One of the downsides of the regime under which I'm now working is 'blindness'. I have no idea of the overall picture into which my little scene fits. All I know is how it affects me, now. It's very easy, when things are going well, to assume that everything is rosy, and not just my neck of the woods; conversely, when things are not so good, it's easy to take it for granted that I'm being picked on, or treated unfairly. This week has definitely felt in the latter class. Out of 18 jobs, only four have taken me further than 50 miles away, with the average job being only 35 miles.
What I can say is that the two longest jobs of the week have given me time for reflection, and have enabled me to add a sort of perspective to life. The first of these came on Wednesday, when I had a job from Royston to Milton Park, south of Abingdon. It was a sunny day, and there seemed to be nothing of interest on the radio, so my mind was 'in idle', and largely governed by the countryside through which I was driving. Not surprisingly, while I was in Royston there were passing thoughts of the time I was working there, for a large part of which I was living there, too. Perhaps the sunshine determined that I should recall that, amidst the dark background trauma of a failed marriage, there were shafts of light and glimpses of normality.
I decided to avoid the motorway and go 'cross-country', a journey that led my thoughts somewhat back in time, too. Abingdon itself - not that I actually passed through the town this week - always reminds me that it was there that I bought my father a painting for his eightieth birthday. It was an uncharacteristic present, for a man who had never shown any interest in art, but it was of a country cottage, with a clearly poor woman at the gate, and I thought it would remind him of his younger days. I never got to find out how successful had this aim been, for he died two days later, and my grieving mother asked me to take the picture back. I still have it in a drawer at home.
On this occasion, I recalled the circumstances that had taken me to Abingdon, for it was long before I took up driving for a living. My then girlfriend's mother lived in Spain, and her daughter had gone to spend some of her school holidays with her grandmother. In mid-August, I took my lady to Victoria for a coach departure to spend a couple of weeks in Spain herself, and then return with her daughter in time for the new school term. I had taken a day off work for this purpose and, instead of returning directly home, I drove up to Oxfordshire and stayed in a rather unusual B&B in the village of Stadhampton. What made it unusual was the fact that this two-bedroomed bungalow was not alongside the road, but situated behind two others, down a short roadway just wide enough for a car. Furthermore, in order to make their own bedroom available for guests, as well as the spare room, the owners - a couple in their early sixties - were sleeping in the loft! Finding the shop in Abingdon was the highlight of my onward journey back to Norfolk.
As I neared Milton Park, it wasn't surprising to pass within sight of the power station chimneys that mark out Didcot for miles around, and my thoughts moved on to a later relationship, with a resident of that town. This was a liaison that lasted only a few months and, given the geographic constraints within which it tried to flourish, it was destined from the outset to be short-lived. It was with a lady whom I met on a bank holiday bell-ringing gathering in Bedfordshire. Like me, she had travelled there alone, in response to the magazine announcement of an 'open day', and after sharing each other's company in a number of towers, we exchanged addresses, and visited each other on a number of subsequent weekends. She had two elder daughters who had 'flown the nest', and her life was complicated at that time by their younger sibling, still at home and passing through a turbulent teenage: I remember on one Saturday evening accompanying this lady to the town centre at a somewhat late hour in response to a call from the local constabulary!
Yesterday morning's journey was to a lady in one of the many small communities that occupy that area bounded by Southampton, Portsmouth, the coast between them, and the M27. I was to be there for a 9.0 collection, and at 8.57 I reversed carefully into her narrow drive, only to be compelled to advance a few feet in order that her garage door could be opened without damaging the van. The journey there had quickly exhausted any interest that the early news bulletins might have offered, and I began to reflect on the week's events.
The news earlier in the week had spoken of Prince Charles' visit to Ireland, and his momentous, if brief, chat with Gerry Adams. There was much talk of the significance of this in the context of the peace process, and the ongoing reconciliation of the two communities. In a strange way, this theme of reconciliation formed a backdrop to the week for me, and to my thoughts yesterday morning. On Monday evening our bell-ringing practice was graced by a visit from Chris, an 'occasional' ringer, whose wife died earlier this year. This man, a retired professional, is clearly devastated by his loss. "There's so much to cope with;" he said, "take the cooking ... I've no idea what is in all the drawers and cupboards. I shall have to empty them one at a time and see what to do with it all. I can't decide what to eat; and there's the shopping, too ... and I need to look after the garden ... and I find myself talking to her ... she's still there, in the house with me!"
Chris is having difficulty reconciling himself to a life alone. After living alone for the majority of the last thirty years, my problem is somewhat the reverse. One of the benefits of the life I'm living, driving around such a variety of places, is the opportunity to 'lay ghosts of the past' to rest, and enjoying some of the memories that each place has to offer. I realised the other week that I've been living in the world's first Garden City for sufficient years now that I 'have history here'. I'm beginning to recall changes that have taken place in the time I've been here. Just as I recall changes in my birthplace, 'I remember so-and-so being built, but not what was there before', so too, I'm now thinking of things that appeared here in the years soon after I came, but not what they replaced.
The great thing about all this looking back at the past, is that it's reconciling me to my past - perhaps to life itself - certainly to some of the disappointments and heartaches of earlier times. And it makes me a bit more able to sympathise with people like Chris, for whom at the moment the future looks cold and empty.
