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The Rushey Platt Villa

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Point of Honour

A while ago I mentioned AM. he's that geriatric New Zealander who just won't keep quiet. Well, as a young man he was in the East African Rifles in Tanganyika - I assume he is actually telling the truth about that although it would suprise me if its all bluster, he does tend to.. - and regards himself as an expert on all things african.   This morning, as we waited for the library to open, he commented at length on his opnions of the regretable violence that has escalated in Kenya. His opnion was that once the zulu's let loose there's going to trouble. Never mind that the Zulu's are in south africa and aren't involved in Kenya's politics, but we'll leave that point for now.   The jaw dropper was his statement about the the colonial wars of which the British Empire often found itself entangled. "The British couldn't defeat the Zulu's" He said loudly, making sure I was in earshot, "The British Empire didn't know how to fight them!"   Just a small point, but didn't a contigent of british troops stand their ground at Rorke's Drift in 1879 and saw off an attack by an army of four thousand zulu's? That one action saw more victoria crosses (the highest award for bravery in the british armed forces) awarded than any other before or since. As for not knowing how to deal with the Zulu's, I remember the quote from the 60's film about this fight, when Lt Chard corrects the man about the zulu retreat as a miracle, crediting the rifle bullet instead. "And a bayonet Sir" Says the Colour Sergeant, "With a lot of guts behind it".   Honour restored. We'll just not mention the previous defeat at Isandlhwana at the hands of the zulu's...   Whinge of the Week Yes, its AM again, who has still not mastered the intricacies of emails. Getting quite irate at being unable to make the computer do what he expected it it to do he fulminated at the poor woman whose task it was to instruct in him the simple task of pressing a button on the screen. Stick to african politics, AM, at least you can convince people you know something about that, at least those people who haven't seen you bullying people off your favourite PC and know what load of nonsense you talk.

caldrail

caldrail

 

Mistaken Identity

I've been shouted at by a woman as I left work yesterday. Don't know why - she just started on me and gave her opinions as to my capability. Yeah whatever lady, just keep taking the pills. No doubt she's bragging to her friends and family about how she saw me off, but could my lookalike please stop upsetting everyone?   Advert of the Week The banner hung on the front of the church I passed on the way to work said - 'Join the Alpha Course - Discover the meaning of life'. Isn't that typical of christian marketing? Attract all those unhappy and depressed individuals passing by and tempt them with optimism, hopes, dreams, and finally try to sell them a ticket to paradise (redeemable on death). A shop a few doors down had another sign - 'Jesus is King of Kings, Lord of Lords'. Obviously someone has done the Alpha Course. Shame he didn't finish the masters degree in business really, since then he wouldn't have been depressed by his 'closed for business' sign last year.

caldrail

caldrail

 

New Years Resolutions

The tv weather warning was very clear. Rainclouds moving into cold air right over Rushey Platt. Snow! Now since England is the one country in the world totally unable to cope with this phenomenon I decided to take precautions against inclement weather. Pointless. As usual, the snow avoided Rushey Platt like the plague. This always seems to happen. Some years ago the whole country was inundated with snowdrifts up to 6' deep - but not Rushey Platt, blissfully clear of anything remotely resembling a snowflake. It never snows in the rainforests of Darkest Wiltshire!   Yesterday was Back To Work Day. Its that one day of the year that no-one ever discusses. Even better, it was Visit From The Auditor Day too. The young gentleman turned up in a suit that was probably fashionable two hundred years ago, looking very conspicuous in a warehouse enviroment. Needless to say, our rapid enforced move from The Hangar was the root cause of considerable embarrasement...   On the way home today I got a toot from UT, driving past in his faithful flatbed van. Nice to see you're still out there UT, but where's Lord H? Surely he's not still ferreting?   Also, walking along a footpath behind a car factory, I spot the working of our local scrap dealer. A long line of american style railroad gondolas waiting to be picked up with their loads of scrap metal, plus a passing Vauxhall Cresta (one of those 50's/60's cars designed to emulate american styling) conjured up an image of US railroading. The engine driver ambling along the tracks had a lumberjack coat too, and the image was perfect. Shame it was grotty old england really... Damp Squib Of The Year Oh all right I admit it. This years festive season was a washout. I think that we must learn from our mistakes and move on. Put it all behind us. So lets get back down the pub, drown our sorrows with quality booze, and... Oh good grief don't tell me our beloved Prime Minister is banning that too? He's already banned car accidents, smoking, and eating in an effort to reduce hospital waiting lists. Or are we now going to be refused hospital treatment for broken ribs caused by laughter?   New Years Resolutions I hereby pledge not to waste any time making stupid resolutions about behaviour I've no intention of changing even if my nether regions were threatened with small furry mammals under duress. However, I can be bribed, and for a pint of cider, a bag of wine gums, I might be tempted to make an exception.   For one silver Ferrari 360 Modena, low mileage, one careful owner, I'm anybody's. Now that is a resolution!

caldrail

caldrail

 

Thunderbirds Are Go!

