Coming to the final week or so of the improvements at J3 of the M60, which ordinarily I would use twice a day ferrying my good lady to and from her office. For the duration of the work I've been avoiding it in the evenings in favour of the A34 since the tailback has often filled the anticlockwise slip road right back to the motorway (about a mile), but I couldn't avoid it on Monday.
I noticed the contractors had put up "Please Merge In Turn" signs to encourage gentlemanly practice among drivers approaching from both clockwise and anticlockwise slip roads (which at the moment both feed into a single lane) and on the southerly approach from the A34 (ditto). Once complete, both of these flows of traffic will have three lanes available so you can see how much better it will be. Eventually.
But the appearance of these signs set me thinking (again) about something that has always perplexed (annoyed) me about British drivers. Whenever a road reduces in lanes, from 3 to 2, or 2 to 1, they seem hell bent on dividing into two warring camps. One lot will move into the open lane often several miles back, despite any long queue, and sit there in their righteousness inching forwards every few seconds. The other lot, perceiving that the soon-to-be closed lane has been totally vacated by the first lot, will stay in that lane until the last minute, and then attempt to cut in. At which point the righteousness of the first lot boils over into righteous indignation as they hog the bumper of the car in front to freeze out any car wanting to "push in."
This behaviour is a constant source of amusement to me, on those days where I'm in an expansive, forgiving mood. And annoyance when I'm not feeling so full of the milk of human kindness. My question - one of my questions - to the drivers in the first group is: at what point do you decide that you should abandon the unoccupied road in front of you in favour of a lengthy, barely moving queue? Which distance would you consider socially acceptable? 200 metres? 500? A mile? Two miles? And what good do you think it does to sit queuing in one lane when there's a totally empty lane going to waste immediately to your left, or right?
What is so magical about the appearance of a "Please Merge In Turn" sign that lights up the lightbulb in your head and makes you realise that it makes more sense for everyone to use as many lanes as possible, for as long as possible, and then merge in turn at the point where one lane disappears. Not to mention being a fairer and less stressful alternative.
Is it embarrassment that makes you try to stop drivers merging late from the other lane? A realisation that you too could have "pushed" to the front and not wasted all that time queuing? Or a determination to force the other person, even if only for one more car length, to "waste" a fraction of the time that you've wasted in your queue? Can't you see that merging in turn means no-one gets an unfair advantage, or disadvantage, over anyone else?
As someone aptly commented the other day: you are the result of 4 billion years of evolution. Fucking act like it.
Showing posts with label driving. Show all posts
Showing posts with label driving. Show all posts
Wednesday, November 07, 2012
Saturday, April 23, 2011
One of those things
Whenever you visit another country, you see things that are better than back home, things that are worse and, just occasionally, things that make you scratch your head and say: WTF?
For me, from the very first time I saw one 10 years ago, to the most recent time today (and every day of this trip so far), one of those "wtf" things is the All-Way (or 4-way) stop.
In the UK, and as far as I can remember in every other European country in which I've driven or been driven, whenever two roads cross there is the concept of one of them being the "major" road, and the other the "minor". So you get something like this:
Cars on the horizontal road *always* have priority; those on the vertical roads have to wait if there's traffic on the horizontal, or at least slow down to check and "give way" before turning out/crossing.
However, in North America, while this system applies to "really" major roads, in general it isn't extended to the vast network of roads around local suburbs. Here, there is no concept of a 'priority' road. All roads are equal. And because of that, when two equal roads cross, you get an All-way stop.
What a crazy, outmoded idea! Self-explanatory I'd hope, but just in case: everyone approaching this crossroads has to stop. Always. Even when there's no other traffic around at all. And because the roads and verges here are so wide, mostly you can see down the approaching roads for anything up to 100 metres. Easily far enough to tell that nothing is coming. And of course two cars coming from opposite directions and intending to go straight on would have NO effect on each other whatsoever. But both still have to stop, and then set off again.
What is even more surprising to me, as someone who spends a lot of time bemoaning how everyone ignores the rules of the road in the UK (especially cyclists), is that everyone rigidly obeys this rule. No traffic cops around, no cameras, and yet everyone stops. Always. What a waste of fuel, wear and tear on brakes and clutch, and time. And on suburban streets it's not unusual to have one of these every couple of hundred metres. You're not even allowed to "give way" (a concept that doesn't seem to exist here) - i.e. slow down, check, and proceed. No, it's a mandatory full stop. Does my head in every time.
For me, from the very first time I saw one 10 years ago, to the most recent time today (and every day of this trip so far), one of those "wtf" things is the All-Way (or 4-way) stop.
In the UK, and as far as I can remember in every other European country in which I've driven or been driven, whenever two roads cross there is the concept of one of them being the "major" road, and the other the "minor". So you get something like this:
However, in North America, while this system applies to "really" major roads, in general it isn't extended to the vast network of roads around local suburbs. Here, there is no concept of a 'priority' road. All roads are equal. And because of that, when two equal roads cross, you get an All-way stop.
What is even more surprising to me, as someone who spends a lot of time bemoaning how everyone ignores the rules of the road in the UK (especially cyclists), is that everyone rigidly obeys this rule. No traffic cops around, no cameras, and yet everyone stops. Always. What a waste of fuel, wear and tear on brakes and clutch, and time. And on suburban streets it's not unusual to have one of these every couple of hundred metres. You're not even allowed to "give way" (a concept that doesn't seem to exist here) - i.e. slow down, check, and proceed. No, it's a mandatory full stop. Does my head in every time.
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Our new baby
Truth be told we hadn't exactly planned to replace the old one, even though it was beginning to look a bit beaten up and had long since passed the 130,000 mile mark. That mileage, and seven-and-a-half years, still isn't exactly old for a modern car, but a combination of circumstances - the cancellation of the GM Card scheme and consequent time limit on "spending" the points; some good VAT-increase-beating deals; the sudden availability of some spare cash - all came together at once and nudged us over the edge. Only 50-odd miles in, and I'm already loving the ride, the handling and some of the whizzy new features, which I'm sure I'll be blogging about sooner or... well... sooner.
