This is the time of year when weeks take on a different shape. Since my childhood, this week has always been made up in this fashion: Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Saturday, another Sunday, 'Someday' and then Saturday again. Someday? Well, Boxing Day is like no other. It's not a Sunday, because there are no church services (except for those really devoted people who celebrate the Feast of St. Stephen) and, legally speaking, if 26th December falls on a Sunday, it isn't Boxing Day anyway, because a Sunday can't be a Bank Holiday. And it's not a Saturday either, because ... well, it just isn't. Yet there is sport; for many years, it has been a definite full programme day for the world of football. Even at the level that I watch, there were quite a number of matches to choose from today; although I decided to stay at home in the dry rather than venture out and get soaked.
"Chicken!" I hear you shout. And you would be quite right - there was chicken for dinner today, after lashings of turkey yesterday. (I've lost count of the wonderful accompaniments that filled the remainder of the plate as I shared the festive meal at the home of a generous and welcoming family from our church, who made a last minute invitation that I just had to accept.) And of course, the season wouldn't be complete without all the other special foods that only come out at this time of year, like the dates and candied fruits, the iced fruit cake decorated with sleds, santas and snowmen, and the tasty stollen (now easily obtainable from the nearest Lidl!) Then there's the booze, of course, (more of that anon.) and the chocolate ... loads of it, on its own in all shapes and sizes, or coating biscuits or a variety of nuts and cremes; even some in square blue boxes imitating fruit!
But before all that, you'll no doubt be wondering about the Monday, Tuesday and 'Saturday' that came before the feast. Monday began in routine fashion, with the regular delivery to Pinewood Studios, and then I went over to Thatcham to make a collection there for a customer in Luton. After that came a sequence of three local jobs that filled up the day nicely, allowing me to join my friends in the tower for the final ringing practice of the year.
Tuesday reversed this pattern, with odd jobs first. In fact, after a pre-booked collection of air-conditioning equipment in Welwyn Garden City for a house in Cambridge, it was so quiet that I thought maybe things had shut down already for the festival. No so, however, for I was then sent to a farmyard workshop in a tiny village in rural Hertfordshire that I'd not heard of in my fifteen years as a resident. (Although I'm sure there are many more such places!) On my way back, I took a detour to collect a package that was to be forwarded from our office to an address in Lancashire, and then a second detour to collect another job, from a customer in Hitchin.
I've often 'name-dropped' about the unique occasion quite early in my driving career (records aren't clear whether it was 2004 or 2006), when I found myself passing just inside the hallowed black door of no. 10 Downing Street, SW1; this particular job could have reached an even greater pinnacle of achievement. The parcel I collected in Hitchin was for no less an address than Windsor Castle! Although Her Majesty would not have been in residence, security was no less severe, and my instructions were clear. I rang the number I'd been given, and the recipient met me on the roadside outside the gate, where I obtained the necessary signature under the gaze of the guards. I wonder what action might have been taken had I not then promptly turned my van and driven off!
Once I'd returned, and agreed that I would be willing to do another job that evening, matters returned to normal ... or as normal as the day before Christmas Eve can be. I loaded as many cases of drink as would cover the floor of the van (more than half its permissible payload in weight!) and set off for the fens. As I entered the Red Lion in March, two customers were leaving. One said to the other as they passed me, "Santa's early this year ... and he's not wearing red, either!" The lady behind the bar saw my white beard and looked rather embarrassed. "Seasonal joke," I said, putting her at ease before I determined where I should park in order to transfer some of my load to her cellar. On then, to discharge the remainder of my consignment to the Three Tuns in Wisbech, where a willing customer offered to help, carrying some of the cases across the road to the rear entrance for me.
I was expecting work to be very quiet on Christmas Eve, but I usually offer to be available because it relieves the obligation on others who have families to think of, and often the work itself is not very demanding. I had only one job, which I rather enjoyed, because it took me to the rural byways of southern Suffolk, delivering a case of wine to an isolated farmhouse in Stoke-by-Nayland. I was reminded of a delivery I made some Christmas Eves ago, to a Victorian house in a terrace somewhere in London, about two streets from the Thames - I can't recall whether it was Chiswick or Wandsworth, or somewhere else in that general area. What I do recall was that the occupants were the wife, and two children under ten, who were playing by the open fireside. As I walked through their lounge a number of times to deliver several cases of wine to the kitchen, I thought what a charming picture they made, almost Dickensian, from the location, and yet not so, because of their dress and the toys ... and the TV in the corner. I was very glad that this was my last job before Christmas. It made my day, and in many ways made my festival complete!
Friday, 26 December 2014
Friday, 19 December 2014
Whatever Next ...?
... Or, put another way, 'a week not without incident'.
It began with an uninspiring visit to the office, where my PDA was unjammed, during which time I joined a new driver and completed my official training in the handling of medical samples. At the end of this I was allowed to sign a certificate, which will be kept in the office, and was presented with more 'essential' equipment, a home for which must be found in my already over-crowded van. The day proper continued with jobs to Harwich and Cambridge. Despite being home soon enough, I missed my ringing practice because of an instruction to be in Stevenage for a 6.0 collection the next morning.
I confess, I was late, and didn't get there until about 6.15, but it made little difference. No one at the warehouse knew anything about what I was supposed to collect, and I had to wait until the day shift arrived at 7.0 before I could collect the fresh produce that I took to Norwich to be photographed for publicity materials. Upon my return, I was sent north again, this time to exchange nine cooker hobs on a building site in Manea. There was then just time to clean the van's carpet and my boots before darkness fell, and I was about to settle down for the evening, when another call sent me off once more, this time to a medical practice in rural Essex.
Wednesday morning's fruitless exercise took place in Hertford. As a matter of interest, it was at the very same building (although this time for the host company) where a few weeks ago I managed to set off the security alarm (see the full story here). This week's job was to take 36 boxes to a retail park near to the Dartford river crossing. We tried loading them one way and another, but there was no way this quantity of fairly large boxes would fit into my van. The sender gave up, rang the office, who said they'd sent out a bigger van, and I left to make my way back home. I got as far as the last junction up the motorway before mine, and was then turned back to visit a white goods firm in Hemel Hempstead. The job was to collect two items, one for a hospital in Colchester, the other for a building site near Sudbury.
