This week's post is something of a review of that to which I'm assigning the code 'PR#1', i.e. 'Phased Retirement, week 1'. There have been a number of occasions when I have met someone at a time when I might have expected to be miles away, and have had to explain myself. Usually, the justification begins with 'I'm retired this week,' which might seem a rather strange construction for the meaning people usually assume, when they reply, 'Oh, that's nice, I hope you'll find things to occupy your time,' or similar. It's not a strange construction at all, however, when taken in the context of the meaning I seek to convey, so I embark on the essential detail. The conversation runs something like this. 'I'm back at work on Monday.' 'Oh, you're on holiday then.' 'No. I'm in phased retirement. It's a plan I've devised to prevent myself falling off a cliff.' I've already outlined this plan here and the amount of detail I then provide depends on how much time either of us has, and how close I relate to them.
So, what have I actually been doing? There are three main areas that I'm hoping to develop in this next couple of years, leading into full-blown retirement towards the end of next year. The first is a deeper exploration of our fair and pleasant land, to a greater degree than has been possible in the last thirteen years. To this end I have purchased a motorhome, and am now gradually gathering all the 'stuff' that one has to put into it to make it a viable place to live in for two weeks or more at a time, along with getting to know how all the domestic paraphernalia works. The second line is cooking for myself, in order to live somewhat more economically, and hopefully more healthily than the past unpredictable and ready-meals existence. And the third one is to explore further the family history that has occupied me on-and-off for the last thirty years, perhaps(!) leading one day to compiling it into a book for my nearest and dearest.
The week has yielded some progress on each of these fronts. There have been a number of comings and goings with the motorhome, the first of which was lodging her for a couple of days with the garage both to have a good mechanical check, and also to benefit from the experience of the proprietor who owned a much bigger motorhome for several years, and could offer not only advice but a few 'leftovers' stored above his office. He also discovered signs of damp under one of the cushions, so a trip was made to the dealer where I bought it, to have this investigated further under the warranty. This was reassuring, since the damp level was about half what he had expected to read on his damp-meter. This would seem to indicate that there had, indeed, been some water ingress in the past, but that it had been sorted. Further examination revealed the possible location, and to be safe, when the weather is better, he has suggested cleaning and re-sealing the site. To complete the week, today I have had the radio replaced. The old one offered FM and a CD player, but the vandal-proof aerial fitted to the motorhome is very susceptible to interference. The new, DAB-equipped radio by-passes the interference with its own aerial.
When it comes to cooking, I keep finding things my present kitchen is short of. Yes, I did cook in the past, but not 'properly', and during recent years, when life has been so unpredictable, I gave away many of the things that were 'cluttering up' my kitchen, so I'm now having to replace them. I've also started collecting recipe books - though time alone will tell whether I'll benefit from the collection!
A few weeks ago, my attention was drawn to two obituary notices in my former local paper, the subjects of which bore two familiar names from my ancestors. A quick check revealed a distant link to one, but the other proved more elusive. After following the name - Brickham, which is fairly uncommon but, I found, easily confused with Briskham, or Buckham - through all the censuses from 1841 to 1911, I now have a couple of sketched family trees, but establishing a link between them and my own is somewhat more difficult. It's fortunate that many Norfolk parish registers are viewable on line, but it's a long trawl, even so.
And how have I felt about being retired, albeit only temporarily at present? I've experienced a variety of emotions. I've been busy, as the previous paragraphs will confirm; I've felt thorough, and as a result, satisfied, catching myself sorting stuff out when I discover a mess, rather than simply parking the idea as something to do 'one day'. At other times I've found myself not actually bored, but rather lacking in focus, unable to get on with what I'd like to, frustrated by the weather.
Now, with the onset of a 'normal' weekend, and work gear already prepared, I'm beginning to build up a list of things that I shall be attempting to fit into PR#2 in a few weeks' time.
Saturday, 31 January 2015
Saturday, 24 January 2015
All up One End
I may have used that title before ... if so, I apologise, but that's how this week feels from where I'm sitting now. Let's dispense with the statistical evidence first. The week involved thirteen jobs, seven of which filled the last two days, with only one job in the first three days exceeding 70 miles; and by the end of that third evening, I had achieved less than two days' expected income.