Saturday, 23 May 2015
Saturday, 16 May 2015
Family Matters
It seemed like the end of an era. I learned last week that my late cousin's widower had died. This week's post brought a neat, handwritten card from their daughter, advising me of this fact, and also relating the death last month of another cousin, whom I hadn't seen for years, but who was still on my Christmas card list ... something that seems to govern regular, albeit rare and inexpressive communication between distant friends and family members. As I've got older, this topic has ceased to be a morbid one, and if you find it so, dear reader, then I can only apologise.
Even in this clinical and post-modern age, death is inescapable ... and especially so in big families. My father was the eighth of nine to survive infancy from a family of twelve. Two of his siblings didn't marry, two more didn't have children, and the other four had a total of twelve children between them. I remember him making a comment - probably in the mid-1970s - that there seemed to have been family funerals every year for ages. This wasn't actually the case; in fact there were five deaths of either siblings or in-laws in the '60s, and four in the '70s, but with two in three months at the end of 1976, it must have felt that way to him, and as he got older, he must have been wondering when his turn would come. He lived another ten years. The death of his youngest sister in 2002 ended that generation.
As the son of a youngest son, my birth was followed in almost annual succession by the first three daughters of the next generation, as the grandchildren of my father's eldest siblings began to arrive. It was one of these three who had written to me this week. I believe it was her mother, just over two years ago, who was the first death of the next, i.e my, generation. I can't be certain about that, because there are - or were - a number of cousins with whom I have had no contact for decades.
The man who has just died, although not a blood relative, played a significant part in my early life, as I indicated in an earlier post of this blog. He and his colleague Geoffrey not only ran the shop where I spent much of my spare time in my mid-teens, but were also good friends outside of work, being two of the leading lights in the town's Cage-Bird Society, and their Autumn Show was an annual highlight for a bored schoolboy, albeit one who had no interest in birds.
One thing that does intrigue me I only discovered in the last few years. I wonder whether Cyril had any idea that there was possibly a distant and contorted link between his colleague and his wife's family. It appears that Geoffrey's aunt's second marriage was to the great-nephew by marriage of Cyril's wife's great-aunt.
What a small world we live in!
Even in this clinical and post-modern age, death is inescapable ... and especially so in big families. My father was the eighth of nine to survive infancy from a family of twelve. Two of his siblings didn't marry, two more didn't have children, and the other four had a total of twelve children between them. I remember him making a comment - probably in the mid-1970s - that there seemed to have been family funerals every year for ages. This wasn't actually the case; in fact there were five deaths of either siblings or in-laws in the '60s, and four in the '70s, but with two in three months at the end of 1976, it must have felt that way to him, and as he got older, he must have been wondering when his turn would come. He lived another ten years. The death of his youngest sister in 2002 ended that generation.
As the son of a youngest son, my birth was followed in almost annual succession by the first three daughters of the next generation, as the grandchildren of my father's eldest siblings began to arrive. It was one of these three who had written to me this week. I believe it was her mother, just over two years ago, who was the first death of the next, i.e my, generation. I can't be certain about that, because there are - or were - a number of cousins with whom I have had no contact for decades.
The man who has just died, although not a blood relative, played a significant part in my early life, as I indicated in an earlier post of this blog. He and his colleague Geoffrey not only ran the shop where I spent much of my spare time in my mid-teens, but were also good friends outside of work, being two of the leading lights in the town's Cage-Bird Society, and their Autumn Show was an annual highlight for a bored schoolboy, albeit one who had no interest in birds.
One thing that does intrigue me I only discovered in the last few years. I wonder whether Cyril had any idea that there was possibly a distant and contorted link between his colleague and his wife's family. It appears that Geoffrey's aunt's second marriage was to the great-nephew by marriage of Cyril's wife's great-aunt.
What a small world we live in!
Saturday, 9 May 2015
Electric Shocks this Week
Unusually, I'm starting and ending this post with quotations.
"There are two ways of seeing the world. The first is to travel. The second is to stand still, having so organised your life that you have time 'to stand and stare'. I suspect that this latter is the more thorough way; but you need to be something of a saint, mystic or philosopher to be able to command the necessary patience and humility."
I found this in a book I was reading on Wednesday afternoon. It's from an article called 'Standing by the Gate', one of a collection by Richard Church, published under the title 'A Country Window' way back in 1958. No one would disagree, I'm sure, that life is lived at a much faster pace nearly sixty years later!
Now, I'm no saint or mystic, nor a philosopher in any accepted sense of the word, although I do sometimes find myself reflecting about life and its meaning. One thing, though, that I'm beginning to learn from this present semi-retired status, is that there can be times when it is quite permissible to do almost nothing: in Mr Church's words, 'to stand and stare'. In this case, the occasion was prompted, albeit accidentally, by nothing more significant than a couple of screws. I will explain.
A few weeks ago, I had just plugged in the electric hook-up to my motor-home, ready to do a little job that needed power inside the vehicle. Before leaving it for a while, I decided to tidy the lead neatly underneath, rather than leave it untidily across the lawn. As I did so, my arm happened to nudge part of the trim beside the rear wheel-arch, revealing that this was loose. Closer inspection showed that, at some time in the past, it had been knocked, and what should have been a firm joint was in fact quite loose. It was nothing really serious, but I felt it ought to be attended to and, since the motorhome is still within its warranty, I made the journey back to its supplier for the purpose. However satisfying, however much it might boost my confidence, a 40-mile round trip seemed a bit over-the-top just to have two small screws expertly fitted. I decided, therefore to make a day of it, and visit nearby Grafham Water as well.