After a long wait, it transpired that I would only be collecting a large oven for the second of these, since the other job had been taken by another driver earlier in the day. Once I was loaded, and about to depart, I rang the office to advise them of the change, whereupon the next phase of the saga unfolded. It seems that the other driver had been 'persuaded' to take this Colchester job, notwithstanding that he was actually going to central London - not a combination that would normally be entertained! By this time he was on his way back with it, and I was asked to meet him to collect my second job (which would actually be the first one) from him. I set off for South Mimms services.
It was there that I learned the sorry truth. The Colchester job was not one item but two and, with the oven already on board, there wouldn't be room in my van for both these additional items. After some further discussion, I left for Suffolk with the one item I had collected, surprisingly unfazed by the fact that, after a completely wasted morning, this was the only job I would do that day. This time it was too dark when I returned to clean the van a second time in as many days.
Thursday was a better day; possibly the best of the week. It started with a large envelope to be taken to a converted granary office on a Norfolk farm. I'd woken up that morning with a strange feeling of regret that I had no pictures of the graves of my immediate family. No sooner had I crystalised this thought, than I realised that this very day I could do something about that fact and, once my delivery had been made, it added only a couple of miles to my return journey if I diverted via the cemetery in my native Diss. Upon my arrival, I went straight to the oldest of the graves I sought, that of my paternal grandmother, for I remembered its prominent position, and found it neatly trimmed - a contrast to the last sight I had had of it, covered in long grass, with the headstone barely visible.
One by one, I found all the others. My father's, a rugged York stone, that I had chosen myself to match his rugged life on the land, next to my mother's grave, unmarked save for a strange marker I didn't recognise and can't explain, thrust down into the site of a long-removed flower vase.
My maternal grandparents', neither of them marked by a stone, were surprisingly easy to find, because I remembered many a visit made with my mother in my teens, when we always recognised them by the adjacent stone which bore an unusual surname, Wass. The last one took longest to locate. It was that of my paternal grandfather, who died in 1950. I knew the rough area, but when I looked there, all the graves were much, much older, and somehow as I progressed with the dates, I then found myself amongst far newer ones than that which I sought. At last, I explored in the opposite direction, and struck gold, as it were. This particular plot may have initially been occupied by a garden or perhaps was a later addition, for here were several of this 'intermediate' age, as if positioned here as 'infill', long after the cemetery had been started in the mid-nineteenth century.
Thoughtfully I continued my journey home, and back to the world of work. A local job appeared on my screen just before I got home, and following this a hospital transfer that proved to be non-existent as both I and another driver sought it to no avail. Someone had apparently got his wires crossed! Then came that crucial late-afternoon question, 'are you available for more work this evening?' I decided that I was, and was persuaded to make another trip to Norfolk, to deliver some wine to a night club in the centre of Norwich.
The return journey was more exciting than I either expected or desired. As I drove down the A11, delighting in the new dual carriageway through Suffolk at about 65 mph, with dipped headlights out of consideration for drivers coming in the opposite direction, suddenly the blackness of the road surface was broken by blood and gore. I remember thinking that this stretched further than usual along the road but, since it was all between my wheels, I dismissed it as a larger-than-usual badger that had met its end. No sooner had I done so than my lights picked out a large white object. LUMP! I'd hit it and was up in the air. CRASH! in a split second I was down again, and - amazingly - still travelling smoothly along the road. It must have been a full-grown deer that had been killed by a passing lorry. This morning my first call was at the garage, where I sought to confirm that nothing serious had befallen the van. The staff there were only too pleased to run it onto one of the ramps before the work of the day got under way. It was concluded that my alignment when I'd hit the beast was about as fortunate as it could have been. A few inches either side and the result could have been serious. As it was, the only damage was to a few fuel-pipe clips that had been twisted a little out of position, the radiator grille needed re-fitting where it had been knocked loose, and I'd lost one half of the front skirt.
I think I can say that's the first time in my motoring history that I've hit an animal - alive or dead - and I'm quite content for it to be the last! After that, the rest of the day pales into insignificance, with nothing more venturous than two loads of printing, one from Stevenage to Ampthill, the other from Hitchin to Barking, and in between some fibre-glass moulds and products from Bedford to Letchworth.
Tomorrow sees yet another rehearsal for our annual carol service the following day, and this intense weekend will be the opening phase of the festivities, with only three more days before the start of the long Christmas and New Year holiday. No doubt there will be some account of the procedings here, but timing might be a little uncertain!
It began with an uninspiring visit to the office, where my PDA was unjammed, during which time I joined a new driver and completed my official training in the handling of medical samples. At the end of this I was allowed to sign a certificate, which will be kept in the office, and was presented with more 'essential' equipment, a home for which must be found in my already over-crowded van. The day proper continued with jobs to Harwich and Cambridge. Despite being home soon enough, I missed my ringing practice because of an instruction to be in Stevenage for a 6.0 collection the next morning.
I confess, I was late, and didn't get there until about 6.15, but it made little difference. No one at the warehouse knew anything about what I was supposed to collect, and I had to wait until the day shift arrived at 7.0 before I could collect the fresh produce that I took to Norwich to be photographed for publicity materials. Upon my return, I was sent north again, this time to exchange nine cooker hobs on a building site in Manea. There was then just time to clean the van's carpet and my boots before darkness fell, and I was about to settle down for the evening, when another call sent me off once more, this time to a medical practice in rural Essex.
Wednesday morning's fruitless exercise took place in Hertford. As a matter of interest, it was at the very same building (although this time for the host company) where a few weeks ago I managed to set off the security alarm (see the full story here). This week's job was to take 36 boxes to a retail park near to the Dartford river crossing. We tried loading them one way and another, but there was no way this quantity of fairly large boxes would fit into my van. The sender gave up, rang the office, who said they'd sent out a bigger van, and I left to make my way back home. I got as far as the last junction up the motorway before mine, and was then turned back to visit a white goods firm in Hemel Hempstead. The job was to collect two items, one for a hospital in Colchester, the other for a building site near Sudbury.
