Ayr quality

In fact, what I think of most often when I think of Ayr is 'The people who walked in darkness'. If you've ever seen the musical score (not the musical: there isn't one yet, as far as I know) of Handel's Messiah, you'll know there is a title: 'The people who walked in darkness: Air'. To the sixteen-year-old me singing for the first time in the Leicester Philharmonic Choir (somewhere in my interesting history between breeding guinea-pigs and discovering boys with motorbikes) I didn't know that an 'Air' was a musical form, and wondered why the people who walked in darkness might need air, particularly.

Anyway, I didn't really want to go to Ayr: the campsite was smack in the middle of town, which I expected to be quite run-down, and it was pouring with rain, but my route required it. As it turned out, it was a perfectly tolerable site set in a park, nothing exciting, and all the usual facilities. As soon as I got there I was cautioned by one keen camper for driving the wrong way round the camp one-way system (you have to say that the Caravan Club are nothing if not systematic: I was actually trying to get my water intake the right way round so that the hose would reach the drinking water tap, rather than being bent on subversion).

Fighting the urge to be out of there as soon as dawn broke, unbreakfasted, with bits and pieces trailing behind the van as I made my escape, I thought no, I will give Ayr a chance, and breathe it in a bit, as it were. So I left the van and walked into town, over an unpromising flyover and via a petrol station (and also, incidentally, via a call to South Ayrshire council and the Scottish Environmental Protection Agency about someone who appeared to be discharging paint into a stream that fed directly into the river - this is my new role as Global Busybody with too much time on their hands. SEPA did in fact send someone to look at it. I bumped into him on the way back, and he gave me a long discourse about iron deposits from coalmining, which he explained were orange. Because this effluent was white, l didn't get the impression he expected to be able to do anything about it - despite the fact I'd even taken photographs).

Anyway. Back to the walk into town. I followed some women who I hoped weren't walking home to a housing estate, and eventually found the middle of town, and lo, it was quite nice, with a lot of Victorian buildings. It even had an H and M. But I was looking for breakfast, so I disappeared down an alleyway where I found a cafe with seats outside, a 'roll and sausage' kind of place where men covered in plaster dust were buying cups of tea. Because of the dog and the smoking, I sat outside and had a perfectly nice coffee and scrambled egg roll, and a man from the cafe with pastry all over his hands took a break from making strawberry tarts and came out and asked if the dog wanted 'a dish of water'. Not a bowl - I remember this - and he very generously brought a large bowl (for mixing pastry? Don't ask) and Bonnie had a nice drink. This picture isn't of the cafe by the way - but I couldn't resist the evidence that the people of Ayr have a sense of humour.


I also got talking to a chap - I'm very talkative nowadays, because you never know what is going to turn up - who turned out to be a newspaper editor for the local paper, who had in a previous life been editor of the Stornoway Gazette, in the days when it had the livestock auctions advertised on the front page. He revealed that his first battle had been to get them to bring it out on a set day each week: normally, they tried for a specific day, but if something got in the way such as harvesting or fishing or cutting peat, then it wouldn't happen. Anyway, the man gave me his card and the name of the current editor of the Stornoway Gazette in case it might be a useful contact when I'm up in Lewis (key fact: Stornoway is the capital of Lewis). So there you go: it's always worth talking to people. Although when they ask me what I do for a living it always sounds completely ridiculous - like I've spent my entire life writing the back of the phone bill. I wish I had a one-liner, or even a job description, that sounded vaguely comprehensible. I know what I'm doing, but I can't seem to tell anyone else in a way that doesn't make them either glaze over or tell me at great length about a bad experience they once had with British Gas. At the moment, I'm claiming to people that I tell multinationals how to spell, which is generally agreed to be a Good Thing. If they're interested, they then ask 'So how do you get a job like that?' Walk in and ask for one, is my advice.