Some of you might have seen Thunderbirds, that wonderful 60's puppet series by Gerry Andersen. Every episode some daring engineering achievement goes horribly wrong, and our square jawed lads from a pacific island rush into action with their futuristic machinery to rescue everyone from the explosions guaranteed in the final moments. Well then. Sit back, switch the TV on, and watch as the Warehouse bring in our new office.   As forklifts go, this one is pretty big. It dwarfs the cabin resting on its forks as it edges slowly in through the doors. Cue dramatic music - Oh no! They've broken a window! And the cabin is too small! Its all going horribly wrong!!   So faster than Clint Eastwood in a gunfight, our man on the spot, AD, brings out his mobile phone. The message is picked up aboard the space station (where that strangely solitary man sits there listening to everyone speaking on the airwaves just in case there's a chance for another episode), and another message beamed to International Portakabins. Cue Portakabins Theme Tune. Workers descend through the floor of their rest areas, others slide down chutes behind the office walls, and trees bend over as the supersonic articulated truck trundles toward the main road, carrying a plush cabin of monstrous size for those lads in peril in Rushey Platt.   Stay tuned for the finale. Can International Portakabins insert the new office before AD blows his top?   Civic Renewal of the Week I passed the Old Collectibles Shop a couple of days ago. In the window is a new display, showing how the Wilts & Berks Canal is to be restored. Built during the Industrial Revolution just before Mr Brunel and his railway navvies turned up in the 1840's, the course of the old canal is now part of a major road system through the town. So, in an effort to beautify the place and provide somewhere to deposit late night drunks and shopping trolleys, not to mention providing an excellent excuse to restrict car traffic in the town centre, the authorities are going to rip up the roads and put a canal back in place. The smart money is on owning an amphibious car. Or can we trust our sat-navs?

caldrail

caldrail

 

Merry Xmas

Its getting dangerous walking to and from work. That car salesman is watching me walk past like a predator on the african savanna under the shade of a tree. Quick Caldrail, avert your eyes, he'll think your wallet is open....   I've passed Santa on the street. looking very dapper, even effete without his usual white beard, and obviously on a diet. I think its like any celebrity, downdressing to avoid the publics attention.   Is it just me, or is this going to be the dullest christmas ever? usually at this time of year I get idiotic smiles and seasonal greetings from complete strangers, but not this time. Everyone just wanders around looking aimless. Has the government finally achieved its aim of turning us into robots, bereft of instructions on what to do during the festive season? Perhaps this is some subtle government strategy to support our ailing prime minister, GB, who clings to power like a child about to be stripped of his toy.   Anyhow, regardless of government policy and religious dogma, Have a merry xmas everyone. Except GB, who really does need to ask us whether he can play at Number 10.   Quote of the Week "Floods should be treated like terrorism" said an author recently. Oh? Does that mean I have to take more care running the bath? Am I at risk of SAS and SWAT teams bursting through my bathroom window with stun grenades, pointing real live pistols at my head, and screaming "TURN THAT TAP OFF NOW!!!!"   Does this mean that sewage workers will receive medals for bravery?   Will the army mount patrols every time it rains?   Or will our nanny-state government offer VIP's security teams to ward off puddles? Wellies are not enough protection these days, we demand fast, armed responses to water escaping our rivers.   Didn't Canute try this once?

caldrail

caldrail

 

Whats In A Name?

What is it about Christmas? All of a sudden the town center is full of people ambling about clogging up the pavement. Millions of them. They're everywhere. Where do these people come from? Is there a warehouse somewhere that stores them until the festive season? Are our motorways clogged every year by mass distribution of shoppers?   Someone in town called out to me. I couldn't see who it was given the swarms of shoppers sweeping majestically across the road. She used my real name which is something increasingly rare these days. Omitting the usual taunts and insults, I've been called Gary, Paul, and Alan. UT of course has called me Alfie. At my previous job, there was a jovial woman of afro-carribean origin we shall know as Miss J, who for some unknown reason decided my name was Alfred, a name which stuck and became my nickname there. I asked Miss J why she called me that. She said - "You look like an Alfred". Ask a stupid question.   So as usual, I enter the office to collect paperwork for the days stock check. "Sooooo.... Alfred..." She would say as soon as she spotted me, and then she would ask personal questions right in front of the assembled staff going about their business. Did I detect some interest here? I did indeed, and for the period of my stay there my boss, DS, considered me betrothed. Don't get me wrong, Miss J is a friendly sort, but you know how something raises hairs on the back of your neck? Ok, I've no reason to believe she's a cannibal, nor is she an axe-murderess, nor does she keep giant mutant spiders as pets. So why did DS smile mischievously whenever Miss J wiggled at me?   Strange Goings On In Rushey Platt Up until now I always doubted Santa existed. Not any more. Today I spotted one of his minions, a green clad elf in a blue van, driving through Rushey Platt. I gave him a salute, and he returned a big smiley grin. Now I know. The North Pole is a clever ruse to put investigators off the scent. The real location of Santa's HQ is Rushey Platt. Ideally placed in central southern England with easy access to the motorway. I have a horrible feeling I once worked in his grotto without realising. It would explain a few things...   STOP PRESS!! Santa has been spotted! Yes, its true, he was seen just now obtaining money from a hole in the wall machine. I knew I was right. That means he must have parked the sleigh somewhere near here.... But not at the car dealer with a Ferrari 360 in the rough part of town. Apparently I can come back when I've got

caldrail

caldrail

 

Caldrail - You're in Charge!