After a long wait, it transpired that I would only be collecting a large oven for the second of these, since the other job had been taken by another driver earlier in the day. Once I was loaded, and about to depart, I rang the office to advise them of the change, whereupon the next phase of the saga unfolded. It seems that the other driver had been 'persuaded' to take this Colchester job, notwithstanding that he was actually going to central London - not a combination that would normally be entertained! By this time he was on his way back with it, and I was asked to meet him to collect my second job (which would actually be the first one) from him. I set off for South Mimms services.
It was there that I learned the sorry truth. The Colchester job was not one item but two and, with the oven already on board, there wouldn't be room in my van for both these additional items. After some further discussion, I left for Suffolk with the one item I had collected, surprisingly unfazed by the fact that, after a completely wasted morning, this was the only job I would do that day. This time it was too dark when I returned to clean the van a second time in as many days.
Thursday was a better day; possibly the best of the week. It started with a large envelope to be taken to a converted granary office on a Norfolk farm. I'd woken up that morning with a strange feeling of regret that I had no pictures of the graves of my immediate family. No sooner had I crystalised this thought, than I realised that this very day I could do something about that fact and, once my delivery had been made, it added only a couple of miles to my return journey if I diverted via the cemetery in my native Diss. Upon my arrival, I went straight to the oldest of the graves I sought, that of my paternal grandmother, for I remembered its prominent position, and found it neatly trimmed - a contrast to the last sight I had had of it, covered in long grass, with the headstone barely visible.
 |
| My father's grave |
My maternal grandparents', neither of them marked by a stone, were surprisingly easy to find, because I remembered many a visit made with my mother in my teens, when we always recognised them by the adjacent stone which bore an unusual surname, Wass. The last one took longest to locate. It was that of my paternal grandfather, who died in 1950. I knew the rough area, but when I looked there, all the graves were much, much older, and somehow as I progressed with the dates, I then found myself amongst far newer ones than that which I sought. At last, I explored in the opposite direction, and struck gold, as it were. This particular plot may have initially been occupied by a garden or perhaps was a later addition, for here were several of this 'intermediate' age, as if positioned here as 'infill', long after the cemetery had been started in the mid-nineteenth century.
Thoughtfully I continued my journey home, and back to the world of work. A local job appeared on my screen just before I got home, and following this a hospital transfer that proved to be non-existent as both I and another driver sought it to no avail. Someone had apparently got his wires crossed! Then came that crucial late-afternoon question, 'are you available for more work this evening?' I decided that I was, and was persuaded to make another trip to Norfolk, to deliver some wine to a night club in the centre of Norwich.
The return journey was more exciting than I either expected or desired. As I drove down the A11, delighting in the new dual carriageway through Suffolk at about 65 mph, with dipped headlights out of consideration for drivers coming in the opposite direction, suddenly the blackness of the road surface was broken by blood and gore. I remember thinking that this stretched further than usual along the road but, since it was all between my wheels, I dismissed it as a larger-than-usual badger that had met its end. No sooner had I done so than my lights picked out a large white object. LUMP! I'd hit it and was up in the air. CRASH! in a split second I was down again, and - amazingly - still travelling smoothly along the road. It must have been a full-grown deer that had been killed by a passing lorry. This morning my first call was at the garage, where I sought to confirm that nothing serious had befallen the van. The staff there were only too pleased to run it onto one of the ramps before the work of the day got under way. It was concluded that my alignment when I'd hit the beast was about as fortunate as it could have been. A few inches either side and the result could have been serious. As it was, the only damage was to a few fuel-pipe clips that had been twisted a little out of position, the radiator grille needed re-fitting where it had been knocked loose, and I'd lost one half of the front skirt.
I think I can say that's the first time in my motoring history that I've hit an animal - alive or dead - and I'm quite content for it to be the last! After that, the rest of the day pales into insignificance, with nothing more venturous than two loads of printing, one from Stevenage to Ampthill, the other from Hitchin to Barking, and in between some fibre-glass moulds and products from Bedford to Letchworth.
Tomorrow sees yet another rehearsal for our annual carol service the following day, and this intense weekend will be the opening phase of the festivities, with only three more days before the start of the long Christmas and New Year holiday. No doubt there will be some account of the procedings here, but timing might be a little uncertain!
Saturday, 13 December 2014
A Rewarding Pre-Christmas Week
The week began with something of a splendid Monday - not a record, perhaps, but a level not often achieved without a visit north of the border! It began with a collection near Potters Bar of some plants for an establishment in Poole. I stopped for early refreshment at South Mimms services, and just as I left there came advice of another job to be collected from Hertford before I did battle with the M25. This was going to Swindon, and I diverted to deliver it first before heading for the seaside. I had just returned to the van after making the Poole delivery when a call from another branch sent me just three miles down the road for a pick-up going to Heathrow.
The shine was knocked of an otherwise glorious day as I realised that I was getting cold. Somehow the heating in the van was off. I had encountered this problem a few weeks ago, and recalled feeling rather sheepish when the chap at the garage simply filled the cooling system with water. I have water with me, so tried this remedy. It worked, but only for about a hundred miles before needing to be filled again, and the third occasion came even sooner. Clearly something was wrong, and getting worse! Next day I appeared early on the doorstep of the garage, and spent my day at home before it had been fixed. The problem was a component hidden deep within the engine, and its replacement was most demanding of labour, patience, and the fruit of my wallet!
Two comparatively modest jobs on Wednesday in my toastie-warm van brought the week back into equilibrium, before Thursday began with a sequence of three, collecting in heavy rain from a customer in Hitchin, on a regular journey to the business park at Swavesey; over to the West Suffolk Hospital for another regular collection for a laboratory in Royston, and then a short run from Letchworth to Luton & Dunstable hospital. I had time to get halfway through my weekly bookwork before being summoned to collect two jobs from Sandy. The first was a batch of flower samples for a national supermarket, and the second a small package to be delivered not far from Gatwick Airport.