It's been a strange week for where I've been, too. The one job I did on Monday, from a customer in Letchworth to one of their regular deliveries in Bedford, was exactly repeated on Tuesday, but an even stranger occurance happened later in the week. Crawley isn't a place I get sent to often; just thirty-eight times in the whole period up to Christmas 2014, i.e. in the nearly thirteen years that I've been doing this work. Already in 2015, I've been there four times. The second of these was on Wednesday morning, when I took some steelwork to a building site in the town centre. The next afternoon, I was asked to collect a CD from an office near my home to go to a large defence establishment there: a routine sort of job, with a simple hand-over in the security office at the gate.
Yesterday afternoon, I was sent to a different customer in Bedford, who had something to be taken to the very same location - three visits in three days, compared to an average of about three in a year normally. On the way back I refuelled at the same filling station, and was served by the same cashier ... to whom I was just another face, of course, so he didn't recognise me second time around.
As regards visiting the same destination for different customers ... it does happen occasionally. There was one a few months ago, although I don't recall the details, simply having the thought that it was a delivery point that I'd been to for someone else fairly recently. I think the strangest incidence like that was several years ago, when I collected something in Hitchin for Canary Wharf (London E16). Just as I got there, I had a phone call saying that another customer in the same road also had something for Canary Wharf. When I made the second collection, not only was it for the same road, but for the same man at the same building!
The 'all up one end' feeling was also true in respect of the location of the week's deliveries, Only one job took me north rather than south from my home area, when I went to Redditch on Thursday. My resentment of an 'overdose of M25' was exacerbated by the fact that my Friday visit to Crawley came hot on the heels of an early start that morning. I had been asked on my way home on Thursday to divert to Houghton Regis, to collect some display material for a location in Carshalton. This was to be delivered by 7.30 am next day, and I was determined that it wouldn't overshadow the day by getting me caught in the rush-hour traffic in either direction. Consequently, I limited my Thursday evening activities to the bare essentials, had an early night, and set off just before 5.0 am. I had expected an hour or so to 'chill out' (in more ways than one!) upon my arrival but, to my amazement, there was already someone there, so by 6.40 I was on my return journey, and looking for breakfast on the way!
Life for me now takes on a slightly different, and hopefully more relaxed, aspect; this weekend sees the start of my much-heralded plan of tapered retirement. I fully expect that it will feel just like any other week of holiday from work, but it will carry with it many thoughts of how these non-working weeks will begin to form a pattern in the coming months, and I shall endeavour to sow some seeds of a new routine to life. Time alone will reveal how successful this plan will prove.
It's been a strange week for where I've been, too. The one job I did on Monday, from a customer in Letchworth to one of their regular deliveries in Bedford, was exactly repeated on Tuesday, but an even stranger occurance happened later in the week. Crawley isn't a place I get sent to often; just thirty-eight times in the whole period up to Christmas 2014, i.e. in the nearly thirteen years that I've been doing this work. Already in 2015, I've been there four times. The second of these was on Wednesday morning, when I took some steelwork to a building site in the town centre. The next afternoon, I was asked to collect a CD from an office near my home to go to a large defence establishment there: a routine sort of job, with a simple hand-over in the security office at the gate.
Yesterday afternoon, I was sent to a different customer in Bedford, who had something to be taken to the very same location - three visits in three days, compared to an average of about three in a year normally. On the way back I refuelled at the same filling station, and was served by the same cashier ... to whom I was just another face, of course, so he didn't recognise me second time around.
As regards visiting the same destination for different customers ... it does happen occasionally. There was one a few months ago, although I don't recall the details, simply having the thought that it was a delivery point that I'd been to for someone else fairly recently. I think the strangest incidence like that was several years ago, when I collected something in Hitchin for Canary Wharf (London E16). Just as I got there, I had a phone call saying that another customer in the same road also had something for Canary Wharf. When I made the second collection, not only was it for the same road, but for the same man at the same building!