There I was, blissfully asleep after a long night before, woken by my mobile phone. Its AD, asking me if I wanted to come in on my day off. No, not really, but one has to make sacrifices to impress the boss (don't really want to be dumped by the roadside again). So, hungover and bleary eyed, I trudge into work to find that AD has decided to take the day off and so I must assume command of the operation. Lorries turn up to collect our goods but don't know what they're supposed to be taking away. I don't know which vendor I'm supposed to be supplying. Daily and seasonal picks delayed by our move are now going live. Where's the pallets? Where's the shrinkwrap? More containers coming in and I can't subject them to qualtiy control because our machines are stacked up in the racks. Not that it matters, we still don't have an office. Has AD done this on purpose? Is this some sadistic trial by fire designed to forge the ultimate manager? Stay cool Caldrail.... Oh no, not another stock query....   Obituary of the Week Its with some sadness that I must announce that my poor car, Maxie, is been put in mothballs, probably for disposal at some future date. The various unrequested modifications and mechanical defects, not to mention an engine that is now solely responsible for global warming, has meant that getting it through a Ministry of transport Test is all but too expensive. She's going to be a hard act to follow.

caldrail

caldrail

 

Big H Says Hi...

Who should I bump into today, but AS. This guy is reliable, a good worker, and a good communicator. Ok, he likes his tea breaks, but at least he does something useful in-between conversations. He used to work for SB in the Hangar, now he works for our new host company, and a lot happier he is too.   Thing is, AS is annoyed at Big H, who sent a text message on his mobile phone to the effect that he was in the Hangar.   Then he sent a text message to tell AS he was working in the office.   Then he sent a message to tell AS saying he was burning his old clock cards.   Then he sent another text message. And another. And Another. And so on. Twenty five messages an hour.   AS took a break, got in his car, drove over to the Hangar, found Big H, and told him to stop it, before returning to work at peace with the world. It appears Big H is keeping the market for mobile phones very healthy indeed. The americans can rest easy however. Big H has been denied entry. Not only does he like keeping people informed about current events in the Hangar, he also has a fondness for matches. Now they tell me.   Public Performance of the Week   As is typical of my car, it decided it didn't want to speak to me anymore and jammed the drivers side door again. This time right in front of the gatehouse and the security cameras. Squeezing in through the passenger side door is definitely the way to make an impression, don't you think? Despite another public performance from yours truly, YouTube still hasn't turned me into a superstar. Life is so unfair...

caldrail

caldrail

 

Our New Home

Today has been my first day at the new warehouse. Poor old AD can't cope, there's no official office for us yet (Its a portacabin buried behind stock in another unit nearby) and he's got nowhere to plug in his fridge and microwave. Now there's a man with priorities. At the moment, our office is a pile of pallets shoved into one corner. Cool. Especially in winter...   And what a site! Its huge!! Enormous!!! They give you a map when you sign in at security and boy oh boy do you need it. Warehousing units everywhere, lorries to-ing and fro-ing, forklifts shuttling around looking lost. A very busy place, and given they're supporting local car manufacturers, it isn't suprising. So far I've learned how to negotiate the front employee door. But not the second, which I discovered was only an old door propped up against the wall, and after it fell on me, thankfully without anyone noticing, I managed to locate the rest area. Such pit stops are a necessity of warehousing life.   But hats off to our new hosts, they're very helpful and so far I haven't had to glare angrily at any of them as I walk past. Talking of SB, there were rumours he'd applied for a job with them. He's been a supervisor for years and years, pretty much doing his own thing in the Hangar. Now thats closed, he must join the real world and discover that sunshine doesn't hurt. His only problem is how to get a well paid warehouse supervisory job looking like a coal miner. We shall see.   Road Hump of the Week Yes, those mammoth obstructions at our new site are truly awesome. Automotive Mt Everests, which my poor old Eunos struggles to negotiate. I grimace as something expensive grates on the asphalt ridge, proving beyond all doubt that off-road vehicles do have a place in Britain. Just one. And no, I still won't buy a 4x4, because my body parts are large enough already thank you. Thats my story, and I'm sticking to it.

caldrail

caldrail

 

Getting Ahead In The Workplace: Vol 1

Cars mean different things to different people. Many buy cars they can afford, others buy cars for covenience. Some buy big 4x4's to compensate for small body parts, some for status at the golf club, others buy sporty cars as automotive *iagr*. Now some cars are icons, others are good value, some are simply excruciating and an embarrasement to be seen in. Why would you pay thousands of pounds for somewhere to put a coffee cup?   The Vauxhall Vectra is right there at the pinnacle of naffness. There must be thousands and thousands of these blasphemies cruising up and down dual carriageways carrying salesmen to their next petrol station. A salesman who used to work for a Vauxhall dealer informed me they were liable to fall apart. I know of one whose gearbox fell out and DS owned one that was incapable of retaining a numberplate.   As I've mentioned before, DS, the frivilous boss I used to work for, believes her Vauxhall Vectra is a desirable car. Thing is, she got promoted for driving one. Seriously. The last company I worked for has this concept that all their senior staff must drive these incredibly dull cars in order to remain incredibly dull people and therefore acceptable to their incredibly dull customers.   Well... DS can hardly be described as incredibly dull, but she is an incredible actress. She claims its all down to personality. Thats an interesting way to describe curves.   Funny thing is, the really important bosses at my previous company tried to tempt me with a Vectra shortly before they pushed me out. They let me sit in front, they showed the sat-nav in operation, they gunned the engine, and demonstrated the suspension by driving over road humps. Wake me when you're done please...   Trouble is, I like cars that are fun to drive. You know, responsive engine, blistering pace, firm ride, sharp steering, flat cornering, looks to die for and a seating position so low you need a winch to get out of the thing. The sort of car that in modern british culture puts you on par with the Dukes of Hazzard or Jack the Ripper.   Ha! Tempt me not with your mass production saloon! I shall not be swayed by this icon of greyness, this symbol of.... "Ok Caldrail, you had your chance. Out you go...". And they drove off leaving me stunned on the pavement. Time to thumb a lift to the Dole Office then...   So children, if you want to get ahead in the workplace, buy the same dull car as everyone else. That way you can afford to buy them.