The day wasn't ideal. There was rain from time to time between the sunny intervals, and the wind ... well, that's best not spoken of! I have to admit that the power of the waves on what is, after all, just a small inland lake, was certainly humbling. Apart from a brief stroll by the waterside, I contented myself with typing and reading and eating my picnic snugly inside the saloon. It was interesting just to watch the birds trying to make headway against the air currents, or finding scraps to eat on the side of the dam in the face of quite a strong tidal wash. It wasn't until I got home again, and prepared to go out in the evening, that I realised just how relaxed and satisfied I was feeling ... in an ideal frame of mind, in fact, to take part in a Bible study group.
Then came election day. I was so taken by the sunshine to which I awoke, that I decided to walk round to the polling station before breakfast. It took no more than twenty minutes, but it set me up for a day poring over figures at the desk, setting up my accounts for the new financial year, and wondering - but no more, at this stage - about my tax return.
Yesterday, by contrast, seemed a non-day. Like many, I suspect, I was overcome by curiosity when I awoke during the night, and couldn't resist switching on the computer to learn of some of the early results. I returned to bed around 4.15 am, thinking no more than 'oh, the nationalists are doing well', only to return to wakefulness a few hours later to discover the full extent to which post-election shock-waves had hit. I confess to - as I described it to one of my fellow bell-ringers in the evening - 'wasting the day' working on a spreadsheet to explore the possibilities of re-arranging the results of the constituencies nearest me in some form of Proportional Representation.
Yes, bell-ringing on a Friday! Being 8th May, we were ringing to celebrate the seventieth anniversary of the end of the european war, and Mr. Churchill's radio broadcast at 3.0 pm that day, during which he announced that, 'Hostilities will end officially at one minute after midnight tonight, but in the interests of saving lives the "Cease fire" began yesterday to be sounded all along the front, and our dear Channel Islands are also to be freed today.'
"There are two ways of seeing the world. The first is to travel. The second is to stand still, having so organised your life that you have time 'to stand and stare'. I suspect that this latter is the more thorough way; but you need to be something of a saint, mystic or philosopher to be able to command the necessary patience and humility."
I found this in a book I was reading on Wednesday afternoon. It's from an article called 'Standing by the Gate', one of a collection by Richard Church, published under the title 'A Country Window' way back in 1958. No one would disagree, I'm sure, that life is lived at a much faster pace nearly sixty years later!
Now, I'm no saint or mystic, nor a philosopher in any accepted sense of the word, although I do sometimes find myself reflecting about life and its meaning. One thing, though, that I'm beginning to learn from this present semi-retired status, is that there can be times when it is quite permissible to do almost nothing: in Mr Church's words, 'to stand and stare'. In this case, the occasion was prompted, albeit accidentally, by nothing more significant than a couple of screws. I will explain.
A few weeks ago, I had just plugged in the electric hook-up to my motor-home, ready to do a little job that needed power inside the vehicle. Before leaving it for a while, I decided to tidy the lead neatly underneath, rather than leave it untidily across the lawn. As I did so, my arm happened to nudge part of the trim beside the rear wheel-arch, revealing that this was loose. Closer inspection showed that, at some time in the past, it had been knocked, and what should have been a firm joint was in fact quite loose. It was nothing really serious, but I felt it ought to be attended to and, since the motorhome is still within its warranty, I made the journey back to its supplier for the purpose. However satisfying, however much it might boost my confidence, a 40-mile round trip seemed a bit over-the-top just to have two small screws expertly fitted. I decided, therefore to make a day of it, and visit nearby Grafham Water as well.
 |
| A gull stands bravely before the threatening waves |
The day wasn't ideal. There was rain from time to time between the sunny intervals, and the wind ... well, that's best not spoken of! I have to admit that the power of the waves on what is, after all, just a small inland lake, was certainly humbling. Apart from a brief stroll by the waterside, I contented myself with typing and reading and eating my picnic snugly inside the saloon. It was interesting just to watch the birds trying to make headway against the air currents, or finding scraps to eat on the side of the dam in the face of quite a strong tidal wash. It wasn't until I got home again, and prepared to go out in the evening, that I realised just how relaxed and satisfied I was feeling ... in an ideal frame of mind, in fact, to take part in a Bible study group.
Then came election day. I was so taken by the sunshine to which I awoke, that I decided to walk round to the polling station before breakfast. It took no more than twenty minutes, but it set me up for a day poring over figures at the desk, setting up my accounts for the new financial year, and wondering - but no more, at this stage - about my tax return.
Yesterday, by contrast, seemed a non-day. Like many, I suspect, I was overcome by curiosity when I awoke during the night, and couldn't resist switching on the computer to learn of some of the early results. I returned to bed around 4.15 am, thinking no more than 'oh, the nationalists are doing well', only to return to wakefulness a few hours later to discover the full extent to which post-election shock-waves had hit. I confess to - as I described it to one of my fellow bell-ringers in the evening - 'wasting the day' working on a spreadsheet to explore the possibilities of re-arranging the results of the constituencies nearest me in some form of Proportional Representation.