The 'all up one end' feeling was also true in respect of the location of the week's deliveries, Only one job took me north rather than south from my home area, when I went to Redditch on Thursday. My resentment of an 'overdose of M25' was exacerbated by the fact that my Friday visit to Crawley came hot on the heels of an early start that morning. I had been asked on my way home on Thursday to divert to Houghton Regis, to collect some display material for a location in Carshalton. This was to be delivered by 7.30 am next day, and I was determined that it wouldn't overshadow the day by getting me caught in the rush-hour traffic in either direction. Consequently, I limited my Thursday evening activities to the bare essentials, had an early night, and set off just before 5.0 am. I had expected an hour or so to 'chill out' (in more ways than one!) upon my arrival but, to my amazement, there was already someone there, so by 6.40 I was on my return journey, and looking for breakfast on the way!
Life for me now takes on a slightly different, and hopefully more relaxed, aspect; this weekend sees the start of my much-heralded plan of tapered retirement. I fully expect that it will feel just like any other week of holiday from work, but it will carry with it many thoughts of how these non-working weeks will begin to form a pattern in the coming months, and I shall endeavour to sow some seeds of a new routine to life. Time alone will reveal how successful this plan will prove.
Saturday, 17 January 2015
Looking Back
After commenting - some readers might suggest I was complaining, but I did say that slackness was typical of early January - that there wasn't much work last week, this week has brought much more in terms of both variety and overall activity.
I have often said over the last twelve years that I could never go back to an office job. The excitement of not knowing until the last minute what I'm going to do next, and yet being confident in my basic ability to deal with whatever it might be, was the very thing that evoked my delight in the first place, and has maintained it ever since. This wouldn't suit everyone ... and doesn't! Some try it for a week or two and are not seen again; others hear of certain regular jobs and negotiate to be allocated to them, or else have already made it plain that this would suit them better, should such an opportunity arise.
For example, one of my colleagues a few years ago, whose family circumstances it suited, liked to start work every morning from about 6.0 knowing that he would be home most days from about 3.30, or at least by then he'd know for certain what time he would return. From time to time, customers ask for someone to perform a specific run early each morning, and Peter was often assigned to these tasks. Once he went on a fortnight's holiday and I was asked to stand in for him. The particular job he was doing at the time involved collecting boxes from an office in Welwyn Garden City at 6.30 am, taking them to a similar office in Wokingham, and bringing back the empties from previous days. The task was simple and straightforward, but by the end of the first week, I was yearning for his return, even though I was back home by mid-morning and that the rest of the day brought the variety I craved.
Another such regular job, which has been performed daily since long before I joined the team, consists of providing an internal mail service between the many sites operated by our local college. There were always a small number of drivers who knew this run, and I was invited to become one of them soon after I arrived on the scene, although I was clearly a 'reserve', since records indicate that I performed it only 34 times in just over two years. I hadn't been asked to do it for almost ten years ... until this week, when one of the current 'regulars' was in France, another was already committed, and the third had pressing family business that required his absence from work for a day. Who, then, could the controller turn to but ...? I was asked to undergo a verbal update via a phone call to the one who would be away, and learned of a couple of new twists to the routine, but in some ways it was just like turning the clock back.
Talking of clocks in reverse gear, three other things have happened this week that fall into that category. First was the appearance on facebook of the school photo from 1969. This was the year after I'd left the establishment, but naturally most of the faces were familiar, and it was interesting - and not a little embarrassing - to discover that some of those names that I ascribed to unlabelled faces, I then found had been correctly applied to a different face on another page!
Then the local paper published a picture from five years earlier of the pupils at one of the primary schools in the town. Although this wasn't the school I had attended, I did recognise some of the faces as belonging to children from my own street, or who had appeared later at the high school when I was there.
Full credit for the final ocurrence of 'historic' significance should go to my 'number one cousin', who spotted the remarkable coincidence of two sur-names from our family history appearing in the same obituary column. I have identified one of them as being the widow of our fourth cousin, and in so doing I discovered a number of details in my records that still require verification, along with more recent relatives from the newspaper announce-ment who can now be added to the family tree. As to the other lady, further investigation is required to link her family - whom I have now traced back to the late 19th century - to that of our great-great-grandfather.
I have often said over the last twelve years that I could never go back to an office job. The excitement of not knowing until the last minute what I'm going to do next, and yet being confident in my basic ability to deal with whatever it might be, was the very thing that evoked my delight in the first place, and has maintained it ever since. This wouldn't suit everyone ... and doesn't! Some try it for a week or two and are not seen again; others hear of certain regular jobs and negotiate to be allocated to them, or else have already made it plain that this would suit them better, should such an opportunity arise.