caldrail

caldrail

 

Women In Charge

I don't usually like to sound sexist, but I've decided that after many years experience, women bosses are useless.   Why?   First is DG. She rose to power on the basis of impressing the male managers with her knowledge and expertise of our database workstations. Actually I don't think she knew that much - she was just better than most of making a big thing of it. Anyhow, she became the warehouse manager. All very smart and efficient, but she never left her office. The whole warehouse got to the point of collapse when she emerged one day and asked - "Whats going on?". She was also the person who left a briefcase in the foyer and sparked off a bomb alert involving police, the fire brigade, and a bomb disposal team from the army. Ok, everyone, you can go home now....   Or BB. Bless her. She was a rising star in the offices and they brought her into the warehouse for experience. One day she gathered a few of us long-timers and sat us down. "Right" She said, "I want you all to oversee stock control, and I want to sit down together each day and discuss any issues and resolve them amongst each other, and..."   I stopped BB in mid flow. B, I said, whats the point? There's no issues to discuss and if we need anything, we just ask someone. BB stared open jawed at the alien concept of co-operation, then said "Yes, but I want you to discuss your issues....."   Lets not forget DS. A dizzy blonde who cannot retain her balance in social situations, a woman for whom no frivolity was beneath her. A woman who turned the office into a practice range for elastic band missiles, whom I personally wrestled for possession of her golf balls (which she had been banging on the desk - why? What did you think they were?). A woman who sacks anyone who doesn't join her crowd of admirers, and a woman who has spent time in psychiatric counselling (nicknamed the 'Nutty Club' by us minions). A woman who believes a Vauxhall Vectra is a desirable motor car. Luckily she's also got a memory span that a goldfish would pour scorn on so now that she's sacked me, I can relax safe in the knowledge she's already forgotten me.   How to be patient The telephone rings. I fall off the seat clumsily and pick up the receiver to speak with a bemused delivery driver who can't find my address. Not too suprising, since the address was incorrect. Is that typical for imports through Ireland? No matter. The driver was given the correct address, and I awaited my software eagerly.   At 15:00 hours (approximately) I begin installing the package. Gone are the days of multiple disks and hefty instruction manuals, all you get now is a DVD.   At 16:45, I realise the install procedure isn't going to be quick. Good job I'm patient. The progress bar has hardly moved. I decide to wander off and do something else in the meantime.   At 21:38, the install dialog brings up a message saying "Processing Help System. Help is being installed. This may take an extended amount of time". My desk soon develops several dents and my head hurts...   00:35 and all is well! Its installed! Yahoooo! (thump) zzzzzzz.....zzzzzzzzzzzzzz.........

caldrail

caldrail

 

Goodbye to the Shed

Thats it, my last day in the shed. Big H was friendly and almost engaged us in conversation! Especially with AD, who he never forgave for comparing a sheepdog as his dad. First time those two have spoken in twelve months.   I notice an english teacher got arrested in Sudan for allowing kids to name a bear 'Mohammed'. I get called names all the time but no-one arrests them. I'd shout back at them but under british justice the poor dears would get me arrested for breaching their peace. On the news last night they reported that in numerical memory tests chimpanzees beat human beings. Comes as no suprise to me. I get demonstrations of human intelligence every Saturday night.   Conspiracy Theory of the Week   Apparently this year the humble hedgehog has been observed in huge numbers - particularly for this time year. Its proof of Global Warming I tell you. They're thriving on our sub-tropical winters and unleaded fuel. Nothing stops them, not even their carbon footprints. We now know they breed faster in wet weather too, because the July Floods forced them out of their little hidey holes and made them to act together to survive. Don't laugh, you have been warned... The Hedgehogs Are Coming!

caldrail

caldrail

 