Yes, bell-ringing on a Friday! Being 8th May, we were ringing to celebrate the seventieth anniversary of the end of the european war, and Mr. Churchill's radio broadcast at 3.0 pm that day, during which he announced that, 'Hostilities will end officially at one minute after midnight tonight, but in the interests of saving lives the "Cease fire" began yesterday to be sounded all along the front, and our dear Channel Islands are also to be freed today.'
Saturday, 2 May 2015
Pluses and Minuses - the Arithmetic of Life
It seems that there are pluses and minuses, ups and downs, to every part of life ... certainly that's true of being taken over by a nationwide company. Nowadays we're far more likely to get 'back-loads' (another job that will pay all or part of the cost of returning from a distant destination) than we were under the 'ancien régime'. On the other hand, whereas we used to get paid from base, wherever we collected the goods, now we only get paid from collection to delivery, wherever our base might be. Because we often get another job while still on the way back from the previous one, much less time is spent at the office, and consequently there is much less interaction with other drivers. Some people find this distressing, to the extent that they have left; since I have been working from home for some while, this doesn't bother me at all, although I do wonder whether this will be allowed to continue when we are fully and finally under the jackboot of the new methodology.
Some of these factors figured in this week's to-ings and fro-ings. Take Monday for example. I collected a single very fragile item in Letchworth at 9.0am to be taken to the university in Nottingham. It seemed fairly unlikely that I would get anything very productive after an immediate return, so I rang the office there, and gambled half an hour waiting to see if anything might come from them. Meanwhile I listened to a podcast while parked in a sunny side street and ate my lunch. I'd just given up and begun to make my way out of the city, when the call came. A pick-up not three miles away, to be taken to Cambridge ... and there was another job - albeit fairly local - afterwards as well, so the week was off to a good start.
Good start it might have been, but it went gradually downhill after that. So much so that, at the end of the week, the average length of all 23 jobs was only 27 miles! I continue to be amazed at the way my mood swings from buoyancy to despondency according to the demands upon my time. On a day when I leave with one job early in the morning and enjoy a succession of others non-stop through the day, I feel good, even if tired, at the end of it. Contrariwise, if I return from such an early job, to sit at my desk for two or three hours in anticipation of a further call, I can feel quite unwanted. Sometimes a day might consist of half a dozen jobs totalling perhaps 200 or 250 miles, but with obvious gaps between them; at the end of such a day I often feel as if I'm being used as the 'odd-job' man, although I've never decided whether this is simply the 'roll of the dice', or the result of an imagined conspiracy because of my semi-retired status. That said, it only takes one 'good' (i.e. 100-mile-or-so) job, or maybe two half-decent ones together, to snap me out of the black mood again.
This week had just such a finish, as yesterday began with the exciting challenge of taking a couple of items to a destination in Swindon, to make a 7.30 booking-in time. On this occasion, there was a cheerful welcome to my call to the local office after I'd delivered, but no resulting work, so I came back home empty. The day continued, however, with another four jobs, before I finally took my boots off at 5.50 pm, feeling quite satisfied.
I must add that there are frequently little snippets of what some would call serendipity. The week had a couple of those, too. On Tuesday evening, I opened an e-mail to find an invitation to follow a free on-line tutorial - allegedly worth £81 - and found myself absorbed for a couple of hours learning about an intricate aspect of spreadsheet analysis. Whether I'll ever need to use it is a totally separate matter!
Then, as I waited yesterday at the door of a print works in Letchworth, the afternoon breeze brought to my nose the smell of one of the chemicals being used in their processes. They say this is the most powerful of the senses; I was instantly transported through almost sixty years to the days when, over the course of a number of weeks, a gang of white-overalled men would work their way along the street where I lived, repainting all the doors and windows, first with undercoat, and then with the gloss. It was always exciting to find out what colour our front door was going to be after their visit. What I smelled yesterday was the very same as that gloss paint ... although I'm sure it wasn't paint at all that was being used!
Now I'm looking forward to the bank holiday and being 'retired' for the rest of the week. I wonder how 'useful' I'll feel on the following Monday morning!
Some of these factors figured in this week's to-ings and fro-ings. Take Monday for example. I collected a single very fragile item in Letchworth at 9.0am to be taken to the university in Nottingham. It seemed fairly unlikely that I would get anything very productive after an immediate return, so I rang the office there, and gambled half an hour waiting to see if anything might come from them. Meanwhile I listened to a podcast while parked in a sunny side street and ate my lunch. I'd just given up and begun to make my way out of the city, when the call came. A pick-up not three miles away, to be taken to Cambridge ... and there was another job - albeit fairly local - afterwards as well, so the week was off to a good start.
Good start it might have been, but it went gradually downhill after that. So much so that, at the end of the week, the average length of all 23 jobs was only 27 miles! I continue to be amazed at the way my mood swings from buoyancy to despondency according to the demands upon my time. On a day when I leave with one job early in the morning and enjoy a succession of others non-stop through the day, I feel good, even if tired, at the end of it. Contrariwise, if I return from such an early job, to sit at my desk for two or three hours in anticipation of a further call, I can feel quite unwanted. Sometimes a day might consist of half a dozen jobs totalling perhaps 200 or 250 miles, but with obvious gaps between them; at the end of such a day I often feel as if I'm being used as the 'odd-job' man, although I've never decided whether this is simply the 'roll of the dice', or the result of an imagined conspiracy because of my semi-retired status. That said, it only takes one 'good' (i.e. 100-mile-or-so) job, or maybe two half-decent ones together, to snap me out of the black mood again.