The lady who had provided the flowers was in generous - or festive - mood and (not for the first time) offered me some of the cast-aside blooms that had just missed being included in the premier displays I was to deliver. So on my way home from Gatwick I diverted to share my good fortune between two lucky ladies in my home town.
The working week was rounded off by a day that sent me in succession to three of the four points of the compass. I started with an 8.15 print collection for an estate agent in Colchester, followed quickly by some technical equipment for an address in Farnborough, and just as I left there I was asked if I could do another job in the early evening. When I said I could, I was told of a delivery that would be ready for collection soon after 4.0 in Houghton Regis for Thame.
To corrupt a well-known axiom, it's the season for the reason for the season. In the run-up to Christmas the diary is so full there are definitely some things that just can't be fitted in. Music practices for the annual carol service at church are being slotted in left, right and centre, with the hope that as many as can will turn up when we are available. I think I've missed four now, but am gradually getting to grips with two delightful modern pieces that none of us had seen before. Although home too late to sing last night, I knew the supermarket would be open, so the shopping at least could be crossed off. In contrast, today's diary page is blank, and I was glad of a time for 'catch-up'. By about 11.0 I was ready to go out, and in view of the glorious sunshine I decided on walking into town, where I had intended to rectify three items I noted had been missed from last night's shopping.
I was late enough to check my post before leaving home, and it was good that I was. A few weeks ago I had had a letter from DWP enclosing a one from a famous life assurance firm, who were trying to trace me in order to secure my instructions regarding a company pension from the mid 1970s. It was one I'd been unable to trace when I sorted out my pensions early last year, and I had consigned the minuscule amount, generated by only about a year's contributions, to that big bin that is labeled 'Experience'. Today, however, after a simple letter of acceptance, I received the cheque for the entire sum, which, if left intact, would have provided me with a magnificant annual pension of £9.01 for life!
As I passed through the town I couldn't resist the stall outside the bookshop! I came away with three small volumes ... which, as I paid for them, I described to the manager as 'forbidden fruit'. Now I have to find space on my crowded shelves for a book of Suffolk remembrances, one of agricultural statistics, and a beautiful Folio Society edition of Parson Woodforde's Diary.
The shine was knocked of an otherwise glorious day as I realised that I was getting cold. Somehow the heating in the van was off. I had encountered this problem a few weeks ago, and recalled feeling rather sheepish when the chap at the garage simply filled the cooling system with water. I have water with me, so tried this remedy. It worked, but only for about a hundred miles before needing to be filled again, and the third occasion came even sooner. Clearly something was wrong, and getting worse! Next day I appeared early on the doorstep of the garage, and spent my day at home before it had been fixed. The problem was a component hidden deep within the engine, and its replacement was most demanding of labour, patience, and the fruit of my wallet!
Two comparatively modest jobs on Wednesday in my toastie-warm van brought the week back into equilibrium, before Thursday began with a sequence of three, collecting in heavy rain from a customer in Hitchin, on a regular journey to the business park at Swavesey; over to the West Suffolk Hospital for another regular collection for a laboratory in Royston, and then a short run from Letchworth to Luton & Dunstable hospital. I had time to get halfway through my weekly bookwork before being summoned to collect two jobs from Sandy. The first was a batch of flower samples for a national supermarket, and the second a small package to be delivered not far from Gatwick Airport.
The lady who had provided the flowers was in generous - or festive - mood and (not for the first time) offered me some of the cast-aside blooms that had just missed being included in the premier displays I was to deliver. So on my way home from Gatwick I diverted to share my good fortune between two lucky ladies in my home town.
The working week was rounded off by a day that sent me in succession to three of the four points of the compass. I started with an 8.15 print collection for an estate agent in Colchester, followed quickly by some technical equipment for an address in Farnborough, and just as I left there I was asked if I could do another job in the early evening. When I said I could, I was told of a delivery that would be ready for collection soon after 4.0 in Houghton Regis for Thame.
To corrupt a well-known axiom, it's the season for the reason for the season. In the run-up to Christmas the diary is so full there are definitely some things that just can't be fitted in. Music practices for the annual carol service at church are being slotted in left, right and centre, with the hope that as many as can will turn up when we are available. I think I've missed four now, but am gradually getting to grips with two delightful modern pieces that none of us had seen before. Although home too late to sing last night, I knew the supermarket would be open, so the shopping at least could be crossed off. In contrast, today's diary page is blank, and I was glad of a time for 'catch-up'. By about 11.0 I was ready to go out, and in view of the glorious sunshine I decided on walking into town, where I had intended to rectify three items I noted had been missed from last night's shopping.
I was late enough to check my post before leaving home, and it was good that I was. A few weeks ago I had had a letter from DWP enclosing a one from a famous life assurance firm, who were trying to trace me in order to secure my instructions regarding a company pension from the mid 1970s. It was one I'd been unable to trace when I sorted out my pensions early last year, and I had consigned the minuscule amount, generated by only about a year's contributions, to that big bin that is labeled 'Experience'. Today, however, after a simple letter of acceptance, I received the cheque for the entire sum, which, if left intact, would have provided me with a magnificant annual pension of £9.01 for life!
As I passed through the town I couldn't resist the stall outside the bookshop! I came away with three small volumes ... which, as I paid for them, I described to the manager as 'forbidden fruit'. Now I have to find space on my crowded shelves for a book of Suffolk remembrances, one of agricultural statistics, and a beautiful Folio Society edition of Parson Woodforde's Diary.
Saturday, 6 December 2014
Triangles
There are many ways of looking at the variety of work, payloads and destinations of this business, but I've never thought of geometry before. However, if you consider the geography of this week, it's quite true: just look at Monday for a start.