Anyway, while we were talking a woman came out of the craft shop next door (the kind that sells bits for making cards, and paint and glitter, and runs workshops on everything from working with beads to stained glasssmaking) pushing a life-size fibreglass cow on wheels. It was going to stand on the pavement and attract custom for the shop. Apparently (I know, because I asked her) she does it every morning. It was a surreal moment, one perhaps worthy of Craggy Island. And to think that I might not have come.


On the strength of the cow, I went into the craft shop and found a fake stained-glass sticker with entwined thistles on it to stick in the back window of my van, and shell-shaped stamp and some nice green ink in an inkpad to brighten up my handwritten letters (yes, I am writing letters: it's somewhere to put all these extra words that don't make it onto the blog. If you can believe it - there are always more words).

I also found in Ayr the right size and the right colour of Hedgehog Gore-Tex trainers so that I now have some light shoes to wear to walk in that keep my feet dry, and also a very nice black fleece and some lightweight trousers. The shoe-shopping confused Bonnie: she was allowed in the shop, no problem there, but one of the things you do when buying walking shoes is walk around in them a lot very fast - even up and down a little fake hill, if they have one - to see if your toes bang against the fronts. So all the time I was sprinting round and round the racks of waterproofs, she was trotting after me. I don't know who was the more embarrassed by the end of it: her or me.

While I was making my purchases, someone came in to ask the man in the shop if Danny or someone still worked there (no, he's working up at Avis, but he still pops in now and again, in case you're wondering). I could hardly understand a word, and when he'd gone I asked the shop man if that was a local accent. No, he said, I couldn't understand half of what he said either. So it's not just me then.

I did manage to get underway, after all my dawdling in and out of camping shops, at about 5 to 12, when the Caravan Club cut-off time is 12. I realised just as I'd gone through the camp barrier that I didn't have my shopping - I'd left it on the pitch next to the van and driven off without it, such was my haste to get away. When I ran back for it, an enterprising crow had already broken into the bag and was investigating the contents. Luckily, it hadn't done any damage - it had only just penetrated the shoe-box. It was probably bitterly disappointed not to find a discarded roll and sausage, at the very least.

Craigieburn House, Moffat

I went to Moffat at least partly because I wanted to pay a visit to Andrew Wheatcroft, an ex-colleague from Publishing Studies at Stirling who I've had many an interesting chat with. He and his wife Janet, and their Nepalese Sherpa head gardener Dawa and his family, have made a wonderful garden at Craigieburn House (there's a story about this on www.bbc.co.uk/radio4/womanshour/03/2007_52_fri.shtml). The garden is lovely, and I had a very nice afternoon drinking coffee and talking to Andrew and the dogs. The house itself is beautiful, too.



The garden, like all good gardens, has many lovely and very different areas: formal paving and a pond and clipped box bushes, a woodland area, cottage garden, even a Sherpa garden full of Himalayan plants with a long sloping path alongside a tumbling stream. There are also prayer flags in many places, which lends the garden not only extra colour but a kind of spiritual dimension.

Pride comes before a...ow

Reading back over recent posts I realise I've been overly self-congratulatory about my have-a-go-hero status, as well as somewhat snooty about members of the Caravan Club. I am skipping forward a bit here in terms of blog-ology, but when I arrived on Arran I met all sorts of people on a campsite who are not at all like my gender stereotype, including a very nice man who does the washing up while his partner carries large objects around the campsite, and another woman who fitted out a transit van as a camper, woodwork, electrics, water, upholstery, everything - and turns out to have practically rebuilt her wooden house in the Midlands when it flooded, mainly because she'd done all the joinery herself originally and knew how it went. She also told me she was pleased to have access to the workmen's tools because she could use things like 'a proper drill'.

