Self Improvement

“Thank you for your interest in becoming a Partner at Waitrose. We are sorry to tell you that you have been unsuccessful this time”. Bloody hell, this doesn’t bode well. I can’t get past the on-line test, let alone get to sit in front of a Human at an interview. Could this spell the end of a would-be Delivery Driver career before it’s even started (at least, started in someone else’s van, with functioning insurance in place)?

“Based on your answers that you gave to the personality questions, we will be sending you a report on your strengths and areas for improvement, which we hope that you will find useful”.

Now that is unexpected. A self-improvement report based on a 10 minute, simple on-line questionnaire. Bound to learn something that hasn’t been covered in hundreds of hours of face-to-face training over the years. However, the reason for my failure to progress will be evident, so there would definitely be some value in finding that out. I may be down, but I’m not out. And despite the disappointment of not getting a delivery job that’s based in walking distance from home, I still want to get out on the road. The report arrived and I opened it. It’s not bad really. Mostly accurate. And then the reason for my lack of success; a “Below average desire to take on responsibility”. What? A what? I mean, yeah I don‘t want to go back into any organisation at Exec level, but driving a van and handing groceries to happy customers? I can do that. Not with Waitrose obviously. Feeling a tad incensed, I decided to appeal to their HR Department to point out that their test was talking utter cobblers. I might as well have widdled into a black hole. Nada. Stuff ‘em, there are plenty of other Grocers with delivery services; I would see if I could get a job with one of those.

Which is how I came to be in central Croydon with my Tescasdaburo’s (something like that anyway) Driver Mentor, Bobby. It was my first day driving the van, which feels a lot bigger than it looks from the outside when you are at the helm. We were in one of the less salubrious areas of Croydon, affectionately known as The Cronx, trying to deliver to an occupant of the Cressida Dick Estate. The estate is a collection of five storey flats, set in a pattern to form connected quadrangles, through which a single-track road snakes, around arbours in the centre of each square. Said arbours are edged with trellis, just what one needs in negotiating the route in a 10‘ high, 9’ wide and 20’ long van. All it would take to get stuck trying to get through would be for some scrap-metal merchant to dump the remains of their car on one of the 90 degree corners. Which is where I was stuck, trying to squeeze through without hitting either the car or wiping out the trellis. This is harder than you might imagine and I was sweating like Prince Andrew in a Pizza Express. Even Bobby, a man not given to great emotion, said it was “a bit tricky”. At this point a very helpful fella on what looked like a souped-up Chopper bike, demonstrated that there was at least a foot clearance between the front of the van and the car by passing through the gap. Except he didn’t. He stopped and fell backwards onto the parked car. Odd. Maybe he was a clumsy sort? Having completed his semi-tumble, he looked into the cab of the van, saw two of us, made a joke and cycled off. It only occurred to me after our second encounter with him (read on) that he was trying to set up a claim that I had knocked him off the bike. In a stationery van. With just enough clearance at the front to squeeze a replica 70s cycle through. What a Cheeky Chappie. Eventually we extracted the van and made our way to a road just outside the estate in which we could park (sometimes you have to park and barrow the crates back in). Well, would you believe it? Our Unsteady Cyclist was bumbling about. And what a friendly sort he was, cycling over to the van, cracking jokes and generally trying to distract us. I profess, I hadn’t twigged that there might be something of the miscreant about him. Just seemed like a bored, friendly young fella to me. We finished loading the barrow, closed the van and dragged the crates back into the estate to their intended recipient, a young lady by the name of Wang. As soon as she opened the door, she said “That man you were talking too? He has just tried to break into your van”. Bloody hell! I mean if he was that desperate for a bag of frozen peas, I’d have given him a quid (actually no, I wouldn’t. The pay for this job is a tad basic). Bobby was raging, wanting to give him all the barrels. I just want to get out of there. I won. I had the van keys.