The week began with a collection of some air-conditioning equipment in Welwyn Garden City for Wooburn, from which I turned anti-clockwise into London, for a NW10 collection. This went to Abingdon in Oxfordshire and just before I arrived at my destination came a phone call offering me a collection in Thatcham for Bell Bar in Hertfordshire. Two more anti-clockwise movements completed this task and a third brought me home, covering each side of an approximate triangle twice over.
Monday was rounded off by an amusing 'offer'. As I sat at my desk, wondering if the phone would ring, it sprang into life and brought me a choice. Having confirmed that I was willing to go out again - it was almost 5.0 pm - Dave said I could either go to Amersham or 'RG27, wherever that is'. I opted for the further destination (which turned out to be a hotel near Hook), to make losing my bellringing practice for the second Monday running really worthwhile, to which he replied, 'I hoped you'd take that one, because C----- <the only other driver available> won't know where S------ <name of our customer> is.' To me, this implied that she wouldn't be able to find it in the dark, either! - and before you condemn me for being sexist, I can think of at least one male driver of whom he would have said the same thing! To be fair, this particular customer's premises are in open country, some distance away from both the village that provides their address, and the nearest main road, some nineteen miles from our office, and both of these drivers live almost the same distance in the opposite direction!
Tuesday was taken up by one long run to St Helens, with a delivery in Northampton on the way, and after two separate jobs on Wednesday, to Royston and Coventry, a third one to Hemel Hempstead primed me for the geometric theme again. Only a few hundred yards from my delivery, I collected a full load of kitchen equipment to be delivered the following morning in Bridgend. Once this had been successfully completed - getting there via Ross-on-Wye, of course, to avoid the toll - I made for the eastbound Severn crossing, amused as ever as I left the bridge behind me, to be welcomed to England in Welsh. After a collection just off the M5 in the north-west corner of Bristol, I made a broadly 'left turn', to deliver in Derby, and after a welcome rest at Donnington Park services, my homeward journey completed a very large triangle.
Friday, too, began with two independent journeys, one to Northampton again, and the other to Pinewood Studios, and then came another triangle, this time clockwise, as I travelled to South Mimms to meet another driver. Here I was given a small package that he had collected in central London, which I took on to its final destination in Abingdon. Once more, my homeward journey completed the third triangle of the week. Incidentally, the astute reader may have noticed the hand of 'the genie' at work this week, too!
I wonder how next week will 'shape up'?
The week began with a collection of some air-conditioning equipment in Welwyn Garden City for Wooburn, from which I turned anti-clockwise into London, for a NW10 collection. This went to Abingdon in Oxfordshire and just before I arrived at my destination came a phone call offering me a collection in Thatcham for Bell Bar in Hertfordshire. Two more anti-clockwise movements completed this task and a third brought me home, covering each side of an approximate triangle twice over.
Monday was rounded off by an amusing 'offer'. As I sat at my desk, wondering if the phone would ring, it sprang into life and brought me a choice. Having confirmed that I was willing to go out again - it was almost 5.0 pm - Dave said I could either go to Amersham or 'RG27, wherever that is'. I opted for the further destination (which turned out to be a hotel near Hook), to make losing my bellringing practice for the second Monday running really worthwhile, to which he replied, 'I hoped you'd take that one, because C----- <the only other driver available> won't know where S------ <name of our customer> is.' To me, this implied that she wouldn't be able to find it in the dark, either! - and before you condemn me for being sexist, I can think of at least one male driver of whom he would have said the same thing! To be fair, this particular customer's premises are in open country, some distance away from both the village that provides their address, and the nearest main road, some nineteen miles from our office, and both of these drivers live almost the same distance in the opposite direction!
 |
| Welcome to England (picture: flickr.com) |
Friday, too, began with two independent journeys, one to Northampton again, and the other to Pinewood Studios, and then came another triangle, this time clockwise, as I travelled to South Mimms to meet another driver. Here I was given a small package that he had collected in central London, which I took on to its final destination in Abingdon. Once more, my homeward journey completed the third triangle of the week. Incidentally, the astute reader may have noticed the hand of 'the genie' at work this week, too!
I wonder how next week will 'shape up'?
Saturday, 29 November 2014
The Present Reality... with Echoes from the Past
It's been an interesting week. Let's begin with some statistics: it's only the second time since the take-over that I've done 20 jobs in a week; and yesterday was only the eleventh time in my twelve-and-a-half-year career that a single day has provided seven jobs! All five days this week have involved early starts, most needing me to leave home at 6.0 or earlier, and some evenings I wasn't home until quite late. These extensions to the working day play havoc with any kind of food planning, to say nothing of actual food intake! One evening 'meal' consisted of a (large) sausage roll! It's true what some say: this is not a job for a family man!
And before we consign the statistics to the past, let me just add that only the first and last jobs of the week went further north than Cambridge, and only two further west than Southampton. All in all, the week has been very much concentrated in the south-east of the country. Four of the seven jobs yesterday formed a neat chain, beginning with a collection in Letchworth for Harrow; then came a leap-frog sequence, with a Harrow collection for St Albans, a Watford collection for a customer in Stevenage, and a Hatfield collection for Cambridge.
The collection in Hatfield was one of those visits that took twenty minutes when three would have sufficed, had the full information been provided. It was one of those office blocks accommodating two or more companies. When I announced my purpose at the reception desk inside the door, I was asked 'which company are you collecting from?', and then 'which floor?' I could answer the first, but not the second, so I was directed to their own reception just down the passage. Here, a well-meaning, girl who seemed totally out of her depth tried to help me. As she looked through a number of items apparently awaiting collection, she asked, 'Do you have a contact name?' 'No,' I told her, 'only the name of the recipient, Cassy T.......' (who, incidentally, later turned out to be Cathy!) 'Where is it you're going?' I had already told her Cambridge, so I told her the post code CB4. She clearly thought I was offering the name of a company, for she said hopelessly, 'I don't recognise that name.' At a total loss, she suggested I try first floor reception. I made for the lifts.