I also blithely set out on part of the Arran Coastal Trail, following the little yellow arrows as one does, without looking properly at the OS map. We are not in Kansas any more, and a trail that is described as 'a fairly strenuous day' translates as 'you should get out alive if you have the right boots, a rope, and a trained mountain leader with you'. There was no path, after the first little bit. What there was was a 6km boulder field, slippery and wet, with boulders so large and gaps so deep in places that I had to brace myself against something and lift Bonnie, who practically gave up towards the end (*bless* her, she worked so hard) and had to be strongly encouraged to continue. I couldn't just give up because I was under cliffs, so there was no way off it. Anyway, we survived, but I did slip at one point and bang my chin on a big flat rock, so I now have a nice graze and a blue bruise to show for it. As my (unreligious) father would have said, 'Jesus did that'.

It was a great moment, though, finding a fresh water waterfall near the end, because B was so thirsty she'd started to drink out of salt water pools. I made several resolutions. Don't go out without dog water, don't go off anywhere without studying the OS map first and telling someone where you're going, and just because you've driven a big van and carried a gas bottle across a completely flat campsite it doesn't make you an invincible heroine. I am humbled.

Signs of the times

This should give you a bit of an idea where Moffat is...






















And this one reminds me of an old (and possibly favourite) Scottish joke:



Woman walks into a butcher's on a cold winter's day. Woman: Is that your Ayrshire bacon? Butcher: No, I was just warming ma hands!

If you don't get it, you need to go and spend at least a month in Scotland. Or get a Scot to explain it to you.

The ruins of Granton House

After being rained off the M74 and spending the night at Tebay Services' caravan site (it doesn't matter what it looked like: the rain was so torrential that I didn't see anything of it) I headed for Dumfries and Galloway and the town of Moffat. It's an old county town, and I found a nice Caravan Club 5-van site which was just a field, but in a lovely valley.

One the first evening, I walked Bon down the quiet country lane and saw some ornate gateposts overgrown by trees. Thinking the gateposts too posh for a field, I sensed the presence of a country house - and was nosy enough to crash through the undergrowth and along a half-overgrown drive until I saw something scary and intriguing. A beautiful house, nearly falling down and burnt out. It was three storeys, made of local stone, and Georgian in style.

As I approached, a cloud of rooks rose from the ruins and frightened me half to death (and this is in the evening twilight, remember) but I forged through the garden and went up the steps, over a carpet of broken glass and plaster dust and bits of old furniture, up the old staircase with its cast-iron balustrade (treading carefully in case any of the steps fell through). At the top, I found the most beautiful, and sad, set of rooms. The lath-and-plaster in the ceilings was exposed, burnt furniture was everywhere, but you could still see that it had been the most stately of houses at one time, with high rooms and traditional sash-and-shutter windows. Young rooks panicked and crashed against the walls as we went into each room. The major part of the house, the frontage facing the valley with what must have been the grandest rooms in it, had completely fallen in, right into what must have been the servants' domain below stairs. It was the saddest thing - and very odd, thinking of the lives that must have been lived in the house and wondering why it had been left like that. Really, it was just a shell, held up by an external scaffolding of bolted-together RSJs, so in a terrible mess, and possibly now irredeemable.

I didn't take my camera on that walk, and so there are no pictures - but I don't think I could have captured it anyway, because it was so closed-in by encroaching trees. Once we had had a look round Bonnie was in a hurry to leave, and I felt odd and spooky too, so we left it behind. What I do have is a picture of Moffat House Hotel which is in a similar style, except the ruined house had a large neo-classical portico over the front door, made of red sandstone. And its chimneys made it look older than Georgian: they were ornate, and almost Elizabethan-looking (but careful here: as we go further back, the monarchs of Scotland are not the same as those of England!) I've since looked at the history of Moffat House and it was apparently designed for the Earl of Moffat by John Adam in 1761. And I've since had it confirmed by a historian friend that the ruined house is indeed an Adam house, which might make it contemporary - which explains my feeling about the chimneys being too early for Georgian. One of the main differences between the two houses is that my ruin is on a smaller scale overall, but the portico over the door reaches upwards over half of the second storey - so takes up half if not more of the front of the house in height. The Moffat House portico fits more snugly round the door, and is altogether less imposing.





