried out by receiving the goods from an employee of one company and later having them signed for by an employee of another company. I receive them from one person and give them to another person ... in that way, it's a personal service: rarely, if ever, does it take place without the passage of words - more likely a brief conversation - between us.
Some of the people I collect from are already known to me, like Martin, who used to be a fellow bell-ringer, and whom I sometimes encounter watching the same football match on a Saturday. Others I have come to know through regular contact, some by name, like Shazad, who usually sends me on my way with a friendly comment like 'take care, mate!'; others simply by being the same face at the same door every time. On the delivery side, regular jobs often involve meeting the same people each time I deliver there. Sometimes a single delivery can generate conversation sufficient to warrant the parting greeting, 'see you again', or 'see you next time', even when there is little likelihood of my ever going there again. Often peculiar situations make specific people or jobs easy to recall. This week, for example, I delivered a piece of equipment to a dental practice in Liverpool. It was heavy, and the occasion was memorable for the genial conversation between myself, the recipient, with whom I carried it from the van to the office, and his female assistant, who dealt with the doors.
I'm reminded of another dental delivery some months ago, this time for a different customer, and to a practice in Oswestry. Here the goods consisted of a single box, less than 12" cube, but exceedingly heavy. It was as much as I could do to lift it from the floor to the van. When I arrived, the nearest I could park to the door was several yards away, and the comment that sprang into my mind, as I asked if there was someone who could carry it in, has lodged there ever since. I said to the woman who answered the door, 'I don't know what's in that box, but it's far heavier than something that size has any right to be!' The smile of sympathetic amusement that accompanied the reply, 'I'll fetch our young man,' underlines the personal nature of my work.
This line of thought was prompted by two separate incidents this week. On Wednesday, I did a job for one of our oldest customers, whose goods are always fragile. When he gave me the job the previous evening, the controller said, "I'm not sure I should tell you this, but they asked for you in particular to do it: 'can we have the man with the cross, please?' " I have to explain that, for many years now, I have consistently worn a small wooden cross around my neck. It is usually overlooked, perhaps thought of as a mere eccentricity, or unmentioned because of familiarity or for lack of something appropriate to say. Occasionally, however, it attracts a passing comment like 'that's a nice cross', or a direct question, 'are you a Christian, then?' Sometimes it can introduce confusion when people assume - wrongly - that I wear it because I'm a priest. Explanations can vary from complex, to embarrassing, to dismissive, according to the personalities involved. In this case, it was a convenient means of personally identifying their preferred driver.
The second incident won't reach its conclusion until next Thursday, but already it is dominating the news bulletins to the point of exasperation. I refer, of course, to the Referendum on Scottish Independence. When it first arose, I think I considered the whole thing a bit of a nonsense; they've been part of the UK since 1707, why on earth should things change after over 300 years? As 'R-Day' has drawn closer, however, and the debates have become more heated, I have found myself thinking more deeply about the matter. The 'magic' date of 1707 only marked the final union of the two parliaments; soon after his succession as King of England in 1603, James I (who as James VI had already been King of Scotland for over 35 years) was dreaming of the two kingdoms becoming one and declared himself to be King of Great Britain. Against this, it is arguable that the countries themselves have never been one. Scotland, for example, still has its own legal system which, though generally similar, is different in countless ways from that of England and Wales.
Listening to the most recent discussions on the radio - my constant companion on the road - I learn that the main thrust of the pro-independence argument is the claim that, despite once more having its own Parliament in Edinburgh, Scotland still finds itself fundamentally governed from Westminster by a Parliament which does not reflect the political balance of the votes cast in Scotland. Whatever additional powers might be granted to the Scottish Parliament in the event of a 'No' vote, this basic situation would still prevail, keeping Scotland subject to English domination and whim, very much like a colony, with its own control only over those matters that the dominant power decides to allow.
I find myself in sympathy with the 'Yes' side, and experience the same kind of feelings that characterise my deep, though unexplained, interest in all things Irish, of which I have written before in this blog. I have questioned why this should be, since - at least as my family history researches have shown up to now - I'm English through and through. The only thought that seems to stand further scrutiny is some kind of post-devolution envy. Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland each has its own assembly to control essentially domestic matters, but control of the corresponding domestic affairs of England are inextricably inter-woven within the legislature that governs the whole Union. This lop-sided situation is unfair to England, which has never had its own exclusive parliament since the Act of Union (with Wales) in 1536; at the same time, it is unfair to the other parts of the UK, since it underlines the thought expressed above - if nowhere else - that Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland are but colonies, allowed to run certain things for themselves, but within strict limits defined by the motherland.
Everything is personal, whether it's the reaction of other people to me or with me, or mine to them, or the thoughts that clutter my mind on the road. Sooner or later it all comes out here in the blog, so watch this space for more personal revelations!
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