This week had just such a finish, as yesterday began with the exciting challenge of taking a couple of items to a destination in Swindon, to make a 7.30 booking-in time. On this occasion, there was a cheerful welcome to my call to the local office after I'd delivered, but no resulting work, so I came back home empty. The day continued, however, with another four jobs, before I finally took my boots off at 5.50 pm, feeling quite satisfied.
I must add that there are frequently little snippets of what some would call serendipity. The week had a couple of those, too. On Tuesday evening, I opened an e-mail to find an invitation to follow a free on-line tutorial - allegedly worth £81 - and found myself absorbed for a couple of hours learning about an intricate aspect of spreadsheet analysis. Whether I'll ever need to use it is a totally separate matter!
Then, as I waited yesterday at the door of a print works in Letchworth, the afternoon breeze brought to my nose the smell of one of the chemicals being used in their processes. They say this is the most powerful of the senses; I was instantly transported through almost sixty years to the days when, over the course of a number of weeks, a gang of white-overalled men would work their way along the street where I lived, repainting all the doors and windows, first with undercoat, and then with the gloss. It was always exciting to find out what colour our front door was going to be after their visit. What I smelled yesterday was the very same as that gloss paint ... although I'm sure it wasn't paint at all that was being used!
Now I'm looking forward to the bank holiday and being 'retired' for the rest of the week. I wonder how 'useful' I'll feel on the following Monday morning!
Saturday, 25 April 2015
Friday Night and Saturday Morning
It's been quite an exhausting week. With four early mornings, three late nights, two of them following a continuous day on the road, and one night tormented by some kind of allergy - I notice the rape is in flower - I was glad yesterday evening to settle down briefly at Beaconsfield Services. After eating my Carvery Express (the healthier alternative to KFC, only marginally more expensive, and far less messy on the fingers!), I cradled my coffee and examined the world as it bustled to and fro all around me.
There's one in every week, and I've lost count of the times I've noticed something intangibly 'special' about them. At last I've grasped the nettle of trying to set down in words that special whatever-it-is about Friday afternoons. I use that term with some elasticity, of course, because there is great variety in the times at which people leave off ... something I regularly have to take note of if I want to make a successful delivery! But whether it's lunchtime, or 3.30, 6.0 or - as in my case yesterday - 9.35, that point of stopping work at the end of the week has a special quality. It has the power to make the transition, in the words of the ubiquitous Mars Bar advert, from the world of work to the world of rest-and-play.
I grew up in a world where, to my young eye, there seemed to be little distinction between these three phases of life for the working man. After 'proper work' was over more jobs could easily be found at home. The garden would need attention, or something had to be done in the shed; there was coal to be brought in for the fire, or wood to chop. With luck there might be an hour or so to look through the newspaper, or watch TV, but it was likely that this pleasure would be overtaken by sleep in the armchair.
And then came the end of the week. In my father's case it was Saturday lunchtime, for the normal working week of forty-eight hours couldn't be fitted into five days. I well remember the glow that seemed to fill the house once lunch - on the table immediately upon his homecoming ... just like the evening meal during the week - had been eaten. At the age of about eight or nine, I would follow him to the bathroom and watch the progress of the weekly shave, marvelling that he could wield that razor (with its blade that I was expressly told not to touch because it was so sharp) up and down his throat with such carefree abandon. Now, many years later, I make just the same moves with the same nonchalance.
I was looking forward to my weekly walk with him into the town, perhaps to stand on the market place while he chatted to some friend or other, maybe to make some small purchase from one of the shops, but almost inevitably to finish up at the football ground, where I was infused with an interest that had stayed latent until about four or five years ago when I suddenly felt a Saturday 'tickle' to rekindle it again. If we happened to arrive after half-time we could get in free, because the man at the ticket stall would have shut his window. Otherwise I think it was 6d for adults and 3d for children. I was more interested to see who else was there that I might know than to watch the game, but there was a feeling of excitement nonetheless, and the homeward journey would always be paused at the market stall to buy some chips to take home for tea.
Diss Town played in the Norfolk & Suffolk League in those days; for the the bigger and better teams there was the Eastern Counties League, and for the smaller ones the East Anglian League. After I ceased to be interested in the world of football, the two smaller of these leagues merged to become the Anglian Combination of today, with its many divisions and reserve divisions, of which only the premier division figures at step 7 in the national pyramid. Diss by then had moved up to the Eastern Counties League, where now they seem to flit between the premier and first divisions.
When I moved into the world of work, I began to see a different format to Friday afternoons, but all with that same 'glow'. Wherever I've worked, there has been a particular atmosphere that surrounds people leaving behind their workplace behind them. I carry with me an image - partly real, partly an imagined stereotype - of men and women, young and old, streaming from a factory gate to rows of back-to-back houses, or walking in ones and twos down a country lane to a solitary row of cottages or post-First World War 'homes for heroes', each one looking forward to time with their family or friends, and to whatever the weekend holds, be it routine or special.