For example, one of my colleagues a few years ago, whose family circumstances it suited, liked to start work every morning from about 6.0 knowing that he would be home most days from about 3.30, or at least by then he'd know for certain what time he would return. From time to time, customers ask for someone to perform a specific run early each morning, and Peter was often assigned to these tasks. Once he went on a fortnight's holiday and I was asked to stand in for him. The particular job he was doing at the time involved collecting boxes from an office in Welwyn Garden City at 6.30 am, taking them to a similar office in Wokingham, and bringing back the empties from previous days. The task was simple and straightforward, but by the end of the first week, I was yearning for his return, even though I was back home by mid-morning and that the rest of the day brought the variety I craved.
Another such regular job, which has been performed daily since long before I joined the team, consists of providing an internal mail service between the many sites operated by our local college. There were always a small number of drivers who knew this run, and I was invited to become one of them soon after I arrived on the scene, although I was clearly a 'reserve', since records indicate that I performed it only 34 times in just over two years. I hadn't been asked to do it for almost ten years ... until this week, when one of the current 'regulars' was in France, another was already committed, and the third had pressing family business that required his absence from work for a day. Who, then, could the controller turn to but ...? I was asked to undergo a verbal update via a phone call to the one who would be away, and learned of a couple of new twists to the routine, but in some ways it was just like turning the clock back.
Talking of clocks in reverse gear, three other things have happened this week that fall into that category. First was the appearance on facebook of the school photo from 1969. This was the year after I'd left the establishment, but naturally most of the faces were familiar, and it was interesting - and not a little embarrassing - to discover that some of those names that I ascribed to unlabelled faces, I then found had been correctly applied to a different face on another page!
Then the local paper published a picture from five years earlier of the pupils at one of the primary schools in the town. Although this wasn't the school I had attended, I did recognise some of the faces as belonging to children from my own street, or who had appeared later at the high school when I was there.
Full credit for the final ocurrence of 'historic' significance should go to my 'number one cousin', who spotted the remarkable coincidence of two sur-names from our family history appearing in the same obituary column. I have identified one of them as being the widow of our fourth cousin, and in so doing I discovered a number of details in my records that still require verification, along with more recent relatives from the newspaper announce-ment who can now be added to the family tree. As to the other lady, further investigation is required to link her family - whom I have now traced back to the late 19th century - to that of our great-great-grandfather.
Saturday, 10 January 2015
New Year ... Same old Life!
I find this every year. As the summer fades into autumn, I realise that instead of - in this case - 2014 feeling new while 2013 is still familiar, my outlook has gradually transformed so that 2014 is the familiar one, and this new prospect, 2015, is being felt just over the horizon. So, as the 'old year' has drawn to its close, the image of the new one has become stronger until at last, with a great cheer, the sound of the pipers, and copious amounts of alcohol - not forgetting a lump of coal, if you can find one - it's HERE!
Now it has become reality and, having spent my first week back on the road, I can say that it feels little different from the old one; I expect it's the same for most working people. For a start, I'd forgotten just how slack the first proper week of the new year is for the courier industry. After the first few years I'd been doing the work, it was expected, and the big question would be 'how long before it picks up?' Somehow, in 2015, this phenomenon had slipped my mind. It wasn't until I looked back from Wednesday morning that I realised that this week is just like other years, and by the end of it, I find I've earned less than four days' income in five days. How long, I wonder, will it last in this year of gradual recovery?
Other things, too, haven't changed. There was a good slice of hospital confusion to mirror the same from before Christmas. I was asked to take something from Lister in Stevenage to Addenbrooke's in Cambridge; this combination comes up quite often and, although not having the precise detail, I went out of habit to the ward where I usually collect specimens for the laboratory in Cambridge. After quite a wait, I learned that they had nothing for me. Whilst waiting, I reflected how - unlike my work - the 'feel' of this workplace has changed ... in complete accord with the current news bulletins. No longer are there two or three nurses (I use the term in my ignorance to include various other grades on the ward) at the ward desk, beavering away, and exchanging the odd word of conversation. One person only was present, and she busily engaged on the phone. Others pass quickly to and fro, far too intent on what they're doing to divert their attention to resolve my presence.
