The Steaming Rants of Ernie Wight

Carrier Losses

Hail Mary, Queen of Spots, Mother of all Carriers, spare me from the ice, the slippery floors in kitchens, the Policeman who thinks I am dangerously overloaded, the destination without a sign over it, and the fine rain that penetrates to the very soul like the waters of the River of Jordan. I ask only that there is enough stock to load from, enough time to cover all the ground, and a happy customer at every drop. May I reach each destination, including my final one. And may my modem always connect first time.

The earth has gained momentum, as it does each year, and has climbed slightly higher up the gradient within the Solar system, moving further out from the sun. It is darker at night, and colder by day. Psyches droop, sombre minds dwell more on suicidal thoughts. Sitting behind the wheel in the soggy cab of a worn and battered Transit, I think of a warm bed and long to be free to dream again.

I'm learning the three principles of being a carrier, PDP - Product, Delivery, Presentation. Learning them the hard way, I might add. Product, I've already mentioned, is mainly the White Stuff, plus bread, eggs, margarine, butter, yoghurt, all of which comes in different forms, and the customers are particular about the product that you deliver to them. Take, for example, a school to which I frequently drop off several dozen yoghurts. It sounds very easy, read the sheet, pick 48 little tubs. I learn the hard way, after a customer complaint, that this school has to have 48 identical tubs of yoghurt. I took a mixture, and there were fights at breakfast. I am supposed to take the same flavour so that there are no conflicts, no different shades of white stuff trickling down the walls to mingle with the blood on the floors. It seems that nobody thought to tell me about this, nothing has been written down. It is one of those things I am expected to know. "What is this school, St. Trinians ?" I asked. It seems that it is close, it is a school for awkward pupils.

I went to a school for awkward teachers, but that is many years behind me now and I don't like to talk about it. There are similarities between my current situation and school. Then, I was expected to know what classroom to be in, when to wear the brown jacket and when to wear the black blazer, who to kowtow to. "It's all in the Grey Book." I asked why it was called the Grey book, and got a board-rubber on the side of the head. "Because it's Grey" . And where was Big School, so that I could be there for ten-to-nine ? That wasn't in the Grey book, but I was spared the board rubber for impertinence that time, I just got half an hour's detention. Spare me from the punishments of the petty-minded, I'll add that to my carrier prayer. Oh, and spare me from the moronic simplicity of traffic lights.

Delivery is obviously what most people consider to be the bulk of my activity. I originally thought it to be the trickiest part of the job, after all, most people assume that a delivery driver spends most of his time driving. It is the main part of my nightly activity, since I include most of the one hour spent loading as delivery. I am, after all, delivering to myself during that hour. The driving time is the bulk of the work, it is the period when nothing much goes wrong, (assuming no disaster), but it is also dead time; no mistakes occur during it, no mistakes can be rectified during it. In rally terms, it is a neutral or transit section, and, just as in a rally, you can only make up a certain amount of lateness in such a section. Let's face it, driving is not a skilled activity, which is why I feel fairly safe picking such a job - it is unlikely to be ever outsourced to a country that feels it can, with a bit of government subsidy, undercut us. I don't think we'll see rickshaws being pulled and pedalled through the darkened English countryside delivering goods. (I've just realised how stupid I've been, when the sea-level rises due to global warming the displaced Gondoliers will ply their trade in our sea-green and pleasant isle, gliding silently along the flooded roads between lines of half-submerged trees with their decks piled high with cargos).

Stately soggy Transit with a salt-caked windscreen,
Butting through the byways and the soaking roads.
With a cargo of white stuff, (blue stuff, green stuff),
Yoghurt, double-cream, and wholesale loaves.

I am so very, very sorry about that last bit.
(NOT)

Not all carriers are as well-meaning and accommodating to their customers as I am. I have a particular gripe with PorcelFarce, who lost a package a customer of mine was returning to me. It contained a wheel hub that we had discovered would not take the correct bearings for his car. I had sent him a replacement, and was due to give him a refund as soon as the hub was returned, and I would then get it reconditioned to accept the proper bearings. PorcelFarce, it seems, lost the package. The customer of mine rightly complained to PorcelFarce, who declined to pay him any compensation. He then complained to his credit card company, who reversed the original card transaction, effectively giving him the refund I was due to give him anyway. The trouble is, I cannot now sue PorcelFarce for the lost item, because I did not send the lost item. Only my customer can get the compensation. I asked the Federation of Small Businesses what I could do to get some compensation for the loss of the hub. "Sue your customer", I was told. I don't think that that is a good long-term strategy for my parts business, and have to accept that once again, I am on the loosing end of the big-boys games.

In the meantime, I'm still steering this rickety old Transit through the lanes, trying to keep over a ton of white stuff in it's rightful place on the flatbed behind me. The Mercedes Sprinter van I was promised when I first applied for the job still sits in the line of vehicles at the dairy, and I have no idea when I will ever get to drive it. Other roundsmen at the dairy laugh when I ask them about the vans, and the rounds. It seems that few of them have a good word to say for the manager. I have some sympathy for him, because I too am running a business and know what the overheads for wages and carriage charges can add up to. I have to think about what I say to people depending on who they are, and realise that once again I am playing the Chameleon.