For a lot of my time I've been fortunate to work where or when the economy was strong, and there seem always to have been calls for people willing to work overtime on Saturdays. As an office-worker, I was rarely called to do so myself, but sometimes it was nice to go in at the weekend to catch up on something, and on such occasions the feel of the place was totally different. At one factory, I would often see on a Monday morning that men from last week's evening shift, working normally from 2.0 till 10.0, sometimes with overtime each night until midnight Monday to Thursday, had left off at 10.0 on Friday only to arrived again at 7.0 on the Saturday morning for another five or six hours. I was filled with a mixture of admiration for their stamina, and sheer wonder at their home life. Looking back now, though, I realise that, with small children preventing their wives from taking up paid employment, the extra hours, along with the shift work itself, would have made such a difference to a young family.
In the history of mankind, the weekend has occupied only a tiny place; but for those of us who have enjoyed the privilege of this break from constant work for an employer or at a business, it has become precious. It feels an unalienable right, and I think it does us good from time to time to reflect on what a great benefit it represents in the lives of us all.
There's one in every week, and I've lost count of the times I've noticed something intangibly 'special' about them. At last I've grasped the nettle of trying to set down in words that special whatever-it-is about Friday afternoons. I use that term with some elasticity, of course, because there is great variety in the times at which people leave off ... something I regularly have to take note of if I want to make a successful delivery! But whether it's lunchtime, or 3.30, 6.0 or - as in my case yesterday - 9.35, that point of stopping work at the end of the week has a special quality. It has the power to make the transition, in the words of the ubiquitous Mars Bar advert, from the world of work to the world of rest-and-play.
I grew up in a world where, to my young eye, there seemed to be little distinction between these three phases of life for the working man. After 'proper work' was over more jobs could easily be found at home. The garden would need attention, or something had to be done in the shed; there was coal to be brought in for the fire, or wood to chop. With luck there might be an hour or so to look through the newspaper, or watch TV, but it was likely that this pleasure would be overtaken by sleep in the armchair.
And then came the end of the week. In my father's case it was Saturday lunchtime, for the normal working week of forty-eight hours couldn't be fitted into five days. I well remember the glow that seemed to fill the house once lunch - on the table immediately upon his homecoming ... just like the evening meal during the week - had been eaten. At the age of about eight or nine, I would follow him to the bathroom and watch the progress of the weekly shave, marvelling that he could wield that razor (with its blade that I was expressly told not to touch because it was so sharp) up and down his throat with such carefree abandon. Now, many years later, I make just the same moves with the same nonchalance.
I was looking forward to my weekly walk with him into the town, perhaps to stand on the market place while he chatted to some friend or other, maybe to make some small purchase from one of the shops, but almost inevitably to finish up at the football ground, where I was infused with an interest that had stayed latent until about four or five years ago when I suddenly felt a Saturday 'tickle' to rekindle it again. If we happened to arrive after half-time we could get in free, because the man at the ticket stall would have shut his window. Otherwise I think it was 6d for adults and 3d for children. I was more interested to see who else was there that I might know than to watch the game, but there was a feeling of excitement nonetheless, and the homeward journey would always be paused at the market stall to buy some chips to take home for tea.
Diss Town played in the Norfolk & Suffolk League in those days; for the the bigger and better teams there was the Eastern Counties League, and for the smaller ones the East Anglian League. After I ceased to be interested in the world of football, the two smaller of these leagues merged to become the Anglian Combination of today, with its many divisions and reserve divisions, of which only the premier division figures at step 7 in the national pyramid. Diss by then had moved up to the Eastern Counties League, where now they seem to flit between the premier and first divisions.
When I moved into the world of work, I began to see a different format to Friday afternoons, but all with that same 'glow'. Wherever I've worked, there has been a particular atmosphere that surrounds people leaving behind their workplace behind them. I carry with me an image - partly real, partly an imagined stereotype - of men and women, young and old, streaming from a factory gate to rows of back-to-back houses, or walking in ones and twos down a country lane to a solitary row of cottages or post-First World War 'homes for heroes', each one looking forward to time with their family or friends, and to whatever the weekend holds, be it routine or special.
For a lot of my time I've been fortunate to work where or when the economy was strong, and there seem always to have been calls for people willing to work overtime on Saturdays. As an office-worker, I was rarely called to do so myself, but sometimes it was nice to go in at the weekend to catch up on something, and on such occasions the feel of the place was totally different. At one factory, I would often see on a Monday morning that men from last week's evening shift, working normally from 2.0 till 10.0, sometimes with overtime each night until midnight Monday to Thursday, had left off at 10.0 on Friday only to arrived again at 7.0 on the Saturday morning for another five or six hours. I was filled with a mixture of admiration for their stamina, and sheer wonder at their home life. Looking back now, though, I realise that, with small children preventing their wives from taking up paid employment, the extra hours, along with the shift work itself, would have made such a difference to a young family.
In the history of mankind, the weekend has occupied only a tiny place; but for those of us who have enjoyed the privilege of this break from constant work for an employer or at a business, it has become precious. It feels an unalienable right, and I think it does us good from time to time to reflect on what a great benefit it represents in the lives of us all.