I sought clarification of my mission from the office, was eventually called back by another depot, who had taken the job in the first place, with the bald comment, "have you tried pathology?" I hadn't, of course, so did so, only to find two other drivers there, each apparently quite clear what they were doing, and the laboratory staff scratching around (or so it seemed to me) to find something that I might be expected to take. It was most unsatisfactory, and unsatisfying.
Another thing that has been by no means uncommon in the past, was an evening collection that could be transformed into an overnight job. It was 8.0 pm when I was called by the night controller and offered a job to Trowbridge. It could be collected in nearby Royston at 10.0 pm, and had to be at its destination by 7.30 the next morning. In the intervening hour or so, I calculated that, by the time I were to get back home it would be 10.30, and I should have to set the alarm for 4.30 if I were to avoid the early morning traffic and be sure of meeting the deadline. I could remember going to Trowbridge for this customer before; I googled the likely consignee, hoping that I would recognise a name from the results of my search of the industry and the town's name. I was in luck, and it took only a phone call to establish that they did run a 24-hour operation, and that the night shift personnel would be able to receive the goods. So, once loaded, I made my way straight there, delivered, and was home and in bed by 5.0 am. Though short, my sleep was uninterrupted by fears of missing the alarm, and any anxiety about the job to be done, and I surprised myself by the length of time later in the day that I was able to keep driving without getting drowsy.
Just to make me feel at home in the new year, it seemed, there was an evening when I delivered a vanload of drinks to a public house, albeit on Thursday instead of Friday. And to round things off there was a job that was too big for the van. In this case, that wasn't strictly true, but the pallet that had been used only had loading holes down the long sides, which meant that the length of the pallet would have to fit across the width of the van ... which it didn't. Apparently this particular establishment only have pallets of this design, but I usually only collect from them in individual units, so the problem hadn't arisen before. At least I hadn't remembered the one previous occasion, until the fork truck driver asked me to watch out that he didn't touch the door steadies of the van with the pallet as he offered it up to see if there were room for it between the wheel-arches. It was then that I recalled that earlier experience, my resulting anger and the furious attempts I'd made to straighten the bent article sufficiently for the door of the van to close!
But it hasn't been a week without some good points. I've been able to make good use of the gaps between jobs, even down to the minute, measuring all sorts of aspects of the interior of my newly-acquired motorhome, and making appropriate plans for an extended shopping expedition today to get some of the necessary items to equip it for more adventurous use than seeing it parked outside my window!
Now it has become reality and, having spent my first week back on the road, I can say that it feels little different from the old one; I expect it's the same for most working people. For a start, I'd forgotten just how slack the first proper week of the new year is for the courier industry. After the first few years I'd been doing the work, it was expected, and the big question would be 'how long before it picks up?' Somehow, in 2015, this phenomenon had slipped my mind. It wasn't until I looked back from Wednesday morning that I realised that this week is just like other years, and by the end of it, I find I've earned less than four days' income in five days. How long, I wonder, will it last in this year of gradual recovery?
Other things, too, haven't changed. There was a good slice of hospital confusion to mirror the same from before Christmas. I was asked to take something from Lister in Stevenage to Addenbrooke's in Cambridge; this combination comes up quite often and, although not having the precise detail, I went out of habit to the ward where I usually collect specimens for the laboratory in Cambridge. After quite a wait, I learned that they had nothing for me. Whilst waiting, I reflected how - unlike my work - the 'feel' of this workplace has changed ... in complete accord with the current news bulletins. No longer are there two or three nurses (I use the term in my ignorance to include various other grades on the ward) at the ward desk, beavering away, and exchanging the odd word of conversation. One person only was present, and she busily engaged on the phone. Others pass quickly to and fro, far too intent on what they're doing to divert their attention to resolve my presence.
I sought clarification of my mission from the office, was eventually called back by another depot, who had taken the job in the first place, with the bald comment, "have you tried pathology?" I hadn't, of course, so did so, only to find two other drivers there, each apparently quite clear what they were doing, and the laboratory staff scratching around (or so it seemed to me) to find something that I might be expected to take. It was most unsatisfactory, and unsatisfying.