When I got back to the campsite I asked the campsite owner about it. She said it was Granton House, which had been built as a farmhouse (! rich farmer), was a hotel at one time but then allegedly had been burnt for its insurance and the person who was responsible was now in prison. So it's just sitting there, presumably until it falls down.

It was an odd evening walk, and left me feeling shivery and in need of comfort. I was quite happy to shut myself in the van after that with the heater on and a cup of coffee, and snuggle down and read the paper, and try not to think about the house all empty and ruined, with the rooks flying about inside.

Bonnie gets more confident

When I went in to get a coffee at Annandale Water services on the M74 I realised Bonnie was at last becoming fully confident with the van.

Caravan Club in Lone Woman Shock

As soon as I got the BWV, I joined the Caravan Club. They have loads of big smart sites all over the UK, little over £10 a night (and sometimes less) and also a huge number of 'Certified Locations' which are small fields that take a maximum of 5 units (get with the technical vocabulary: there'll be more). So far, it's been invaluable as a way of finding nice quiet sites, and I can choose between being away from it all (translate: beautiful, but may be no facilities, not even a loo) or being in civilisation (laundry, electricity, showers and hairdryers) depending on the state of my physical self and wardrobe.

There is one thing about camping in this way, though: I have joined a self-selecting group in which I'm a bit of a misfit. Since the Caravan Club doesn't allow car-and-tent camping on its sites, everyone here has a BWV - either a caravan or a motorhome (I used to call caravans 'Trailers' but this doesn't go down well with the owners: apparently trailers are those things built by Ifor Evans and mainly used for transporting sheep and bags of cattle-cake). And the people who buy BWVs are typically retired couples who've paid off the mortgage, and have now invested in something to do on their retirement. There are no surfer dudes in VWs or earnest chaps in waterproofs or groups of Dutch girls on bikes or groups of lads from Falkirk out on a bender with a tent. It is expensive BWVs as far as the eye can see. Which makes me the youngest person on the site by about 10 or 15 years at least. It is a veritable sea of M&S beige and pale khaki leisure gear. Many of the couples match, almost down to a hair.

So I am quite singular as (a) young (ish) and (b) a lone female. I have now been on five sites and haven't met a single other LF (I've met one LM). In my position as observer, I feel I'm now in a position to pronounce that the gender gap is alive and well in Caravan Club membership.

So here's what men do: drive, empty the loo cassette, handle all the Aqua-Kem loo chemicals, reverse the van, fetch water, empty waste water, put up the awning (issuing instructions to Wife), do barbecue, do things with cables, carry gas canisters, climb up and fiddle with the TV aerial, put the chairs out, be in Charge of the Route Plan.

The women take the dog on its last walk, cook (except barbecue), shop, make tea, brush and hoover out the van, take out the rubbish, do laundry, empty things out of the car boot, pack things back in the car boot, stand behind the van making gestures while Husband reverses, comment on route, advise on picture quality while Husband fiddles with TV aerial, tells Husband where everything he needs for the barbecue is (he can usually locate the barbecue itself without help).

Men, in general, aren't allowed in the fridge (except perhaps to get the milk) or in any of the internal cupboards in the van ('You with your big paws in there, messing everything about') and women aren't allowed in any of the external flap down ones for Outdoor Things ('I was only getting a chair' 'Yes, but I know where everything is in there, so come out and let me'). I have met one gay couple, but I didn't get to talk to them enough to find out how they divide the tasks up - and who's allowed in which cupboards. Maybe it's a paradise of share-and-share alike.