Saturday, 18 April 2015
A Gold Week, Day by Day
The biggest contrast between 'working' and 'retired' weeks for me seems to be the fact that things on my desk get started but not finished ... like the references I gathered for something last weekend, that have sat there since Sunday afternoon, gathering dust and making me feel slightly guilty every morning. One afternoon I was home by 3.30, with no call on my time in the evening, and I felt uneasy about spending six hours or so working on a spreadsheet to understand the history of some investments I started when still in employment many years ago. This was as a result of something that had come in the post that morning, and I felt it was distracting me from the work I'd left unfinished at the weekend. Had this been a 'retired' week, there would have been no problem; but it's one I've made for myself, so I shouldn't grumble.
Perhaps this tension is also partially due to this week - the first of the new financial year for me - being what I term a 'gold' week, i.e. when both the actual turnover and the profitability of each mile driven have been above budget, and at the same time the total of miles driven has been below the budgetted figure. It involved four early starts (pre-7.30), however, and on only one day was I home before 6.0pm (as noted above).
After the men's breakfast at church on Monday, the week got under way quite slowly. It was, of course, a standing start, so I wasn't surprised not to be called until noon. I then did just the one job, to Halesowen, and returned in time to have dinner and then go off to a crowded ringing practice. I think word is getting around what a good teacher our tower-captain is (although he's now in his eighties!) There was no after-ringing half-pint for me, though; I had to be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed to collect some air conditioning equipment in Welwyn Garden City at 7.30 next morning. These went to Suffolk, and then came an urgent delivery of computer parts to a technology complex in Birmingham. Two days down; three to go before a none-too-restful weekend.
Wednesday found me heading early for Sussex, where I collected some flooring, and then over to Pirbright near Guilford, for a machine door. After a brief rest, I was called to take some drugs across to the hospital in Luton, but even then the day wasn't over, because I was sent to Biggleswade to collect some items for a Mothercare distribution centre beside the M1 the following morning. As usual, I didn't know exactly what I was collecting; after tracking it down, the man told me to make sure I wasn't overweight with these three cartons that he carried in one large hand. His smile was almost as big as the cartons!
Thursday, though eventful, was a pleasant morning. Having made my delivery on time at 7.15, and enjoyed an exchange with the Polish girl there over the pronuncuation of her name, my thoughts turned to food, and I repeated a sequence of some months ago, when I'd remembered a BP garage just off junction 22 of the motorway. In fact, there are three BP's quite close together, but none of them has a Wild Bean Cafe, where I could get my prefered breakfast. Step by step, I recalled my former experience, and carried on for a few miles to a roadside cafe. The condition of this place justifies its potentially pretentious title, 'Diane's Food Emporium', for the surfaces were not only clean but had recently been renovated, and the wall of the kitchen area proudly displayed the foor hygiene certificates of both mother and daughter who run the operation between them. I expressed my anxiety that such an attractive place boasted no customers, until I'd walked in, but was reassured that there would be a steady stream once the day got under way. I was, after all, quite early (it was scarcely 8.0). Having obtained sustenance, and made a donation to a local charity, CBTRC, I continued my journey, aiming for a 9.0 collection in Nottingham.
This wasn't to be, however. A mile up the road I joined a very slow-moving queue, waiting to leave the motorway at the next junction. I think there had been an accident, but the matrices were giving no details, simply saying that the road was closed. I found my way through local roads to rejoin the motorway further along, and eventually made my collection about 10.30! After a local delivery following my return, the day ended with the six-hour spreadsheet noted above.
Yesterday was one of those 'start and go on until it's done' days. I left home about 7.15, in order to beat the traffic and collect some printed matter in Welwyn Garden City at 8.0, but I forgot that Friday's traffic is usually lighter - I've never worked out why; I'm just thankful that it's so! - and by 8.0 I was on already my way to take this to Bicester. Then I was directed to a pick-up from a hospital in Oxford for a customer in Letchworth, and on the way came the challenge of getting two washing machines into the van beside these eight items, to be taken to a building site on the outskirts of Norwich. Before I'd reached Letchworth, I had already received instructions to make another collection, this time just round the corner from delivering the hospital stuff. This was a bundle of steel bars to be taken to a small complex in March.
I had already protested my anxiety that by the time I got there, the workers on the building site would have packed up for the weekend, and when I arrived about 4.30, I certainly feared that this was so, The site office and canteen were both deserted, although there were clearly people around somewhere because there were cars on the car park. Further investigation led me to the discovery that the site manager and others were by the show house, which was due to open today, and to which access was separate. Desperate for fuel, I headed for a filling station on Norwich's ring road, where I decided to also get a snack for my tea, and finally made it home about twelve almost non-stop hours after leaving in the morning.
Tired but satisfied, I turned my attention to getting the weekend under way, with shopping and washing, in order to get to a church meeting this morning. Life may be cluttered at times, but no one can tell me it's dull!
Perhaps this tension is also partially due to this week - the first of the new financial year for me - being what I term a 'gold' week, i.e. when both the actual turnover and the profitability of each mile driven have been above budget, and at the same time the total of miles driven has been below the budgetted figure. It involved four early starts (pre-7.30), however, and on only one day was I home before 6.0pm (as noted above).