I emerged on the first floor, and found a locked door with no obvious means of attracting attention. As I looked around helplessly, someone emerged from another lift. I explained my problem, and was told there was no reception on this floor - try the third floor. I could feel my hackles rising as I returned to the lift. As I opened the door on the third floor - which was encouragingly marked 'Reception' - I didn't need to explain again what I was there for. The young lady at the desk spotted the ID badge around my neck, told me I was going to Cambridge, and handed me a large envelope. What a difference two extra words would have made!
After Cambridge there came two local deliveries for an engineering firm in Letchworth, and then I collected a pallet of recycled electronic components for Milton Keynes. This latter was to be accompanied by a pick-up in Hitchin for Castle Bromwich, a repeat of a job I did one evening a few weeks ago. As before, I arrived after the factory there had closed; as a result of that earlier experience, I knew where to look for the canteen window, and was pleased to see the same security man inside. This time, however, the gates of the site were locked, and I wondered how I could let him know I was there. I tried rattling the gate. In a deserted street, it's quite amazing how much noise can be made by steel gates 3 metres high! His face looked up; I held aloft the box I was delivering; he opened the door, and then opened the gate in order to complete the formalities. As before, no one had thought to tell him that I was on my way, and we shared this frustration as he signed my PDA.
It was a week that saw visits to a number of places I'd not been to for some while. On Monday I made a return visit to Whittington Hospital, the first time for nine or ten years; and on then to Canning Town, through London streets which had become familiar to me in those far-off days before our joining operations with another company relieved us of most of the London work. I'd been before to the firm to whom I delivered in Harrow yesterday, but I didn't realise this until I entered their yard, at which point I remembered having to go round a tight blind corner to reach the goods-in door, which opens onto the rear car park.
It all goes to show that what goes around does, sooner or later, come round again.
And before we consign the statistics to the past, let me just add that only the first and last jobs of the week went further north than Cambridge, and only two further west than Southampton. All in all, the week has been very much concentrated in the south-east of the country. Four of the seven jobs yesterday formed a neat chain, beginning with a collection in Letchworth for Harrow; then came a leap-frog sequence, with a Harrow collection for St Albans, a Watford collection for a customer in Stevenage, and a Hatfield collection for Cambridge.
The collection in Hatfield was one of those visits that took twenty minutes when three would have sufficed, had the full information been provided. It was one of those office blocks accommodating two or more companies. When I announced my purpose at the reception desk inside the door, I was asked 'which company are you collecting from?', and then 'which floor?' I could answer the first, but not the second, so I was directed to their own reception just down the passage. Here, a well-meaning, girl who seemed totally out of her depth tried to help me. As she looked through a number of items apparently awaiting collection, she asked, 'Do you have a contact name?' 'No,' I told her, 'only the name of the recipient, Cassy T.......' (who, incidentally, later turned out to be Cathy!) 'Where is it you're going?' I had already told her Cambridge, so I told her the post code CB4. She clearly thought I was offering the name of a company, for she said hopelessly, 'I don't recognise that name.' At a total loss, she suggested I try first floor reception. I made for the lifts.
I emerged on the first floor, and found a locked door with no obvious means of attracting attention. As I looked around helplessly, someone emerged from another lift. I explained my problem, and was told there was no reception on this floor - try the third floor. I could feel my hackles rising as I returned to the lift. As I opened the door on the third floor - which was encouragingly marked 'Reception' - I didn't need to explain again what I was there for. The young lady at the desk spotted the ID badge around my neck, told me I was going to Cambridge, and handed me a large envelope. What a difference two extra words would have made!
After Cambridge there came two local deliveries for an engineering firm in Letchworth, and then I collected a pallet of recycled electronic components for Milton Keynes. This latter was to be accompanied by a pick-up in Hitchin for Castle Bromwich, a repeat of a job I did one evening a few weeks ago. As before, I arrived after the factory there had closed; as a result of that earlier experience, I knew where to look for the canteen window, and was pleased to see the same security man inside. This time, however, the gates of the site were locked, and I wondered how I could let him know I was there. I tried rattling the gate. In a deserted street, it's quite amazing how much noise can be made by steel gates 3 metres high! His face looked up; I held aloft the box I was delivering; he opened the door, and then opened the gate in order to complete the formalities. As before, no one had thought to tell him that I was on my way, and we shared this frustration as he signed my PDA.
It was a week that saw visits to a number of places I'd not been to for some while. On Monday I made a return visit to Whittington Hospital, the first time for nine or ten years; and on then to Canning Town, through London streets which had become familiar to me in those far-off days before our joining operations with another company relieved us of most of the London work. I'd been before to the firm to whom I delivered in Harrow yesterday, but I didn't realise this until I entered their yard, at which point I remembered having to go round a tight blind corner to reach the goods-in door, which opens onto the rear car park.
It all goes to show that what goes around does, sooner or later, come round again.
Saturday, 22 November 2014
Off the Pitch!
"Thass bin a funny ow week!" as my mother might have said. A funny (in the sense of strange) week indeed. Let's look at work for a start: 18 jobs, which is quite good, but apart from one - which I'll tell you about in a moment - only one other was over 60 miles, so it wasn't a particularly profitable week. Most of its highlights came 'off the pitch', to steal a footballing metaphor.
On Monday, as I returned from a hospital run to Addenbrooke's in Cambridge, via a collection from another hospital in Peterborough, Dave my controller rang me because he couldn't track me on his computer and wondered how I was getting on. Apparently the goods I'd collected were quite urgently required for another hospital. I took advantage of the call to seek a meeting with him about my retirement, and was told, "come in any time." I decided to strike while the iron was hot, and after delivering to our customer in Letchworth, I visited the office.
Over the last few weeks I've been playing with figures, to come up with a plan for a 'graduated retirement'. I've heard many tales of men at this age. One week is work as normal, the next week ... nothing! And how do they cope with a change to life that can seem like falling off a cliff? Some find it no problem, with hobbies and outside interests that easily expand to fill the vacant hours. Others have been so wrapped up in work that life suddenly seems empty.