Now this is the bit that is potentially unfair on men, because if I was a Lone Male nobody would have batted an eyelid. But I have realised as I go North that me and Bon are causing something of a sensation. The Woman who Does It All and her Amazing Faithful Dog. At my last site, nobody talked to me much at first, but by my second day quite a few women were coming up to say words to the effect of 'Good for you hen, you go for it' and casting covert glances at Him Indoors. I got the definite vibe that if some of them were younger (or even if not), they might quite like to take the dog in the BWV and leave the husband at home. Perhaps locked in the greenhouse where he can't mess up the kitchen.

So I do feel I am observed as I go about my daily business. But rather than feeling uncomfortable, I feel quite looked-after. Over the last two days, I've been asked several times how my walk went, how was the bus back, what route did I take, and also congratulated on things like reversing accurately and carrying a 6Kg gas bottle on my own. When one couple told me that they always argue over whose turn it is to do things ('Madam here just sits there while I do everything'), I pointed out that I always do everything - and unless I'm going to direct criticism at Bonnie for 'just sitting there', that's the way it's going to be. No arguments there. So stop bickering.

By the time I left this morning, I'd had a guided tour of two other people's vans, a long chat with a couple from Yorkshire and another from Ayr, and directions to the next campsite right down to where the cheapest garage is for diesel on the way (Jet, Maybole). As I left, one of the women touched me on the arm and said, 'You've a big heart, hen.' I went on my way thinking how kind people are. I just hope the women aren't going to start putting Aqua-Kem Blue in their husbands' tea just to get a shot at the driving.

PS There is actually a Singles' Group part of the Caravan Club, for 'people who caravan alone for reasons of bereavement, divorce, separation, or simply through choice'. I am left wondering why someone who 'caravans alone through choice' would ever want to join a group to meet people who also want to go caravanning, thereby putting an instant stop to their pleasurable solitary activity?

PPS One thing I haven't yet done is put up my awning. I've just looked at the instructions and it involves a screwdriver, then a hacksaw and a tape measure. So I'm not going to. Not because I don't have access to such tools, or even the expertise to study the diagrams of the Italian porn star who appears to be demonstrating how to put it up (fnarr). I just can't be arsed.

PPPS Note to the Explorer Group who make my van. There are going to be more like me - look at allotments - so next time try (a) making the catch on the fridge door less stiff and (b) creating a means of releasing the travel cover of the rear gas vent that doesn't involve superhuman strength. I am available at consultancy rates to look at new models if you wish to attract more of my demographic ;-)

* I am thinking of getting a placard made for Bonnie to stick in the ground next to her when I go for a shower. It says
1) Bonnie
2) Bearded Collie, or possibly a Wheaten Terrier, what do you think?
3) 12
4) Yes I know, it's my youthful haircut
5) That's fine, I'm not allowed to have treats anyway
6) Whatever. I don't understand you. I'm a dog

Here's a quick outline

Someone at home said that there was a Bonnie-shaped, and a Judy-shaped, hole in her life since we'd been gone. She knew pretty much what shape Bonnie was, but was wondering about me...given my propensity for weight loss and gain at short notice! Anyway, apart from it being very touching for her to say it, I thought I would do my best to outline the shape of both of us. I think the result is rather nice.

Tough choices in Yorkshire

Well, given the choice of lavatories (how quaint) or the Valley of Desolation, which would you pick? I went for the comfy option.





This is from the very well-managed Bolton Abbey estate in Yorkshire, home of nice cafes, woodland walks, long-distance moorland paths, and of course the Abbey ruins themselves. I set off finally on Thursday 12th, and went via Derbyshire - quick visit home and to see Annie and Martin to make a plan for meeting up in Harris: who knows when we'll next have a signal?)
I camped first of all at a luxurious site run by the Caravan Club called Strid Wood. By luxury I mean quiet, numbered pitches, water, free hot showers, dog walk on site, shop...


This is the Strid itself - quite placid at the moment but it can turn into a roaring torrent in wet weather.



We went for some long walks over the tops, as well as along the waterside. I soon found that I have become much too much of a townie: what was I thinking, going out in trainers?