After the men's breakfast at church on Monday, the week got under way quite slowly. It was, of course, a standing start, so I wasn't surprised not to be called until noon. I then did just the one job, to Halesowen, and returned in time to have dinner and then go off to a crowded ringing practice. I think word is getting around what a good teacher our tower-captain is (although he's now in his eighties!) There was no after-ringing half-pint for me, though; I had to be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed to collect some air conditioning equipment in Welwyn Garden City at 7.30 next morning. These went to Suffolk, and then came an urgent delivery of computer parts to a technology complex in Birmingham. Two days down; three to go before a none-too-restful weekend.
Wednesday found me heading early for Sussex, where I collected some flooring, and then over to Pirbright near Guilford, for a machine door. After a brief rest, I was called to take some drugs across to the hospital in Luton, but even then the day wasn't over, because I was sent to Biggleswade to collect some items for a Mothercare distribution centre beside the M1 the following morning. As usual, I didn't know exactly what I was collecting; after tracking it down, the man told me to make sure I wasn't overweight with these three cartons that he carried in one large hand. His smile was almost as big as the cartons!
Thursday, though eventful, was a pleasant morning. Having made my delivery on time at 7.15, and enjoyed an exchange with the Polish girl there over the pronuncuation of her name, my thoughts turned to food, and I repeated a sequence of some months ago, when I'd remembered a BP garage just off junction 22 of the motorway. In fact, there are three BP's quite close together, but none of them has a Wild Bean Cafe, where I could get my prefered breakfast. Step by step, I recalled my former experience, and carried on for a few miles to a roadside cafe. The condition of this place justifies its potentially pretentious title, 'Diane's Food Emporium', for the surfaces were not only clean but had recently been renovated, and the wall of the kitchen area proudly displayed the foor hygiene certificates of both mother and daughter who run the operation between them. I expressed my anxiety that such an attractive place boasted no customers, until I'd walked in, but was reassured that there would be a steady stream once the day got under way. I was, after all, quite early (it was scarcely 8.0). Having obtained sustenance, and made a donation to a local charity, CBTRC, I continued my journey, aiming for a 9.0 collection in Nottingham.
This wasn't to be, however. A mile up the road I joined a very slow-moving queue, waiting to leave the motorway at the next junction. I think there had been an accident, but the matrices were giving no details, simply saying that the road was closed. I found my way through local roads to rejoin the motorway further along, and eventually made my collection about 10.30! After a local delivery following my return, the day ended with the six-hour spreadsheet noted above.
Yesterday was one of those 'start and go on until it's done' days. I left home about 7.15, in order to beat the traffic and collect some printed matter in Welwyn Garden City at 8.0, but I forgot that Friday's traffic is usually lighter - I've never worked out why; I'm just thankful that it's so! - and by 8.0 I was on already my way to take this to Bicester. Then I was directed to a pick-up from a hospital in Oxford for a customer in Letchworth, and on the way came the challenge of getting two washing machines into the van beside these eight items, to be taken to a building site on the outskirts of Norwich. Before I'd reached Letchworth, I had already received instructions to make another collection, this time just round the corner from delivering the hospital stuff. This was a bundle of steel bars to be taken to a small complex in March.
I had already protested my anxiety that by the time I got there, the workers on the building site would have packed up for the weekend, and when I arrived about 4.30, I certainly feared that this was so, The site office and canteen were both deserted, although there were clearly people around somewhere because there were cars on the car park. Further investigation led me to the discovery that the site manager and others were by the show house, which was due to open today, and to which access was separate. Desperate for fuel, I headed for a filling station on Norwich's ring road, where I decided to also get a snack for my tea, and finally made it home about twelve almost non-stop hours after leaving in the morning.
Tired but satisfied, I turned my attention to getting the weekend under way, with shopping and washing, in order to get to a church meeting this morning. Life may be cluttered at times, but no one can tell me it's dull!
Saturday, 11 April 2015
The First Expedition
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| My home from home |
It's always good to catch up with family. There's only so much that can be exchanged through social media, and the laughter that overcame us at one point - purely through a misunderstanding of what we could both see out of the window - could never be transmitted, and had to be heard to be believed! Suffice to say that the word 'butterfly' will become a family euphemism for amusement. As if to seal this new law, I found a small metal butterfly ornament on a pavement a couple of days later, and kept it as a souvenir.
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| St Giles' church, Cromwell |
On Tuesday I made the short journey to the Milestone Caravan Park in Cromwell, a charming if small village to the north of Newark. After settling in, I took a walk into the village and examined the church, which to my amazement I found open. It was clean, neat and seemed well looked after, and on the wall I found a portrait of Frances Smith who, at the age of 39, was the first lady in England to be appointed to the office of churchwarden. I wasn't expecting to find myself staying in a village of such national achievement!
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| Milestone Park: my pitch by the lakeside |
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| Milestone Park: the lake with benefits for all |
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| Newark: the church tower looks benignly over the roof-tops |
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| Newark: Town Lock and the castle ruins |
All too soon it was time to return to real life where, for the first time, I helped to ring bells for a Friday wedding ... very fashionable these days, it seems. Why, oh why, are brides notoriously late? The odd minute is profoundly traditional, and of course acceptable, but over half an hour ...?! Some of us do have other lives to get on with.
The week has taught me one thing. Nothing goes completely right first time. I've brought home a list of things to do differently next time, or matters that simply need to be attended to. My challenge is to fit them in alongside another session of 'normal work', which begins on Monday.
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| All is not as it seems! |
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