Saturday, December 18, 2010
Road Closed
I can't tell you how glad I am to be sat at home writing this, but maybe by the end of this story you'll be able to work it out for yourself.
The A6024 is a road I've travelled many times, in all seasons and all weathers, as it leads from the A628 (the main Manchester-Barnsley trunk road) to Holmfirth, via Holme village where I once lived. It is regularly closed in bad weather, owing to being very steep, relatively high in altitude and quite exposed. Even so, locals know that the "Yorkshire side" - that is, the road from Holme village to the summit - will usually be kept open in all but the very worst weather, on account of engineers needing 24-hour access to the radio mast at the top. The "Derbyshire side," despite being slightly less steep, doesn't enjoy such luxury and is quite often heavily snow-bound. Even so, experience has shown me that there's a 50-50 chance it will be passable with care, unless the snow has already been compacted to ice.
With all this in mind, I set off for Holme yesterday fully expecting the road to be closed. After a week of bad weather, including 2-3 inches of snow, I knew it was likely. But I also "knew" that the snow wasn't recent, so there had been chance for the gritters to do their work, and if I could make it to the top I'd be OK going down the other side. So I drove past the "Road Closed" sign at the junction with the A628 and waited to see how much conditions would deteriorate as I climbed higher.
The road showed distinct signs of having been well gritted, and for a mile or so there were only a few small patches of compacted snow to negotiate. My confidence received a boost on the longest of the straight climbs from the sight of a white van heading in the opposite direction. The driver made no attempt to signal me to stop or turn around, which strengthened my presumption that he had made it over the top and there was no reason to abandon my route.
I didn't have to go much further before my resolve took its first knock. At the point marked "A" in the aerial view shown here, the road becomes noticeably steeper and was also much icier. A Volvo estate had failed to negotiate the incline and come to rest at a 45° angle, taking up three-quarters of the road. There was room to pass - just - and I hadn't yet lost either traction or speed, so I made the split-second decision to continue. I successfully negotiated the gap, but the road beyond the Volvo became icier still, and I'd reckoned without the chewing up of the grass verge caused by the white van I'd seen moments before. Within seconds my front wheels started spinning, while my back wheels became mired in the mud. I slipped backward, steered frantically to avoid connecting with the Volvo, and came to rest stuck in the shallow ditch.
I span the wheels a few more times, but it was clearly hopeless. I wasn't going anywhere. Luck, however, had not totally deserted me. Nikki had taken the afternoon off, and was at home. And I had my phone with me. It may seem strange (and it's a habit I now plan to lose) but mostly I don't carry my mobile around, especially at weekends. It's a work phone, and I hate taking work calls out of hours. But today, fortunately, a colleague was covering for me at a review meeting (so I could leave early to pick Blythe up) on condition that I was available to handle any "hard" questions by phone.
I called Nikki, and as I dialled my phone gave out its low battery warning. Boop-boop-boop. I've always thought it's a sad little chime, but right then it was terrifying! When Nikki answered I rattled off my situation, asked her to organise a recovery vehicle, and rang off as quickly as I could to conserve the battery. A few minutes later she phoned back with the news that it would be at least an hour as they had to wait for a 4x4 recovery vehicle, but they would definitely be there and I was to phone back if anything changed. I turned the engine off, and climbed out to survey the situation. The car was at a complementary angle to the Volvo, slightly ahead, so between the two of us we completely blocked the road. He had obviously been there overnight - the windscreen covered in heavy frost - and from the dangling passenger door mirror I surmised he'd endured a few knocks before giving up the climb. My offside front wheel stood on gritted slush but would bite into the tarmac if I tried to move. The nearside though, span freely on inch-thick ice. Without a shovel - or indeed any tools to speak of - I had no chance of digging down to tarmac on that side and I couldn't have opened the back anyway as it was wedged against the bank. I got back in, reached for a crossword puzzle, and settled in for a long wait.
Barely 15 minutes later the -7°C outside temperature had crept noticeably into the cabin. I fired up the engine for a few minutes. Steve Wright kept up his jaunty Christmas banter on Radio 2 and I wondered how long "at least an hour" would turn out to be, and whether there'd be any adverse effects of running the engine for long periods of time while stationary on a hill. "Boop-boop-boop," said my phone.
After another 30 minutes, the monotony was relieved by the arrival, from behind, of a Land Rover bearing flashing lights. I thought at first it was the police, and had begun composing an explanation as to why I was stuck on a closed road when I realised it was a BT Openreach vehicle. It pulled up behind the Volvo and two guys walked over for a chat. They'd been on their way to the radio mast (the "Y" shaped structure at the top of the hill just above point "A" on the map). A bit of human company was more than welcome - despite the embarrassing circumstances - and the guys, being typical engineers, began to cast around for a solution to the problem. They were in the wrong position to pull me out, but one of them took a hand shovel and a wire brush and collected a small amount of grit from the meagre piles on the road, and spread it under my iced wheel while the other one offered me the use of his BlackBerry to reassure Nikki I was OK, but still waiting. Having done all they could and confirmed that recovery was definitely on the way, they left me to it, offering a final word of advice to keep the cabin temperature up. By now it was after 3.30 and the sun was only just above the horizon. It was about to get much colder.