We did some quite long walks - and I had quite a few 'glad to be alive' moments, particularly when the sun came out and we were in open country. I've been to Bolton Abbey before, but don't know where my head was because I don't remember it being as lovely as this.
The site was really quiet, and ducks and bunnies camped on our front lawn in the mornings. Bon was delighted to come out in the morning to find a rabbit, but luckily I saw it before she did and grabbed her collar. Otherwise it would have been more than Markies for breakfast. I didn't manage to catch the rabbit, but I did get a visiting family of chickens. They hatched the day before. The campsite man said they were wild, and last time she had a brood he'd had to run round the site catching six cockerels because they were keeping the campers awake.

















There are, obviously, a lot of animals on these walks. One of the cows looked particularly odd. As I got closer to it, it revealed itself to be an alpaca. Note that it isn't a llama - llamas have longer necks, a slimmer body, and an altogether more supercilious expression. This one merely looks quizzical.














I will leave you to enjoy the views, while I celebrate quietly that in order to achieve this post I have managed to get the glorious combination of a charged laptop battery and a signal. I have no electricity where I am at the moment - but I will leave you to wonder where that is while I catch up with my posts!


Also on this leg of the trip - had a leaky tap, boringly and lengthily sorted out via the insurance company, the camp site office, the motor home dealer...the whole tap needed to be replaced, which I only found out thanks to the rather wonderful Steve Mann of Ilkley, who is a caravan engineer. He had me sorted and back on the road in no time, but I had to wait another day or so - and move to a different campsite - for a new tap to arrive. It's called a 'Reich Mixer' I wonder what kind of party that must have been.


Oh, and here's Bon, sporting not only a new waterproof coat but a new personality. She now pulls, eats sheep poo, and runs away. It's actually a reversion to a previous personality, a lifestyle that she had until we moved to London. The serene, initiative-of-a-potato pooch turns into a keen hunter of Other Creatures, including sheep. She got a real telling-off from some curlews on one of the walks. Not that she'd done anything wrong, but they are ground-nesting. They were saying 'It's a PERSON near our NEST! With a PREDATOR on a piece of STRING!'


Came across something rather marvellous on one of the Bolton Abbey walks - every time there was a fallen tree, it was studded full of bent coins Mostly 2ps, so it must have happened since 1971. It looked like a sort of sculpture made out of wishes.




For my next trick, I am heading to Scotland via Moffat...of which more later...love to all.

Greetings from the top of the glycaemic index

The main reason I'm still in London is Jan's birthday - not that I'm putting off leaving, or anything. We had a very nice meal on Friday at Petek in Stroud Green Road: have been there a lot, and they're such nice people and serve excellent middle eastern food (yum, felafels). Free pink bubbly at the end too, before we went on to see Jimmy C and the Blues Dragons (an old favourite) at the Wishing Well. And then on Saturday I had a wee party at my place for about a dozen people where we had nibbles and a lot of Prosecco rose - and, you'll see, this rather excellent cake (though I say so myself as shouldn't). It's made of chocolate sponge piled up and covered in vanilla frosting. The letters are coloured marzipan. The fork is a fork. The best bit was choosing the sweeties to go on the top: hmm, which sweets look most like dogfood? An interesting brief for food shopping. Maltesers, chocolate brazils, Thorton's vanilla fudge and those crunchy biscuits that Italians like to have with their coffee. I feel I should say at this point that Jan is a dogwalker by trade, and so wasn't offended by any unwanted implications of being given a dog bowl for her birthday.

Once people had digested the cake they started in on the crisps again, Steve the Welsh-German gongmaker (I don't know how else to describe him) made some excellent pasta and we went out for more bottles. All in all a very civilised day: in bed by half ten, pleasantly fuzzy round the edges. Although woke up at 5am ravenously hungry, possibly due to blood sugar having fallen from an incredibly high altitude. 