I’ve now been driving for three weeks (part-time) and have learned to dread old blocks of flats with no lifts, poor flat number indications, and orders containing six crates of water (can’t these people buy a filter jug?). I’ve also learned to dread some Big, Posh Houses. Well, one in particular. I had barrowed the crates (containing mostly wine and gin. Bit like being at home) to the front door and rung the bell. No response, despite being able to see the Lady Of The House reclining in her pink velour track-suit in front of the telly. She had obviously shouted to her husband, a rather portly chap, who suddenly appeared in the room, wearing nothing but his pants and an irritated expression. He gesticulated in the direction of the front door, waved his hand in a “You are having a laugh!” way and left the room. At this point dear Reader, I was resigned to a long wait on the doorstep whilst the Master of the House put on some clothes. I needn’t have worried. No sooner had that thought crossed my mind, the door was opened and there he was. Still wearing nothing but his pants and a pained expression. Did he acknowledge his state of undress? No. Did he seem remotely bothered to be afflicting himself on the Poor Workers on his doorstep? No. Did he have more money than class? Apparently so.

Anyway, enough of the Tales of the Unexpected, there are other people (and animals) in the family and things have been happening. Wonders in fact. BT (Boy Teenager) has signed up to do five GCSEs. Blimey we didn’t think he would ever do so much as one, let alone five. With Gin’s (so called because, well, gin) help he has created a daily schedule and is fighting to get up to full speed. He is knackered! Using his brain this intensely for the first time in nearly four years is making neurons work in ways that they haven’t for quite a while. He is hoping to do all five exams next May, which might be a bit of a tall order, but better to aim high and see what happens. Amazing innit!

His sister, GT (Girl Teenager) has been wrestling with University applications. Actually the wrestling is only with the Cambridge application. This involves an interview in which she must talk knowledgeably and in depth about the emergence in the Pantheon of Dionysus, the Greek god of wine. Having been subject to a practice run of her presentation, I now know more that I ever expected, or possibly knew that I needed to, about the God of Wine. Can’t help but feel this is all meant to be; the God of Wine (otherwise known as Laithwaite in England) is a frequent visitor at Mr H Towers. Whilst this has been going on, she’s received a nice offer from Warwick (also to study the God of Wine and his chums), so things are looking bright for GT.

Gin continues to work too hard, delivering State education as only she can. She is also teachering maths to BT, as well as doing more around the house (because the part-time House-husband is a broken man after eight hours of lugging crates of groceries about). She’s a bit frazzled with it all. To be fair, we are all a bit frazzled with it all, but it’s a nice set of problems to have.

OK, when I say we are all frazzled, that’s not entirely true of Milo the Spaniel. He is his usual, manic self. The vet recently gave him some ‘jections and a doggy MOT and he is in fine fettle. As I type he has fallen asleep (finally) having been on an hour’s walk, had his breakfast, chased about the house with his favourite soft toy (a pre-loved, red-nosed, one-antlered, no-eyed reindeer. Got an idea for a name, drop me a message. “Poodolf” perhaps?) and shagged his ”settle” towel six times. At some point we are going to figure out how to harness his energy and convert it to electricity (and with the cost of leccy being almost double that of 18 months ago, that might not be as daft as it sounds).

Right must sign-off. The washing machine is about to complete its first load of the day and it won’t hang the clothes itself (which is a bit of a theme in this house; both of our teenagers use the Floordrobe to hang their clothes in/on).

Take care chums and don‘t forget to order that turkey before the evil EU prevent them from being grown in the UK.

Love and elbow-grease,

Mr H

x

PS Bit of an update from last night’s shift. My delivery rounds include an area called Carshalton Beeches, so called because it has lots of bloody great big trees. Not just any old trees though; these trees are shifty, sneaky buggers that jump out at unsuspecting motorists and van drivers at will. Especially ones that are trying a tricky reversing manoeuvre up a largely unlit section of road. A particularly malicious tree bent itself at an angle as a particular delivery driver was gingerly passing and just enough to catch the very top corner at the rear of the vehicle. Makes a whacking great bang, let me tell you, even at one mile per hour. Bit of a dent, but not as big as the one to said driver’s ego. To compound matters, Carshalton Beeches also is home to a type of Chameleon Verge Pot Hole that disguises itself with leaves. It lurks in wait for a distressed delivery driver, hoping he will pull his loaded barrow across it, aiming to catch some lovely groceries from the tumbling crates. Catching tumbling crates in the dark should be a party game I think. And to think I was looking forward to delivering that area because wide, leafy avenues….