After the Night Before

Sunday morning is a time when we survey the damage left by late night revellers. A womans shoe is on the pavement, a sure sign that Cinderella went to the ball and decided that Prince Charming wasn't charming enough. Not really suprising since he and his mates were drunk, engaging in a singing competition in which random lyrics are put to random melodies and may the loudest voice win. Every week this goes on. Where's Simon Cowell when you need him?   At any rate, Cinderella was probably on a girls night out and was too drunk to care, whooping and screaming every time she blindly bumped into something. But that was last night. Her taxi is now a pumpkin again, and the man who headbutts taxi's has gone home to sleep off his bruises.   A key left on my front wall? Not mine, and I must admit I do feel a little smug that other people can lock themselves out of their homes too. Not that I ever do that of course. The fact that I'm on first name terms with my local locksmith is entirely co-incidental. He's an ex-RAF chap, a man for whom manning a machinegun in a helicopter window was not the career he had originally envisaged, and to be honest, you get the impression he thinks that idiots who lock themselves out of their own homes deserve to be gunned down by passing RAF helicopters. What saves me from certain doom of course is that I pay him to get in. And also that as a civilian the RAF are none too keen to let him man machineguns anymore. Phew.   Talking of RAF helicopters, a couple of years ago I was hiking along the Thames Pathway one sunday. The weather wasn't particularly good, the fishermen along the banks were miserable and unwilling to let me by, and the path itself bore an uncanny resemblance to no mans land. There I was, in the middle of a grassy field, when an RAF helicopter burst into view at tree top height, obviously following the river. I reached for my camera, hoping for a close up all action photo, and immediately, the 'copter banked hard right and performed an extraordinary evasive manoever. Very impressed lads. It seems I now own the only Ground to Air Camera that registers on RAF threat displays.   Near the top of the hill I turn off the main road and pass by the Rushey Platt Blind Association building, whose car park entrance is being repaired. One does wonder, eh?   Visit of the Week AD decides to let me see the warehouse where I'll be working. Security is busy sleeping in the gatehouse, jerking upright as we toot our horn driving by. I think he needs a another pet rat to keep him company. Turns out our new home is a nice place. Clean, tidy, not like the grubby Shed or the cavernous dark underworld of the Hangar. Very busy place too, with stuff lying everywhere. So... we ask in all innocence, where exactly is the floor space allocated to our use? Huh? For a moment he blinked, his jaw hanging open. What we have here is a failure to communicate...

caldrail

caldrail

 

The Big key Debate

We don't own the Shed we work in. No, we rent it, at a stupid price, from NF the site manager. NF wants us out of the Shed so he could squeeze us in with all our pallets in the Hangar, and rent the Shed to someone else at an even stupider price. Which sort of backfired a little because we're shortly to move down the road to rent warehouse space from a professional company at a stupider price still.   Now I turn up for work one morning. I have to walk through the Hangar to reach the yard, but found the back door locked up. So I went into the office and enquired, only to be told that no-one had any idea who I was and until they did, no access allowed. I've been working here for months! They folded their arms.   Well after some irate words and emails and phone calls, I was finally allowed to use the key to the back door, which I could obtain from Security, a pleasant old chap at the front gate who reminisces about his pet rat (deceased) and has an encyclopaedic knowledge of rechargeable batteries.   Now I turn up for work one morning. The key had gone! Vanished! Nowhere to be found!   Ok, off to the office to enquire. Go find SB they tell me, he's got it. Why? Oh never mind. As chance would have it SB is forklifting pallets around the Hangar and I ask him for the key. "Its open." he shrugs, and drives off.   Ok, off to the office to complain. NF decides its time to have this out, so a little later he approaches me in the back yard. "Why do you need the key? Is it really important?"   Pardon? Yes says I, its a matter of principle, its a matter of security, its a matter of access, its.... And so on, until NF decided that a confrontation wasn't worth the tonguelashing. One key, duly delivered. They used to do this to AD, but apparently he got his way by breaking open the fire escape every time.   And the second time the key vanished from Security? Found in someones car.   Career Move of the Week JD is a young lady who joined us because her previous job was too quiet. After four months at Head Office she's now leaving her current job too, this time because its even quieter. Apparently everyone sat next to each other in that office communicate by email only. At least I have an excuse. I'm eighty miles away.

caldrail

caldrail

 

Lords and Ladies

The notable absence this week has been Small H. I asked UT about his whereabouts, and was told that he'd gone 'ferreting'. For those unacquainted with British wildlife, the ferret is a small furry predator that is tradiotnally used to warm the nether regions in winter. I suspect Small H has a more practical use for his pet. Oh, but I can't call him Small H anymore. Apparently he's from an important landed family, very big in ferreting circles, and from this point forward I shall call him Lord H.   News of Lord H's elevation to the nobility does not phase me. Wandering about the countryside as I do you occaisionally encounter these individuals. For instance, many years ago I had a conversation with Prince Philip. Needless to say it was a pleasant suprise to discover that he watched the same television programs as everyone else.   Queen - "I say, Philip, this television show is a programmus horriblis. Do be a dear and change the channel to something less vulgar will you, one hasn't got the remote gadjet."   Prince Philip - "(Belch) Yeah, righto love. Pass anuvver beer... cheers Liz"   But joking aside, there was that upper class gentleman I once delivered a consignment of expensive china tableware to. He was very impressed by the speed of the delivery, very appreciative of my willingness to carry the parcel to his garage, very generous in his tip, and very unaware that the grunts at the depot had thrown the box on board and whole was smashed. Never have I felt so low for so much praise...   Then there was a woman who ran a business out of a small cottage a few miles away. She wasn't too impressed to see a dirty great van rumble up in front of her picture postcard perfect home, and even less impressed when I pulled a tree down on her spotless gravel drive on the way out... Can't win 'em all...   Funny thing happened in Henley, a verrrrry well to do area. I arrived at the address and asked a guy doing some brickwork at the front of the house whether...   "Excuse me!" A woman in a bathing suit interrupted, "Now that you've finally found the place, would kindly bring it up here?"   Oh dear. Well, I lugged the box up the steps and round to her back door. Nice place, love the goldfish. She merely glanced back at me. I put the box down at her door.   "Umm, don't really want that box in the sunshine. Could you bring it in please?"   Ok. Lift.. And plonk down in her rear hallway.   "Umm, I don't really want the box at the back door. Could you bring it in a bit further?"   Oh good grief. Well the customer is always right, so in I go.   "Ummm..." She looks thoughtful at a door further away inside her home. Thinking quickly, I produce the docket and get her to sign, making my getaway before I'm late for my collections. Oh boy was she bored...   Then there was that woman of mature age I played pool with in a country pub one evening. She was a little well watered, and very chatty. The conversation got around to motor cars.   "I like the AC Cobra, " She said in an astonishing deep gravelly voice, "Seven litres, plenty of thruuuuust!". I get the hint dear. Luckily her husband was on hand to rescue me from a fate worse than hatchbacks.   I suppose you have to make your own entertainment in the countryside. And you thought Emmerdale was a soap opera...   Groan of the Week   I'm afraid the booze fairies were at large last night, and deposited half a ton of gravel on my car. Cheers boys, just what I needed. Please feel free to share your generosity with other people next time?  