PS By the way - anyone knows of a cake decoration supplier in North London, let me know. I could have done with some blue colouring, some sugar paste, and a bigger cake board. There is apparently no sugar paste to be had in Crouch End.

The sky's the limit - no, hang on, make that Enfield

This little post chronicles my jubilation, first of all, at finding a very nice 2-metre kite to play with. It's an Ozone 2 Imp in grey and blue, and has a bar, like a grown-up kite, so that I can practise. So I'm just waiting for it to arrive...

Except it didn't arrive, because I was out. What arrived was a yellow card from DHL. So far so good. All you have to do is call one of the numbers on the card (there are two). 

0845 0261378 is an IVR system. It invites me to type in my parcel number and the depot number. Then it asks me to do it three more times before saying it can't recognise the number and will put me straight through to the depot. 

The depot is out. I imagine in Enfield either there is a fire alarm or they are all on a fag break. Or both. 

Now I try the second number, 0870 2400 555. This is the same IVR. The same thing happens - it sends me straight to the depot. 

The depot is out. I imagine in Enfield they are eating their sandwiches, perhaps playing a few games of darts. 

So next is the DHL website. This is designed for clients who want to send things, not customers who want to receive things, and is also global, so I keep having to choose country and other unencouraging things (if they don't know I'm in not in Surinam, how can they possibly know where my kite is in Enfield?). There is no sign anywhere of an Enfield depot. Enfield is 'not found'. 

Google DHL Enfield until I find a nicely-produced PDF brochure, for people called 'Data Assessors', which lists all the DHL depot numbers. Goody. Enfield is found. Try the number: 0870 44 44 828. This IVR has a male voice. But then it puts me through to the same lady IVR. Who again doesn't recognise my parcel number. 

Back on the internet. Google turns up another number: Try 020 896 33 618. At least this is geographical. A nice woman answers and tries to help me. She tells me my parcel number has one digit too many. It should be ten and it's eleven. What colour was the card I was left? Yellow? It all becomes clear. I need DHL Blue. Try...

0870 2400 555. This time ignore IVR and wait for an operator. Tell the woman that answers I am looking for Enfield. She says 'What's on your desk? Euugh!'. I am puzzled until I realise she is talking to a colleague. Remind her politely but firmly that she's talking to a customer. Silence. For about three minutes. I can hear her breathing, but she's taken umbrage. She's looking at the map trying to find Enfield. Am I familiar with the Victoria Industrial Estate? I tell her that's not Enfield's address. She then suggests I try...

0870 44 44 288. This is a nice man who finds my parcel on the system and doesn't complain about how many digits I have. I ask to arrange redelivery, and he reveals, with a sort of comic dramatic flourish, that he can't, unfortunately, arrange redelivery, madam, because this is Borehamwood, and we can't arrange redelivery for Enfield's parcels, can we, madam? He is triumphant. I imagine he is going to tell people in the canteen how there was this woman on the phone this morning who...Anyway, I tell him, lamely, that I was given this number as Enfield's. I can hear him not saying that you can't go telephoning any old number when you want Enfield, can you?  He suggests I try...

0870 44 44 828. A gravel voice answers, redolent of late nights, whisky, and Silk Cut. She has a reassuringly London accent, but it sounds like I've just woken her up. Hello, DHL? What's your parcel number? Oh hang on. Dunno what's up with my system. What did you say? 921? Oh. 981. Oh God it's not Friday yet, is it? (Here, she amuses herself to the extent that she has a paroxysm of coughing. I remind myself once again to give up smoking). Yes, well we can arrange redelivery tomorrow, probably around lunchtime. Dunno what the traffic will be like though, and how much he'll have on. Between 12 and 3.30, that be alright? 

Since I don't currently have a job, what else do I have to do? I will be riveted to see how much he has on. 

PS. Friday. Nice man arrived at 1, fully dressed. Ironically, I was in a dressing-gown - he got me out of the bath.