It wasn't very long before I'd finished the crossword and began to get bored with waiting. I took another look at the icy side and pondered whether the grit had done any good. Only one way to find out. I started her up again and attempted to pull forward. Success! Brief success, as the front wheels reached the next patch of ice. I span them, and they chewed their way down to tarmac again, lurching forward another couple of inches. I was stuck again. Another recce revealed that one rear wheel was carrying a wedge of sod from the ditch which was acting like a chock. I kicked it free and tried again. Another six inches of progress! By this time I'd gained a couple of feet on the Volvo. I was determined to get free. Surely I could make it the final foot to a less icy part of the road? I was only a couple of hundred yards from the summit and the well-treated side of the hill. A final check of all four wheels and I reckoned if I rolled back a few inches and straightened up, I'd have three wheels on (slushy) tarmac. With that manoeuvre completed, I span those front wheels for all they were worth, steered left and right to help the tyres find a purchase, and with a loud CLUNK I shot forward onto the next gritted section and began to pick up speed.
I made certain I'd crested the hill before calling Nikki to cancel the recovery, and drove confidently past the radio mast, and the vantage point car park (small white blob on the opposite side of the road above). But what's this? I've just passed the last place where it's possible to turn around and... the road on the Yorkshire side hasn't been treated. If anything it's even icier than on the way up. My attempts at gentle braking are successful - for a few seconds. Then the wheels lock and the car begins to slide. And pick up speed.
Like many of you, I've watched the YouTube footage of cars sliding down urban streets in the snow. Funny, aren't they? Unless you're driving. But on those videos the worst that usually happens is a slow-motion fender bender as the sliding vehicle connects with parked cars, or street furniture. Out here, on a rapidly-darkening hillside in the middle of nowhere, there are no parked cars and precious little street furniture. Only intermittent barriers. Nothing to stop me careering off the road and down the hill. I stood on the brakes. I pulled on the handbrake. And the car started to spin around.
I couldn't let that happen. I'd lose all control. I let the wheels turn again long enough to steer back to a straight course, and re-applied the brakes. I'd now picked up enough speed for the anti-lock brakes to kick in and this, combined with a fortuitous patch of slush, allowed me to bring the car to a stop, catch my breath, and wait for my heart to stop racing. By now it was almost dark and I faced a long descent. I could see that parts of the road were relatively safe - chewed-up snow, small patches of grit and even the occasional section of tarmac faintly visible. Other parts however, looked worryingly... glazed. Nothing for it but to proceed with extreme caution. I let the brakes off slightly, rolled forward an inch or two, and braked again. The car stopped. Again: release, roll, stop. After a few repeats I let the forward motion proceed without stops, but still at much less than walking pace. I knew I couldn't let the momentum build beyond where my limited traction could bring me to a stop again. Wherever possible I kept the wheels on snow, not letting my concentration waver for a second.
Headlights appeared behind me. Another car had crested the brow of the hill and started down, apparently making much better speed than I. I stopped and waited for him to pass at what looked like about 5mph. Either four-wheel drive, or over-confident, I suspected he would eventually wish he'd taken more care, but I wasn't about to follow his example, having neither 4WD or indeed much confidence left!
Headlights appeared in front of me. Soon I could make out the shape of a tractor coming up the hill. He noticed my slow progress and pulled onto the snow-covered grass verge to wait in case I lost it. I pulled level with him on the long straight stretch, at the mid-point between "Woodhead Road" and "A6024" on the aerial view (between markers "A" and "B"), and opened the window for a chat. It was the recovery man. He'd heard I'd got free and was on his way to collect the Volvo instead. I told him I was beginning to wish I'd waited for him. It would have been £150 (+VAT) well spent. He warned me of an abandoned van further down the hill and we set off again in opposite directions.
Progress continued pretty much as before until I reached the sharp bend at point "B". This is a steep, drifting right-hander with a nasty camber even in good weather. It was also the point at which the aforementioned van had been left, on the inside of the curve heading up. Fortunately it had at least been pulled partly off the road. Even so, I regarded the corner with mounting dread. The entire road surface shone dully in my headlights and for about 30 yards the road was significantly steeper than anything I'd encountered so far.
I didn't think it was possible for wheels to turn any slower than they had been and still impart forward motion, but I managed it somehow. It wasn't enough. Barely a yard into the turn the car started to slide, and since the camber wasn't in my favour the slide was sideways. Shortly accompanied by a slow and graceful pirouette as the back end started to overtake the front. There was nothing I could do but offer up a silent prayer of recognition that whatever was going to happen would happen, and attempt through a combination of rolling, steering and braking, to minimise the almost total loss of control.
The offside rear wheel hit the grass at the middle of the inside curve, which flipped the car forwards again. The straight stretch of road between "B" and "C" has a wide grass verge on the left and I managed, gathering pace at an alarming rate, to steer for this and get two wheels onto the grass. The drag from this, plus braking (with anti-lock) brought me to a halt a hundred yards further down the road. Without doubt the scariest hundred yards I've ever covered.
Once my heart rate had slowed to 500 beats a minute, I started off again, but since this is a very familiar road for me I knew there was another daunting hazard to come. Point "C". This time, a left-hand bend, so no verge would come to my rescue. And even sharper and steeper than the one I'd just endured. On the opposite side of the road, all along the outside curve of the corner, high concrete kerbs waited to cause extreme damage. I rolled up to the corner and considered my options, checking out the surface across the width of the road. It looked bad. I opened the door and put my foot out to test it. You know when people say "it was like a sheet of ice"? Well this wasn't like a sheet of ice. It was a sheet of ice. An alternative strategy to total loss of control was most definitely called for.
The inside edge of the bend comprised a narrow concrete kerb set flush with the road, with a slightly wider grass/mud verge beyond. With careful steering and extreme slowness, I managed to keep both nearside wheels over the kerb around the whole corner, and thereby kept control. The remaining two bends - another right-hander but with a flat off-road passing place on my side; and another left-hander where the tall red-and-white plastic road block caused a minor navigation issue - were no problem compared to what I'd already experienced, and a few seconds later I was bowling along the flat, black, DRY tarmac into Holme village at a relatively normal pace.
Googlemaps tells me the distance from the top of the Moss to Holme village is 1.8 miles and should take 4 minutes. Yesterday that descent took me an hour and fifteen minutes and by the end my right leg was shaking with the sustained effort of controlled braking for every one of those 75 minutes.