My father for instance, after a lifetime working on the farm, had quite upset my mother, getting under her feet as he wandered to and fro, not feeling needed in the home. He quickly found a part-time job at a nearby nursery, where the owner had engaged quite a number of ex-farm workers, who provided agreeable company for each other alongside their work. Another man, whom I knew quite well, was a church organist; he and his wife were childless, and had plans to travel after he had retired. Only a few months after he had finished work at an office in the town, he had gone to church early one Sunday to practise the day's music, and was found dead at the organ later in the morning.
I have no desire to be killed off by a sudden change in the pattern of life! So I'm planning to spend the next two years 'in decline', so to speak. Rather than simply retract to a four-day week, as some have done, I'm thinking of a working/retired 'sandwich', working full weeks, but not so many of them, and interspersing these with periods of other activity. Fine plans were - and still are - in the making, but the key requirement had yet to be obtained. Would it be acceptable to work like this? Hence the meeting with Dave. It went just as I'd predicted. I presented him with my plans, we exchanged a few words of explanation, reference was made to his being well satisfied with my work, and within minutes were were talking about the football team that he manages in his spare time! This formality over, my plans have been taken to a more detailed degree this week, as I've tried to finalise my financial needs and arrangements.
As our meeting took place, telephones were ringing in all directions, and there were frequent interruptions from colleagues. One call had announced that the customer to whom I had just delivered needed something taken that evening to the far side of Bristol, so as I took my leave I said to Dave, "Can I be cheeky and suggest that I go round to <customer's name>?" He smiled and replied, "Good idea!" - it was the best job of the week!
With so many jobs this week, there have also been a number of convenient slots between them in which I've been able to keep up with 'stuff' that has piled up on other fronts. One morning I had just listened to the morning service on my way home, and decided that I really ought to give some thought to my assigned task of leading the prayers in church on Christmas Day. I'd just added the final full stop to my draft as the PDA by my side beeped to announce the next job!
On another day, the podcast of an excellent talk by Audrey Collins at the National Archives inspired some notes of possible lines of research to discover what my uncles were doing in the First World War, which I hastily scribbled before the next job arrived! Survivors with common names are among the most difficult to trace, and following up these ideas might utilise one of the first creeping fingers of my retirement!
As my geography teacher once told his class, "The land is like life itself, if it doesn't change, it dies!" - wisdom not wasted!
On Monday, as I returned from a hospital run to Addenbrooke's in Cambridge, via a collection from another hospital in Peterborough, Dave my controller rang me because he couldn't track me on his computer and wondered how I was getting on. Apparently the goods I'd collected were quite urgently required for another hospital. I took advantage of the call to seek a meeting with him about my retirement, and was told, "come in any time." I decided to strike while the iron was hot, and after delivering to our customer in Letchworth, I visited the office.
Over the last few weeks I've been playing with figures, to come up with a plan for a 'graduated retirement'. I've heard many tales of men at this age. One week is work as normal, the next week ... nothing! And how do they cope with a change to life that can seem like falling off a cliff? Some find it no problem, with hobbies and outside interests that easily expand to fill the vacant hours. Others have been so wrapped up in work that life suddenly seems empty.
My father for instance, after a lifetime working on the farm, had quite upset my mother, getting under her feet as he wandered to and fro, not feeling needed in the home. He quickly found a part-time job at a nearby nursery, where the owner had engaged quite a number of ex-farm workers, who provided agreeable company for each other alongside their work. Another man, whom I knew quite well, was a church organist; he and his wife were childless, and had plans to travel after he had retired. Only a few months after he had finished work at an office in the town, he had gone to church early one Sunday to practise the day's music, and was found dead at the organ later in the morning.
I have no desire to be killed off by a sudden change in the pattern of life! So I'm planning to spend the next two years 'in decline', so to speak. Rather than simply retract to a four-day week, as some have done, I'm thinking of a working/retired 'sandwich', working full weeks, but not so many of them, and interspersing these with periods of other activity. Fine plans were - and still are - in the making, but the key requirement had yet to be obtained. Would it be acceptable to work like this? Hence the meeting with Dave. It went just as I'd predicted. I presented him with my plans, we exchanged a few words of explanation, reference was made to his being well satisfied with my work, and within minutes were were talking about the football team that he manages in his spare time! This formality over, my plans have been taken to a more detailed degree this week, as I've tried to finalise my financial needs and arrangements.
As our meeting took place, telephones were ringing in all directions, and there were frequent interruptions from colleagues. One call had announced that the customer to whom I had just delivered needed something taken that evening to the far side of Bristol, so as I took my leave I said to Dave, "Can I be cheeky and suggest that I go round to <customer's name>?" He smiled and replied, "Good idea!" - it was the best job of the week!
With so many jobs this week, there have also been a number of convenient slots between them in which I've been able to keep up with 'stuff' that has piled up on other fronts. One morning I had just listened to the morning service on my way home, and decided that I really ought to give some thought to my assigned task of leading the prayers in church on Christmas Day. I'd just added the final full stop to my draft as the PDA by my side beeped to announce the next job!
On another day, the podcast of an excellent talk by Audrey Collins at the National Archives inspired some notes of possible lines of research to discover what my uncles were doing in the First World War, which I hastily scribbled before the next job arrived! Survivors with common names are among the most difficult to trace, and following up these ideas might utilise one of the first creeping fingers of my retirement!
As my geography teacher once told his class, "The land is like life itself, if it doesn't change, it dies!" - wisdom not wasted!
Saturday, 15 November 2014
Things Recalled, Things Remembered
It's been another week of triumph for the Genie, in both regular and novel modes. I've lost count of the number of times I've thought to myself, 'here again! Genie at work!'. Then, yesterday, came a new guise. Four times in succession, I was misled by SatNav, the electronic marvel who isn't the all-seeing eye we think him to be. The day started in darkness, with a 6.30 collection of pharmaceutical samples for pre-noon delivery in a variety of locations. I was one of three drivers attacking this task, and was assigned Watford and West Molesey. In Watford, just as day was dawning (although one could be excused for not noticing this fact, owing to the torrential rain!), I was directed to a private estate of executive houses, which I knew instinctively was going to be wrong, because these goods are usually sent to warehouses or distribution centres. In fact, although I didn't recognise the name, it was a large establishment I'd visited before, about two streets away.