caldrail

caldrail

 

The Daily Commute

Another working day, so finish the breakfast, lock up the house, and walk down to the car. This morning the mechanics of the garage opposite have decided to forego the usual cut and thrust of car repair, and instead opt for the traditional teabreak. They line up at the top of the ramp, bellies thrusting inside their oily overalls, cups in hand, eagerly predicting the visual spectacle of Caldrail Going To Work. Man and machine in no harmony whatsoever.   Right. Here goes. Key in slot. Turn... And... Open sesame! I fight the natural urge to hug and kiss my car (we're friends again) and wave good morning to the disappointed mechanics in triumph. They wander back inside disconsolantly, but I doubt I've seen the last of my impromptu audience.   That well dressed woman turns up in her Audi. She always parks here in my neighbours slot even though its a private car park. I'm sure she she doesn't live here, I'm sure she hasn't seen the sign, and from the look of her, I'm sure she'll get irate if I point out her error. Or is she having an affair with the goth metal layabout next door? You never know...   The garage boss has parked his 4x4 next to the alleyway again. Its such a huge truck he can't park it accurately, and to be honest, I doubt that careful parking has entered his conciousness. Ease past it carefully... its black paint gleaming in mirror-like obsession and an obvious sign of possible legal action if I get too close.... and its down the uneven rain-eroded path to the main road. I hear the car scrape something as i run over a pot hole. Maybe the 4x4 isn't so stupid after all. But how does he get that truck down this path? Its too narrow. Its not humanly possible to squeeze that automotive leviathan between the houses and trees. Or does it come with a button to retract the wheel arches? How much does that thing cost? I wonder what he charges for labour? No, its too frightening...   Along the main road, left at the roundabout, where that dark blue Ford does its usual party piece by going all the way round in the wrong lane, and off down toward the warehouse. Sixty miles an hour allowed along this windy stretch and the guy in front is driving at twenty. Its no good, I can't pass him on this road, so I grit my teeth and wait for the straight bit... Where he accelerates to sixty on a section of road limited to thirty miles an hour. Is he taking the mickey? Of course, at the bend he slows down to twenty again.... and finally at the gate to the industrial estate, where a car transporter and trailer is busy doing a twelve point turn across the road... No mate, left hand down a bit more... Tell you what, go forward and try it again.... Aaargh!   I always remember speaking to an american woman on one evening out, who was from Iowa, or Idaho, or somewhere flat and empty. The conversation happened to get around to driving in Britain, and she gasped - "You people are soooo-per-men!". Apparently she was overawed by our skills and reaction speeds compared to american drivers she was used to back home. Well I don't know what part of Britain she was driving in, but it certainly wasn't Rushey Platt...   Task of the Week AD points at a length of shelving running along the west wall. "We need that dismantled, Caldrail, here you go..." and passes me a ratchet and adjustable wrench. Oh joy... Cue Mission Impossible theme tune....   Hang on... How am I going to get the bolts undone the other side? Well, it looks like I'm going to have to haul the shelves away from the wall... Gouging deep furrows in the concrete floor, I pull the line of shelves round inches at a time. Management training at its best.   With a mighty crash the shelving falls over. AD glances out the portakabin window during his phone call to Head Office, no doubt explaining the sudden crescendo of noise as "Oh thats just Caldrail, he's dismantling the shelves for me". I give him a reassuring silly grin. Covered in cobwebs and dirt, polo shirt snagged and torn... Ten more minutes of this and I'm going to look like I've been savaged by a rotweiller. Just in time for that important meeting... Life on the sharp edge of warehousing...

caldrail

caldrail

 

Oh please don't sulk....