For me, from now on, "Road Closed" will not mean "go on, I'll give it a go." It will mean that the road is closed.
The A6024 is a road I've travelled many times, in all seasons and all weathers, as it leads from the A628 (the main Manchester-Barnsley trunk road) to Holmfirth, via Holme village where I once lived. It is regularly closed in bad weather, owing to being very steep, relatively high in altitude and quite exposed. Even so, locals know that the "Yorkshire side" - that is, the road from Holme village to the summit - will usually be kept open in all but the very worst weather, on account of engineers needing 24-hour access to the radio mast at the top. The "Derbyshire side," despite being slightly less steep, doesn't enjoy such luxury and is quite often heavily snow-bound. Even so, experience has shown me that there's a 50-50 chance it will be passable with care, unless the snow has already been compacted to ice.
With all this in mind, I set off for Holme yesterday fully expecting the road to be closed. After a week of bad weather, including 2-3 inches of snow, I knew it was likely. But I also "knew" that the snow wasn't recent, so there had been chance for the gritters to do their work, and if I could make it to the top I'd be OK going down the other side. So I drove past the "Road Closed" sign at the junction with the A628 and waited to see how much conditions would deteriorate as I climbed higher.
I didn't have to go much further before my resolve took its first knock. At the point marked "A" in the aerial view shown here, the road becomes noticeably steeper and was also much icier. A Volvo estate had failed to negotiate the incline and come to rest at a 45° angle, taking up three-quarters of the road. There was room to pass - just - and I hadn't yet lost either traction or speed, so I made the split-second decision to continue. I successfully negotiated the gap, but the road beyond the Volvo became icier still, and I'd reckoned without the chewing up of the grass verge caused by the white van I'd seen moments before. Within seconds my front wheels started spinning, while my back wheels became mired in the mud. I slipped backward, steered frantically to avoid connecting with the Volvo, and came to rest stuck in the shallow ditch.
I span the wheels a few more times, but it was clearly hopeless. I wasn't going anywhere. Luck, however, had not totally deserted me. Nikki had taken the afternoon off, and was at home. And I had my phone with me. It may seem strange (and it's a habit I now plan to lose) but mostly I don't carry my mobile around, especially at weekends. It's a work phone, and I hate taking work calls out of hours. But today, fortunately, a colleague was covering for me at a review meeting (so I could leave early to pick Blythe up) on condition that I was available to handle any "hard" questions by phone.
I called Nikki, and as I dialled my phone gave out its low battery warning. Boop-boop-boop. I've always thought it's a sad little chime, but right then it was terrifying! When Nikki answered I rattled off my situation, asked her to organise a recovery vehicle, and rang off as quickly as I could to conserve the battery. A few minutes later she phoned back with the news that it would be at least an hour as they had to wait for a 4x4 recovery vehicle, but they would definitely be there and I was to phone back if anything changed. I turned the engine off, and climbed out to survey the situation. The car was at a complementary angle to the Volvo, slightly ahead, so between the two of us we completely blocked the road. He had obviously been there overnight - the windscreen covered in heavy frost - and from the dangling passenger door mirror I surmised he'd endured a few knocks before giving up the climb. My offside front wheel stood on gritted slush but would bite into the tarmac if I tried to move. The nearside though, span freely on inch-thick ice. Without a shovel - or indeed any tools to speak of - I had no chance of digging down to tarmac on that side and I couldn't have opened the back anyway as it was wedged against the bank. I got back in, reached for a crossword puzzle, and settled in for a long wait.
Barely 15 minutes later the -7°C outside temperature had crept noticeably into the cabin. I fired up the engine for a few minutes. Steve Wright kept up his jaunty Christmas banter on Radio 2 and I wondered how long "at least an hour" would turn out to be, and whether there'd be any adverse effects of running the engine for long periods of time while stationary on a hill. "Boop-boop-boop," said my phone.
After another 30 minutes, the monotony was relieved by the arrival, from behind, of a Land Rover bearing flashing lights. I thought at first it was the police, and had begun composing an explanation as to why I was stuck on a closed road when I realised it was a BT Openreach vehicle. It pulled up behind the Volvo and two guys walked over for a chat. They'd been on their way to the radio mast (the "Y" shaped structure at the top of the hill just above point "A" on the map). A bit of human company was more than welcome - despite the embarrassing circumstances - and the guys, being typical engineers, began to cast around for a solution to the problem. They were in the wrong position to pull me out, but one of them took a hand shovel and a wire brush and collected a small amount of grit from the meagre piles on the road, and spread it under my iced wheel while the other one offered me the use of his BlackBerry to reassure Nikki I was OK, but still waiting. Having done all they could and confirmed that recovery was definitely on the way, they left me to it, offering a final word of advice to keep the cabin temperature up. By now it was after 3.30 and the sun was only just above the horizon. It was about to get much colder.
It wasn't very long before I'd finished the crossword and began to get bored with waiting. I took another look at the icy side and pondered whether the grit had done any good. Only one way to find out. I started her up again and attempted to pull forward. Success! Brief success, as the front wheels reached the next patch of ice. I span them, and they chewed their way down to tarmac again, lurching forward another couple of inches. I was stuck again. Another recce revealed that one rear wheel was carrying a wedge of sod from the ditch which was acting like a chock. I kicked it free and tried again. Another six inches of progress! By this time I'd gained a couple of feet on the Volvo. I was determined to get free. Surely I could make it the final foot to a less icy part of the road? I was only a couple of hundred yards from the summit and the well-treated side of the hill. A final check of all four wheels and I reckoned if I rolled back a few inches and straightened up, I'd have three wheels on (slushy) tarmac. With that manoeuvre completed, I span those front wheels for all they were worth, steered left and right to help the tyres find a purchase, and with a loud CLUNK I shot forward onto the next gritted section and began to pick up speed.