On, then, to West Molesey, where I found myself on an industrial estate, but sent to a dead end, with the roof of the place I wanted peeking cheekily from the adjacent road over those immediately before me. On the way home, I was diverted from the M25 for another job, collecting from Uxbridge for a specialist aviation repair firm near Southend. My collection was from a well-known logistics firm where I recalled being held up for some while waiting for goods on a previous occasion. There was no change from this yesterday but, before I could enjoy this experience, I had to overrule the instruction to take the previous turning! As I keyed in my final journey, for the delivery in Rayleigh, I had the feeling. 'this one isn't going to be right, either!' The delivery note told me 'Claydons Lane', but when presented with the postcode I'd been given, SatNav had come up with 'Rat Lane' which, although adjacent, required me to drive around the block a second time, and then make a verbal enquiry, before I could see my target.
So much for routine. There is nothing routine about a famous star of the silver screen reaching the age of 80. Twice this week, on Tuesday and Thursday, I was sent to my East Anglian homeland. On Tuesday to Hadleigh and Ipswich, and on Thursday closer to 'home', to the village of Hoxne, where I was to collect a guitar autographed by a famous singer-songwriter. As I drove along the A14 on Thursday morning I was thrilled to find myself listening to the first item on Woman's Hour, as Jenni Murray interviewed Sophia Loren about her 'fairy tale life'. You can hear the interview on the BBC website here.
Why did this so delight me, you may ask, and especially why so as I travelled towards the area where I grew up? Many possible explanations come to mind, ranging from 'coat-tail clinging' through 'name-dropping' to 'stealing glory that belongs elsewhere'. I prefer to think of it as simply pride to be associated, however tenuously, with such a romantic story. My link is this. Apart from the fact that she was an immigrant to our rural community, my mother-in-law had two other claims to fame. One was that her birthplace was mentioned in the Bible (Acts 28:13), albeit in a variant form of the name; the other was that, while she was growing up in Pozzuoli, and serving as a Sunday School teacher, in her class had been the future Sophia Loren.
My mother-in-law, long widowed, died in the spring of last year, and our lives had been lived far apart for the last thirty years or so, but I have often recalled this unusual claim to fame ... if I'm honest, probably far more often than, in her humility, she did. Maybe that's because my own life, lived for so many years in one place, and very much steeped in routine, boasted no such peaks of innocent achievement to celebrate.
This week has been quite a time of remembering; indeed, this whole year has been so, and I find - perhaps like many - that 'remembering', or rather the calling to mind of events that happened too long ago to be remembered in the literal sense, has become somewhat mind-numbing. I'm suffering from 'WWI overload'. I recognise its importance in our history; nevertheless, the fact that there are four more years of 'remembering it' to go through, none of which will match the horror of the original, is rather daunting. So it seems refreshing to have something lighter, while equally 'too long ago to be literally remembered' to think about.
On, then, to West Molesey, where I found myself on an industrial estate, but sent to a dead end, with the roof of the place I wanted peeking cheekily from the adjacent road over those immediately before me. On the way home, I was diverted from the M25 for another job, collecting from Uxbridge for a specialist aviation repair firm near Southend. My collection was from a well-known logistics firm where I recalled being held up for some while waiting for goods on a previous occasion. There was no change from this yesterday but, before I could enjoy this experience, I had to overrule the instruction to take the previous turning! As I keyed in my final journey, for the delivery in Rayleigh, I had the feeling. 'this one isn't going to be right, either!' The delivery note told me 'Claydons Lane', but when presented with the postcode I'd been given, SatNav had come up with 'Rat Lane' which, although adjacent, required me to drive around the block a second time, and then make a verbal enquiry, before I could see my target.
So much for routine. There is nothing routine about a famous star of the silver screen reaching the age of 80. Twice this week, on Tuesday and Thursday, I was sent to my East Anglian homeland. On Tuesday to Hadleigh and Ipswich, and on Thursday closer to 'home', to the village of Hoxne, where I was to collect a guitar autographed by a famous singer-songwriter. As I drove along the A14 on Thursday morning I was thrilled to find myself listening to the first item on Woman's Hour, as Jenni Murray interviewed Sophia Loren about her 'fairy tale life'. You can hear the interview on the BBC website here.
Why did this so delight me, you may ask, and especially why so as I travelled towards the area where I grew up? Many possible explanations come to mind, ranging from 'coat-tail clinging' through 'name-dropping' to 'stealing glory that belongs elsewhere'. I prefer to think of it as simply pride to be associated, however tenuously, with such a romantic story. My link is this. Apart from the fact that she was an immigrant to our rural community, my mother-in-law had two other claims to fame. One was that her birthplace was mentioned in the Bible (Acts 28:13), albeit in a variant form of the name; the other was that, while she was growing up in Pozzuoli, and serving as a Sunday School teacher, in her class had been the future Sophia Loren.
My mother-in-law, long widowed, died in the spring of last year, and our lives had been lived far apart for the last thirty years or so, but I have often recalled this unusual claim to fame ... if I'm honest, probably far more often than, in her humility, she did. Maybe that's because my own life, lived for so many years in one place, and very much steeped in routine, boasted no such peaks of innocent achievement to celebrate.
This week has been quite a time of remembering; indeed, this whole year has been so, and I find - perhaps like many - that 'remembering', or rather the calling to mind of events that happened too long ago to be remembered in the literal sense, has become somewhat mind-numbing. I'm suffering from 'WWI overload'. I recognise its importance in our history; nevertheless, the fact that there are four more years of 'remembering it' to go through, none of which will match the horror of the original, is rather daunting. So it seems refreshing to have something lighter, while equally 'too long ago to be literally remembered' to think about.
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