My trusty motorcar decided to have a sulk yesterday. I finished breakfast, locked up the house, and walked down to the car to go to work. It wouldn't let me in. The door was jammed solid. I cursed, I begged, I pulled the handle in a frantic tantrum. No, the car isn't talking to me. Can't get in the other side either, the cockpit is too cramped. So I call the breakdown people. They were very sympathetic and promised someone would turn up in an hour. He nearly made it too, despite a bad car crash elsewhere on the Great Western Way and the resulting gridlocked traffic. Needless to say, after some fettling from a gentleman far more skilled in talking to cars than me, the door opened.   UT strode into the yard as soon as I showed up.   "Come on Alfie!" He shouts. Alfie? Since when was I called Alfie? Never mind, there's no point arguing. I wonder what he wants?   "Oi needs to get moi my van in, Alfie. 'As you got a key? You do don' you? Goes and get the key an' lets moi van in." UT as usual has such an air of command. He disappears through the premises of a neighbouring business to fetch his van.   My mobile phone rings. Security has another van at the front gate with two parcels for us. I ask him to send the man round, but the old gent tells me the outer front gate is locked. Aw poo. Right then, I'll dump my bag in the office and its back through the Hangar to fetch the parcels. I open the Shed, and... What the **** is this? Somebody has deposited a large metal roadside map to an industrial estate! Well first things first...   As I stride back across the front yard to the gatehouse the van is pulling away. With my parcels on it. Yes, he's going round the back with Mr Security to open the gates as he goes. A quick jog down the lane and I hitch a ride in the back of the parcel van. I forgot how bumpy this old back lane was, pot-holed concrete and eroded gravel. You will not believe how painful the corners of cardboard boxes can be when you're bouncing around in the back of a van. Anyway, nursing a few bruises, I manage to indicate where to drop the boxes. He's a pleasant character this driver.   "Hope you didn't you get jolted around back there" He says in concern at my flustered face. Parcels duly delivered, he goes, and I turn to UT, newly arrived in his trusty flatbed. He looks at the metal roadside map. He looks at me.   "Somebody must 'ave nicked this the uvver noight. Better run, Alfie.."   I really have no idea if he's serious.... After some genuine heaving the map goes on the flatbed, followed by bits of metal tube. Isn't that the front gate barrier?   "Somebody must banged into it last noight, Alfie. Made a roight mess of it they did...."   AD arrives after a visit elsewhere. He greets UT in his usual disparaging manner, and the two senior citizens then proceed to have a mock fight. As usual, UT's superior strength and aggression win the day, and I console my boss over his defeat.   Sulk of the Week No, not my car, but SB, who is starting to feel the pressure of the impending move and whose patience is very fragile. He 's been very comfortable in that darkened Hangar for many years, and really, having to deal with the outside world for the first time in a decade, its all proving a bit of a shock for him. Poor man. I'd help him but our relationship consists solely of glaring angrily at each other when we walk past. Has anyone got a home for a warehouseman? Well trained, barks at strangers, doesn't need much exercise, and would make a perfect pet for someone with the time and patience to provide a good home. Remember, a warehouseman is not just for christmas...

caldrail

caldrail

 

People Spotting

Today I'm at the local library.. So who's in this morning?   Ahh.. As usual Mr AM makes his unhurried entry. He's an elderly New Zealander, over here to find his family, and after seven years they're still not answering his emails. Always first through the door, always slowing everybody else down with his two walking sticks, always bullying an unsuspecting interloper off his favourite PC, and always smiling at young Miss L (She's a pretty lass, desperately bored with library work). Give him a few minutes and he'll be chatting at the top of his voice. Give him a few more and he'll have a problem with his emails, an excuse for some personal attention from Miss L, who grits her teeth and shows him the obvious. Ahh, there he goes... We're in for a good whinge this morning!   His best mate, a jovial chap who hasn't washed, shaved, or cut his hair since 1971 sits down and proceeds to lay out his belongings on the desk in a slow deliberate manner. I'm not even sure he uses the PC, he just comes in for a chat with AM. Apparently his main ambition in life is to visit a park four miles away. You go for it mate.   Two soldiers from a regiment I don't recognise drop in. You don't usually see soldiers in here, but these two seem personable lads and don't bother anyone... except they've got a problem with their emails and ask Miss L to sort them out. I think she's happy with the distraction. So are they.   And over by the aisle - yes, its that young lad whose name I don't know. He fancies Miss L desperately, and fidgets without actually logging on, plucking up the courage to search for an excuse to chat her up. Is he going for it?.... Yes? No?.... He's watching her go by.... She's not paying attention.... He's on his feet!.... False alarm, he asks her about logging on. Good grief boy, even I wasn't that bad at your age. Just ask her. Before AM does.   There's a new blonde librarian sat way back at the enquiry desk. She keeps looking at me in that sort of 'Whats he doing?' way. Well I'm watching you as it happens dear. Guess we're made for each other really. We'll spend happy hours staring at each other across a crowded library.   The other blonde librarian (I must say, this library is well stocked with blondes) is a thin irritating girl who thinks I'm a wierdo. Thanks for telling everyone, that was diplomatic. She likes to ignore me when I walk past and always seems to choose that moment to inspect her nails.   Passing me now is a huge gorilla of a man I've seen a few times. He's at least seven feet high and and very burly, so slope shouldered his knuckles should drag across the carpet, except they don't because he's too tall. His arms hang limply as he thuds along the aisle. He sits beside me and it looks ridiculous, like a giant poised over a toy computer. Each key press is soooo slow....   ...Compared to the slightly annoying woman the other side of the desk, who types so fast my instinct is to take cover and radio in for an artillery barrage. She just doesn't stop! Meanwhile that even more annoying child of hers is busy re-enacting last weeks Top Gear, attempting for the fiftieth time to break the Library Speed Record For Toy Cars. Oh there he goes again.... There's a loud BONG! I look round and he's collided with something. Driving without due care and attention I'd say. I cannot suppress a grin, and the woman gives me a hard stare, torn between giving me grief, helping her crying child, or doing some more typing.   Three young men of afro-carribean origin arrive and shunt each other around the available PC's. In sharp suits. With black bandana's? Bizzare. One sits the other side of me, leaning back in a streetwise manner and browsing the net, obviously disinterested, and I sort of wonder why he bothered coming in.... or is he here to look cool? I hate to admit it, but he does. Ten out of ten for image. But what's it for? Are they Gangsta Rappers? In this neck of the woods? Or are they affluent terrorists? Should I call the police? Should I call Bruce Willis? Decisions, decisions....   Well that's my hour on the internet. Just another day in Rushey Platt.   Incident of the WeekIt happened last night. This guy is on the other side of the road, waiting at the pedestrian crossing, as I am, for the lights to change. Except he doesn't. Looking the wrong way and seeing a gap, he steps into the road into the path of a taxi. THUMP! The taxi skids rapidly to a halt, whilst the guy rolls along the pavement looking a little stunned, leaving the taxi with a broken wing mirror. Despite the efforts of myself, the taxi driver, and a small crowd of ladettes on their way to an all night binge, the guy refuses to stay around to speak to the police or get medical help, and wanders off down the road... Whoops there he goes again..... Not my idea of a fun saturday night, but if headbutting cars is your thing, he's available for functions and childrens parties.  