I made certain I'd crested the hill before calling Nikki to cancel the recovery, and drove confidently past the radio mast, and the vantage point car park (small white blob on the opposite side of the road above). But what's this? I've just passed the last place where it's possible to turn around and... the road on the Yorkshire side hasn't been treated. If anything it's even icier than on the way up. My attempts at gentle braking are successful - for a few seconds. Then the wheels lock and the car begins to slide. And pick up speed.
Like many of you, I've watched the YouTube footage of cars sliding down urban streets in the snow. Funny, aren't they? Unless you're driving. But on those videos the worst that usually happens is a slow-motion fender bender as the sliding vehicle connects with parked cars, or street furniture. Out here, on a rapidly-darkening hillside in the middle of nowhere, there are no parked cars and precious little street furniture. Only intermittent barriers. Nothing to stop me careering off the road and down the hill. I stood on the brakes. I pulled on the handbrake. And the car started to spin around.
I couldn't let that happen. I'd lose all control. I let the wheels turn again long enough to steer back to a straight course, and re-applied the brakes. I'd now picked up enough speed for the anti-lock brakes to kick in and this, combined with a fortuitous patch of slush, allowed me to bring the car to a stop, catch my breath, and wait for my heart to stop racing. By now it was almost dark and I faced a long descent. I could see that parts of the road were relatively safe - chewed-up snow, small patches of grit and even the occasional section of tarmac faintly visible. Other parts however, looked worryingly... glazed. Nothing for it but to proceed with extreme caution. I let the brakes off slightly, rolled forward an inch or two, and braked again. The car stopped. Again: release, roll, stop. After a few repeats I let the forward motion proceed without stops, but still at much less than walking pace. I knew I couldn't let the momentum build beyond where my limited traction could bring me to a stop again. Wherever possible I kept the wheels on snow, not letting my concentration waver for a second.
Headlights appeared behind me. Another car had crested the brow of the hill and started down, apparently making much better speed than I. I stopped and waited for him to pass at what looked like about 5mph. Either four-wheel drive, or over-confident, I suspected he would eventually wish he'd taken more care, but I wasn't about to follow his example, having neither 4WD or indeed much confidence left!
Headlights appeared in front of me. Soon I could make out the shape of a tractor coming up the hill. He noticed my slow progress and pulled onto the snow-covered grass verge to wait in case I lost it. I pulled level with him on the long straight stretch, at the mid-point between "Woodhead Road" and "A6024" on the aerial view (between markers "A" and "B"), and opened the window for a chat. It was the recovery man. He'd heard I'd got free and was on his way to collect the Volvo instead. I told him I was beginning to wish I'd waited for him. It would have been £150 (+VAT) well spent. He warned me of an abandoned van further down the hill and we set off again in opposite directions.
Progress continued pretty much as before until I reached the sharp bend at point "B". This is a steep, drifting right-hander with a nasty camber even in good weather. It was also the point at which the aforementioned van had been left, on the inside of the curve heading up. Fortunately it had at least been pulled partly off the road. Even so, I regarded the corner with mounting dread. The entire road surface shone dully in my headlights and for about 30 yards the road was significantly steeper than anything I'd encountered so far.
I didn't think it was possible for wheels to turn any slower than they had been and still impart forward motion, but I managed it somehow. It wasn't enough. Barely a yard into the turn the car started to slide, and since the camber wasn't in my favour the slide was sideways. Shortly accompanied by a slow and graceful pirouette as the back end started to overtake the front. There was nothing I could do but offer up a silent prayer of recognition that whatever was going to happen would happen, and attempt through a combination of rolling, steering and braking, to minimise the almost total loss of control.
The offside rear wheel hit the grass at the middle of the inside curve, which flipped the car forwards again. The straight stretch of road between "B" and "C" has a wide grass verge on the left and I managed, gathering pace at an alarming rate, to steer for this and get two wheels onto the grass. The drag from this, plus braking (with anti-lock) brought me to a halt a hundred yards further down the road. Without doubt the scariest hundred yards I've ever covered.
Once my heart rate had slowed to 500 beats a minute, I started off again, but since this is a very familiar road for me I knew there was another daunting hazard to come. Point "C". This time, a left-hand bend, so no verge would come to my rescue. And even sharper and steeper than the one I'd just endured. On the opposite side of the road, all along the outside curve of the corner, high concrete kerbs waited to cause extreme damage. I rolled up to the corner and considered my options, checking out the surface across the width of the road. It looked bad. I opened the door and put my foot out to test it. You know when people say "it was like a sheet of ice"? Well this wasn't like a sheet of ice. It was a sheet of ice. An alternative strategy to total loss of control was most definitely called for.
The inside edge of the bend comprised a narrow concrete kerb set flush with the road, with a slightly wider grass/mud verge beyond. With careful steering and extreme slowness, I managed to keep both nearside wheels over the kerb around the whole corner, and thereby kept control. The remaining two bends - another right-hander but with a flat off-road passing place on my side; and another left-hander where the tall red-and-white plastic road block caused a minor navigation issue - were no problem compared to what I'd already experienced, and a few seconds later I was bowling along the flat, black, DRY tarmac into Holme village at a relatively normal pace.
Googlemaps tells me the distance from the top of the Moss to Holme village is 1.8 miles and should take 4 minutes. Yesterday that descent took me an hour and fifteen minutes and by the end my right leg was shaking with the sustained effort of controlled braking for every one of those 75 minutes.
For me, from now on, "Road Closed" will not mean "go on, I'll give it a go." It will mean that the road is closed.
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Come, friendly bombs, and fall on Slough!
A long day yesterday, as I rose at 4.15am and left the house a little more than half-an-hour later to make the drive to Slough. When I think back to the time - not that long gone - when I used to regularly do this twice (and on rare occasions, three times) a week it gives me shivers.