Another thing that has been by no means uncommon in the past, was an evening collection that could be transformed into an overnight job. It was 8.0 pm when I was called by the night controller and offered a job to Trowbridge. It could be collected in nearby Royston at 10.0 pm, and had to be at its destination by 7.30 the next morning. In the intervening hour or so, I calculated that, by the time I were to get back home it would be 10.30, and I should have to set the alarm for 4.30 if I were to avoid the early morning traffic and be sure of meeting the deadline. I could remember going to Trowbridge for this customer before; I googled the likely consignee, hoping that I would recognise a name from the results of my search of the industry and the town's name. I was in luck, and it took only a phone call to establish that they did run a 24-hour operation, and that the night shift personnel would be able to receive the goods. So, once loaded, I made my way straight there, delivered, and was home and in bed by 5.0 am. Though short, my sleep was uninterrupted by fears of missing the alarm, and any anxiety about the job to be done, and I surprised myself by the length of time later in the day that I was able to keep driving without getting drowsy.
Just to make me feel at home in the new year, it seemed, there was an evening when I delivered a vanload of drinks to a public house, albeit on Thursday instead of Friday. And to round things off there was a job that was too big for the van. In this case, that wasn't strictly true, but the pallet that had been used only had loading holes down the long sides, which meant that the length of the pallet would have to fit across the width of the van ... which it didn't. Apparently this particular establishment only have pallets of this design, but I usually only collect from them in individual units, so the problem hadn't arisen before. At least I hadn't remembered the one previous occasion, until the fork truck driver asked me to watch out that he didn't touch the door steadies of the van with the pallet as he offered it up to see if there were room for it between the wheel-arches. It was then that I recalled that earlier experience, my resulting anger and the furious attempts I'd made to straighten the bent article sufficiently for the door of the van to close!
But it hasn't been a week without some good points. I've been able to make good use of the gaps between jobs, even down to the minute, measuring all sorts of aspects of the interior of my newly-acquired motorhome, and making appropriate plans for an extended shopping expedition today to get some of the necessary items to equip it for more adventurous use than seeing it parked outside my window!
Sunday, 4 January 2015
Becalmed ... with a Cough!
I'm sure you'll forgive the fact that there are no long journeys to report this week, only a couple of medium ones to be implied from the following narrative, and lots of local running about. A few years ago, it was my habit to work during the holiday period ... or more precisely, be available for work: there was usually very little over these two weeks. Then I would go along to the Society of Genealogists for their 'closed week', as a volunteer to assist in those library tasks that could only be done in the absence of browsing members. Sadly this took a toll on the muscles of my thumbs, which are unaccustomed to lifting a number of volumes single-handed, and I decided against this strategy.
You could argue that the later policy of taking two complete weeks off at the turn of the year is simply going with the flow of much of the country's workforce. This year, I'm undecided whether the reason is this compliance with everyone else, or because I'm feeling the need of a rest, or that this is the beginning of the 'semi-retirement' plan that I've been trumpeting for some while now. However, the fact remains that I wasn't working last week, and I shall begin again tomorrow morning ... coinciding with the resumption of the early Monday breakfast group at the church.
Meanwhile, I paid an extended visit to my cousin and her family; at least part of it, with her son also present, enjoying part of his long break with his parents. It was here that I celebrated my birthday, since my cousin had expressed a wish to host a party for the occasion, and although some of the expected guests were unable to make it, the atmosphere - and the cake! - was excellent.
Some weeks ago, I finally took the decision to buy a motorhome in which I can 'amuse myself' in my retirement. On the basis of a number of incidences through my life, I was fighting against the temptation to snap up the first one I looked at. However, three weeks after looking at this particular vehicle, and allowing its attraction to crystalise in my mind just what it was I was seeking, I happened to pass by in the course of my work, and notice it standing there, still unsold. One of the other dealers I'd visited had said that the weeks before Christmas were the ideal time to buy, before they stocked up with newer models for the new season, and I began to wonder whether some external Force might be working for me, and if this very one was the motorhome for me after all.
To cut a long story short, a number of factors came together that weekend, and on the Sunday afternoon I put down a deposit on it, on the condition that the dealer was content to await my receipt of a lump-sum from my pension before I would be able to complete the purchase. He was, and so the deal was agreed.