caldrail

caldrail

 

The Case of the Missing Screwdriver

In the shed next door to ours is a load of disused racking. UT, otherwise known as the 'Gypsy', has always insisted that the site manager, NF, had told him he could take it away anytime. NF on the other hand argues the opposite, and insists on payment. Well finally The Gypsy had his way and turned up to dismantle the racking and cart it away fror scrap. He borrowed a screwdriver from us for the purpose.   UT and Small H have their own way of dismantling. Instead of top down as any sane person would, they insist of doing it from the bottom up, and manoevered their van to support the structure and prevent it knocking the sheds over.   As usual UT stopped by to eat lunch and have tea, and apart from having to chase after his van to pull the handbrake on, life carried on at a leisurely pace.   "Have you got that screwdriver? " I asked.   UT told Small H to fetch it. Small H said he didn't know where it was. There then followed a series of farcical searches and accusations. This continued until AD threatened to withdraw teabreak privileges. The screwdriver was quickly found in UT's toolbox.   "Don't know how it got there..." They said....   Revelation of the Week According to Small H, millionaires have the habit of going to London and busking as One Man Bands. He knows because he's seen it, and Small H admitted to performing as a One Man Band in his younger days. He had to give it up because he didn't want to be famous. Now you know...

caldrail

caldrail

 

Welcome to Rushey Platt

Deep in the rainforests of Darkest Wiltshire, the natives are restless. The Independent Peanut Republic of Rushey Platt has decided to go public, to reveal its ancient mysteries to the world. I suppose that means we have to accept tourists too but you can't have everything.   So what is the Republic of Rushey Platt? Well, when I was unemployed I decided it might be a cool idea to declare my idependence from the UK government. That way I could ask for Foreign Aid and get paid millions of pounds like those immigrant families with thirty eight kids.   Needless to say, the british government has steadfastly refused to acknowledge my little realm in the depths of south west England. Nor did the United Nations. Nor did I get paid.   Well things have moved on since. I now work in a shed at the back of an old hangar once used to build spitfires. Its a rotten little edifice that the architect proclaimed as structurally dodgy, and currently provides dwelling for thirty nine thousand species of native woodland spiders. And from the mess we found lurking under the pallets at the back, one or two rats, although we think the spiders ate them.   The idea was to move some of these dust-gathering pallets and get rid of them. The days of our tenure in The Shed are now numbered, and a plush warehouse awaits our business (and rent payments) down the road. So let me introduce AD, a veteran of a warehouseman, a Bristolian, my mentor in the ways of The Shed.   "One day, Caldrail, all this will be yours..." He said, though I must admit there is a rival to The Sheds throne. He is SB, a true troglodyte in british fashion, a man for whom sunlight is a forgotten experience, a man whose tyrant of a wife demands a new house every year and therefore poor old SB must go without holidays or weekends.   However, there's an even rarer species of warehouseman at large behind the Hanger. The Big H himself. Trolls were never this big in fairy tales, and never was a man so adept at communicating with a grunt. A shrug of his shoulders says more than words can say.   Or those wandering scavengers, the scrap metal dealers, who take away anything not bolted down. Or use an axle grinder if it is. UT, a fine figure of a man whose hobbies include racing dogs in Ireland, is nonetheless poor and humble. Dogs are very expensive. Not so his sidekick, the Small H, who's understanding of the world is limited to Lift That Bale, Tote That Barge. Come to think of it, UT nearly had me manhandling industrial motors into his truck...   Welcome to Rushey Platt. It only gets better...

caldrail

caldrail

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