I've been fortunate this year. The last time I made the trek South, back in April and with a different destination (Bracknell), was the only other time I've had to drive anywhere. A welcome change from the financial year 2003/4 when I did 22,000 business miles. If I had to do that now I don't think I'd ever be awake outside of the working day!
Anyway, enough waffle. The point of this post is the number of surprises that pop up when you haven't taken a once-familiar journey for more than six months. For a start, Cherwell Valley services - where I habitually take my breakfast - has disappeared. Well, not disappeared exactly, but when you enter the car park in the darkness of a late autumn morning before 7am, and the building is not where it once was, the first impression is definitely one of it having been spirited away.
Its replacement, on the other side of the car park, has a prefabricated temporary feel to it, which was explained when I returned to the car. Dawn having broken a bit, I could see the beginnings of a new steel skeleton where the old building used to be, along with a couple of cranes, so the owners clearly intend eventually to put it back where it was. Bit of a drastic and expensive solution to a leaking roof (the only problem I recall being visible with the old place), but it shows there's still lots of money in the motorway services game.
Slough too held some surprises. The company is vacating the building but it's a slow process, made even slower when they realised how hard it was going to be to move the test rigs. Finding space for them in the new building, levering them out of their current position (where they've been for at least ten years to my knowledge), moving them without "dropping" any, discovering there's a percentage of them that won't turn on again when they arrive at their new home (always a risk when moving equipment of any age) and all this at a time when we're in the middle of a critical test phase. It didn't take long for the buttock clenching to kick in and delay the move.
But the building is half decommissioned. So the first thing to greet me was a sign on the door saying reception was no longer manned and I should telephone whoever I was visiting to gain access. Only he was late. Thankfully a passing pedestrian happened to know the door code so I made it inside and headed up to the floor I used to hot desk on. Stepping out of the lift I noticed the door of the gents had been adorned with a sign saying "this facility is no longer in use" and on entering the office I discovered serried ranks of empty desks devoid of phones, power, or LAN.
I headed down the stairs (which weren't lit) towards a friendly, but dim light below. It was coming from the 4th floor. The top half of the building is effectively moth balled, and that includes the restaurant. So no hot food, no decent coffee, no snack bar, half as many toilets as there should be, and desk spaces at an all time low. Betjeman was right all along!
I've been fortunate this year. The last time I made the trek South, back in April and with a different destination (Bracknell), was the only other time I've had to drive anywhere. A welcome change from the financial year 2003/4 when I did 22,000 business miles. If I had to do that now I don't think I'd ever be awake outside of the working day!
Anyway, enough waffle. The point of this post is the number of surprises that pop up when you haven't taken a once-familiar journey for more than six months. For a start, Cherwell Valley services - where I habitually take my breakfast - has disappeared. Well, not disappeared exactly, but when you enter the car park in the darkness of a late autumn morning before 7am, and the building is not where it once was, the first impression is definitely one of it having been spirited away.
Its replacement, on the other side of the car park, has a prefabricated temporary feel to it, which was explained when I returned to the car. Dawn having broken a bit, I could see the beginnings of a new steel skeleton where the old building used to be, along with a couple of cranes, so the owners clearly intend eventually to put it back where it was. Bit of a drastic and expensive solution to a leaking roof (the only problem I recall being visible with the old place), but it shows there's still lots of money in the motorway services game.
Slough too held some surprises. The company is vacating the building but it's a slow process, made even slower when they realised how hard it was going to be to move the test rigs. Finding space for them in the new building, levering them out of their current position (where they've been for at least ten years to my knowledge), moving them without "dropping" any, discovering there's a percentage of them that won't turn on again when they arrive at their new home (always a risk when moving equipment of any age) and all this at a time when we're in the middle of a critical test phase. It didn't take long for the buttock clenching to kick in and delay the move.
But the building is half decommissioned. So the first thing to greet me was a sign on the door saying reception was no longer manned and I should telephone whoever I was visiting to gain access. Only he was late. Thankfully a passing pedestrian happened to know the door code so I made it inside and headed up to the floor I used to hot desk on. Stepping out of the lift I noticed the door of the gents had been adorned with a sign saying "this facility is no longer in use" and on entering the office I discovered serried ranks of empty desks devoid of phones, power, or LAN.
I headed down the stairs (which weren't lit) towards a friendly, but dim light below. It was coming from the 4th floor. The top half of the building is effectively moth balled, and that includes the restaurant. So no hot food, no decent coffee, no snack bar, half as many toilets as there should be, and desk spaces at an all time low. Betjeman was right all along!
Monday, October 25, 2010
First Scrape
It was a bit of a shock to have to scrape the car on the first frosty morning of the season last Thursday, but even worse this morning as temperatures hit -2°C and the scraping was correspondingly more vigorous and knuckle-numbing.
There's only been a few years of my life (I could probably work it out exactly... hang on... *stares at fingers* ... 7) when I've enjoyed the luxury of a garaged car in the winter (and then only after a massive clearout and shelf- and wood store-building operation) and the benefits of that luxury were more than outweighed by the drawbacks in the end (!) but on mornings like this I must admit that a small part of me hankers after structural automotive protection of some kind. Even a car port would be enough to keep the frost off. Probably.
There's only been a few years of my life (I could probably work it out exactly... hang on... *stares at fingers* ... 7) when I've enjoyed the luxury of a garaged car in the winter (and then only after a massive clearout and shelf- and wood store-building operation) and the benefits of that luxury were more than outweighed by the drawbacks in the end (!) but on mornings like this I must admit that a small part of me hankers after structural automotive protection of some kind. Even a car port would be enough to keep the frost off. Probably.
Wednesday, September 08, 2010
What happened at the car doctors
I took the car to the garage this morning. You may remember reading exactly the same opening sentence to yesterday's blog. There's a reason for that. I had exactly the same opening sentence to my day. This is because unfortunately, despite my mechanic being both very good and very reasonably priced, he has a limited grasp of scheduling.