While I was making my Birthday-cum-New-Year visit, I learned that my bank had received the cash, and so my return home was the start of two hectic days, arranging membership of a caravanning organisation, negotiating insurance cover, extending my existing breakdown recovery provision, sorting out the vehicle tax, and the ultimate acquisition of the vehicle, which finally took place yesterday morning.
Now I'm on a steep learning curve, getting to grips with all the features of a motorhome, which far exceed any boasted by the three smaller campers that I've owned before. Alongside this, the vehicle is quite a bit bigger than my regular van, and in some aspects, I shall need to 're-train' in order to drive it safely on the roads, not least in respect of knowing which gaps will now be too small for me to pass, and where I must now be prepared to give way to other drivers!
Sleepless nights of anticipation have now given way to sleepless nights of list making, as I become aware of all the 'extras' that I now need to get to equip the motorhome, from kitchen utensils to mats and brushes, and supplies like gas to heat the water and the living area, and the chemicals for the toilet.
This morning dawned cold ... in fact there was ice to scrape off the van before I could go for my usual bell-ringing exercise. The journey was hampered by freezing fog, which didn't lift until lunchtime, and common sense told me that my afternoon shopping trip would have to be postponed until a day of better weather. In the meantime, the motorhome sits idly peering out of its rear window over the wall that surrounds my car park, fully dressed up in the legality of its new ownership, but with nowhere to go!
If I'm honest, it has worked out just right, because I've managed to catch a cold, and the experience - however unwelcome - of sitting indoors in the warm is much better for me than scrabbling about outside in a vehicle that has no heating until I can buy some gas. Sometimes patience can be learned; at other times pressure has to be applied!
You could argue that the later policy of taking two complete weeks off at the turn of the year is simply going with the flow of much of the country's workforce. This year, I'm undecided whether the reason is this compliance with everyone else, or because I'm feeling the need of a rest, or that this is the beginning of the 'semi-retirement' plan that I've been trumpeting for some while now. However, the fact remains that I wasn't working last week, and I shall begin again tomorrow morning ... coinciding with the resumption of the early Monday breakfast group at the church.
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| Cutting the birthday cake |
Some weeks ago, I finally took the decision to buy a motorhome in which I can 'amuse myself' in my retirement. On the basis of a number of incidences through my life, I was fighting against the temptation to snap up the first one I looked at. However, three weeks after looking at this particular vehicle, and allowing its attraction to crystalise in my mind just what it was I was seeking, I happened to pass by in the course of my work, and notice it standing there, still unsold. One of the other dealers I'd visited had said that the weeks before Christmas were the ideal time to buy, before they stocked up with newer models for the new season, and I began to wonder whether some external Force might be working for me, and if this very one was the motorhome for me after all.
To cut a long story short, a number of factors came together that weekend, and on the Sunday afternoon I put down a deposit on it, on the condition that the dealer was content to await my receipt of a lump-sum from my pension before I would be able to complete the purchase. He was, and so the deal was agreed.
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| Going nowhere! |
Now I'm on a steep learning curve, getting to grips with all the features of a motorhome, which far exceed any boasted by the three smaller campers that I've owned before. Alongside this, the vehicle is quite a bit bigger than my regular van, and in some aspects, I shall need to 're-train' in order to drive it safely on the roads, not least in respect of knowing which gaps will now be too small for me to pass, and where I must now be prepared to give way to other drivers!
Sleepless nights of anticipation have now given way to sleepless nights of list making, as I become aware of all the 'extras' that I now need to get to equip the motorhome, from kitchen utensils to mats and brushes, and supplies like gas to heat the water and the living area, and the chemicals for the toilet.
This morning dawned cold ... in fact there was ice to scrape off the van before I could go for my usual bell-ringing exercise. The journey was hampered by freezing fog, which didn't lift until lunchtime, and common sense told me that my afternoon shopping trip would have to be postponed until a day of better weather. In the meantime, the motorhome sits idly peering out of its rear window over the wall that surrounds my car park, fully dressed up in the legality of its new ownership, but with nowhere to go!
If I'm honest, it has worked out just right, because I've managed to catch a cold, and the experience - however unwelcome - of sitting indoors in the warm is much better for me than scrabbling about outside in a vehicle that has no heating until I can buy some gas. Sometimes patience can be learned; at other times pressure has to be applied!
Friday, 26 December 2014
Christmas Cheer!
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!
"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, 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!
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