The way it works in his garage is that he says "yes" to any work that appears on the horizon and then proceeds to handle them sequentially. If it transpires that he's taken on more work than can be done in a day, the ones left over simply get shunted to the next day. Which is fine (I suppose) if you can leave your motor with him overnight. I can't. So when I call up towards the end of the day I get "sorry, I've not even looked at it yet."
Which has now happened on four out of the five occasions I've taken the car to him. In any other circumstance this would be grounds for me to take my business elsewhere (with a level of huffiness dictated by my grumpiness at the time), but he IS cheap. And the garage IS within walking distance.
Anyway it turns out all this enginemanagementpoorperformancelumpyrunning business is my own fault. I haven't been checking my oil regularly enough. He actually said that. "I get the impression you don't check your oil very often." Yeah, that would be right. Well, to be entirely honest, "at all" would be closer to the mark. I usually leave it until the oil warning light flickers when I'm taking a hard corner, and then think "ah. Must get some oil next time I fill up."
This, apparently, is not the best approach to take. Especially on modern engines with hydraulic tappets. Because, well, being hydraulic, they need - you know - oil. If the oil level drops all their little reservoirs go dry in a kind of homage to the state of the country's water supply a few weeks ago, the valves don't open properly, and the engine management unit registers a misfire and turns on its little light to tell me all about it. Occasionally the whole situation gets so bad the misfires become audible, and affect more than one valve, which explains last Friday's (and Sunday's) journeys.
He cleaned it all up, reset the EMU codes, and topped up the oil. For my part, I'll be doing weekly oil checks from now on. Me ol' Dad would be proud of me. Exasperated, but proud.
The way it works in his garage is that he says "yes" to any work that appears on the horizon and then proceeds to handle them sequentially. If it transpires that he's taken on more work than can be done in a day, the ones left over simply get shunted to the next day. Which is fine (I suppose) if you can leave your motor with him overnight. I can't. So when I call up towards the end of the day I get "sorry, I've not even looked at it yet."
Which has now happened on four out of the five occasions I've taken the car to him. In any other circumstance this would be grounds for me to take my business elsewhere (with a level of huffiness dictated by my grumpiness at the time), but he IS cheap. And the garage IS within walking distance.
Anyway it turns out all this enginemanagementpoorperformancelumpyrunning business is my own fault. I haven't been checking my oil regularly enough. He actually said that. "I get the impression you don't check your oil very often." Yeah, that would be right. Well, to be entirely honest, "at all" would be closer to the mark. I usually leave it until the oil warning light flickers when I'm taking a hard corner, and then think "ah. Must get some oil next time I fill up."
This, apparently, is not the best approach to take. Especially on modern engines with hydraulic tappets. Because, well, being hydraulic, they need - you know - oil. If the oil level drops all their little reservoirs go dry in a kind of homage to the state of the country's water supply a few weeks ago, the valves don't open properly, and the engine management unit registers a misfire and turns on its little light to tell me all about it. Occasionally the whole situation gets so bad the misfires become audible, and affect more than one valve, which explains last Friday's (and Sunday's) journeys.
He cleaned it all up, reset the EMU codes, and topped up the oil. For my part, I'll be doing weekly oil checks from now on. Me ol' Dad would be proud of me. Exasperated, but proud.
Monday, July 12, 2010
Water boy
We have a hosepipe ban here in the North West of England, as of last Friday. You might remember I blogged on United Utilities' incompetence a while back, and now the predicted ban is in place.
Information on how to save water, and how to keep your garden alive without a hosepipe (save the bath water, the washing up water, use a watering can, etc, etc) abounds. Businesses that rely on hosepipes, such as the dodgy five-minute car wash places that have sprung up all over the place, largely unmonitored and, I suspect, not paying an awful lot of tax beyond what they're forced to pay on account of their water supply being metered, are exempt. This is understandable. We wouldn't want people thrown out of work just because we're running out of water, would we? No matter what tax avoidance scams they're getting away with.
But even so, I'd expected (in my naivete) that most businesses would at least be doing their bit to avoid wasting water. Not so the Greater Manchester Passenger Transport Executive, apparently. I drove home this morning past a man with a van, and a handy hose-and-spray attachment, giving our nearest bus shelter a quick squirt. Because let's face it the one thing everyone needs in the middle of the worst drought since 1929, is a clean bus shelter.
Information on how to save water, and how to keep your garden alive without a hosepipe (save the bath water, the washing up water, use a watering can, etc, etc) abounds. Businesses that rely on hosepipes, such as the dodgy five-minute car wash places that have sprung up all over the place, largely unmonitored and, I suspect, not paying an awful lot of tax beyond what they're forced to pay on account of their water supply being metered, are exempt. This is understandable. We wouldn't want people thrown out of work just because we're running out of water, would we? No matter what tax avoidance scams they're getting away with.
But even so, I'd expected (in my naivete) that most businesses would at least be doing their bit to avoid wasting water. Not so the Greater Manchester Passenger Transport Executive, apparently. I drove home this morning past a man with a van, and a handy hose-and-spray attachment, giving our nearest bus shelter a quick squirt. Because let's face it the one thing everyone needs in the middle of the worst drought since 1929, is a clean bus shelter.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Oil spillage
No, I'm not going to add to the thousands of blogwords written about the accident in the Gulf. We're talking spillage on a much smaller scale here - the oil that's been leaking out of my car since it was about a year old, the sad revelation that you can't even trust the tradespeople you think you can trust, and the unlooked for benefits that can accompany an enforced change of tradesperson.
When I first noticed I was having to top up the oil quite frequently, I mentioned it to my mechanic on my next service visit. I forgot to ask him about it when I picked the car up, and it was a couple of months before it became obvious that it was still using oil. Even so, the loss rate wasn't enough to nudge me into making a special visit to the garage so it was another year before I had the opportunity to mention it to him again. And this time, I remembered to check with him whether he'd fixed it.
"You don't have a leak," he insisted. "Modern engines do burn oil, you just need to keep it topped up."
Being among the 99% of the population who don't understand the first thing about "modern engines" I didn't question this, but carried on adding a pint of oil every 8-10 weeks from that day - probably around the start of 2006 - until earlier this year when the closure of my regular garage forced me to move to another mechanic. Closer, but slightly more expensive.
And it's only about a week ago that it occurred to me I haven't had to top up the oil since. That service was back in February and ordinarily I'd have gone through at least two pints of oil by now. So yesterday, I dipped my stick out of curiosity. The oil level was only one notch below full. In other words, there HAD been a leak after all, my original guy couldn't be arsed to fix it, but the new guy spotted it and put it right without even mentioning it to me, or charging me any extra.
A study in false economy. That first garage may have appeared cheaper, but over the years he cost me around 300 quid in replacement oil that I could easily have avoided.
When I first noticed I was having to top up the oil quite frequently, I mentioned it to my mechanic on my next service visit. I forgot to ask him about it when I picked the car up, and it was a couple of months before it became obvious that it was still using oil. Even so, the loss rate wasn't enough to nudge me into making a special visit to the garage so it was another year before I had the opportunity to mention it to him again. And this time, I remembered to check with him whether he'd fixed it.
"You don't have a leak," he insisted. "Modern engines do burn oil, you just need to keep it topped up."
Being among the 99% of the population who don't understand the first thing about "modern engines" I didn't question this, but carried on adding a pint of oil every 8-10 weeks from that day - probably around the start of 2006 - until earlier this year when the closure of my regular garage forced me to move to another mechanic. Closer, but slightly more expensive.
And it's only about a week ago that it occurred to me I haven't had to top up the oil since. That service was back in February and ordinarily I'd have gone through at least two pints of oil by now. So yesterday, I dipped my stick out of curiosity. The oil level was only one notch below full. In other words, there HAD been a leak after all, my original guy couldn't be arsed to fix it, but the new guy spotted it and put it right without even mentioning it to me, or charging me any extra.
A study in false economy. That first garage may have appeared cheaper, but over the years he cost me around 300 quid in replacement oil that I could easily have avoided.
Friday, April 23, 2010
Cleaning cars
I don't clean my car.
It's always been a kind of "grudge purchase" - or grudge activity I suppose - with me. I never saw the point of washing something that was going to get dirty again more or less immediately. It's not like a freshly-laundered shirt, where you can avoid dropping your dinner down it. At least for a day or so. Usually. No, with a car, you can't avoid the rain, the mud, the fumes, the dust and - most recently - the volcanic ash. Cars get dirty no matter how "careful" you are.
So I don't bother. Unless it's a special occasion. Like the arrival of the outlaws. Which means it might get a wash once a year, if it's lucky. I drive past one of those "best hand job in Manchester" places every day after dropping Nikki at work, but I even begrudge the six quid it would cost me for the minor detour (it's right there on the main road, so only a swerve or two will do it) to let someone else wash it for me.
Don't get me wrong, I understand the attraction of owning and driving a gleaming polished machine. I just can't be arsed.
But I had to smile at the guy I saw pull in there this morning in his soft-top Merc. I mean, to my mind, the damn thing was ALREADY CLEAN.
It's always been a kind of "grudge purchase" - or grudge activity I suppose - with me. I never saw the point of washing something that was going to get dirty again more or less immediately. It's not like a freshly-laundered shirt, where you can avoid dropping your dinner down it. At least for a day or so. Usually. No, with a car, you can't avoid the rain, the mud, the fumes, the dust and - most recently - the volcanic ash. Cars get dirty no matter how "careful" you are.
So I don't bother. Unless it's a special occasion. Like the arrival of the outlaws. Which means it might get a wash once a year, if it's lucky. I drive past one of those "best hand job in Manchester" places every day after dropping Nikki at work, but I even begrudge the six quid it would cost me for the minor detour (it's right there on the main road, so only a swerve or two will do it) to let someone else wash it for me.
Don't get me wrong, I understand the attraction of owning and driving a gleaming polished machine. I just can't be arsed.
But I had to smile at the guy I saw pull in there this morning in his soft-top Merc. I mean, to my mind, the damn thing was ALREADY CLEAN.
Friday, January 22, 2010
Flat
Set off to take Nikki to work this morning and I knew instantly something was wrong. That familiar heavy feeling of driving with a flat tyre.
Sure enough the nearside front was pancaked. Luckily the forecast rain hadn't yet set in. Changing the wheel on a road with a heavy camber, in the dark, is hard enough without having strong Manchester drizzle to cope with as well.
After twenty minutes we were back on the road, Nikki using her iPhone to consult the opening times of local tyre fitters and me hoping the spare had enough air to get me there and I wouldn't run over anything (else) sharp on the way.
Arrived back home an hour or so later, almost a hundred quid poorer after the discovery that those three measly feet of travel on the completely flat tyre had wrecked the sidewalls and a repair was out of the question. At least, that's what they tell you.
Monday, November 09, 2009
First frost
One of my annual checkpoints occurred this morning. The first day on which I'm forced to scrape the ice off the car before I can drive off. We've had an unseasonably mild November so far, but that's all over now. Now all we have to look forward to is three months or so of scraping, and waiting for the blower to clear the windscreen. Or driving off too soon, and bending almost double behind the steering wheel to peer blearily through the thin sliver of glass that's not opaqued by the dust and engine gases that belch out from the demister vents and mingle with passenger breath to create an immovable oily film.
I could clean the windows I suppose, which would make the demister marginally more efficient, but I've never got on well with car cleaning. Something for which the word "nugatory" was invented, if you ask me.
I could clean the windows I suppose, which would make the demister marginally more efficient, but I've never got on well with car cleaning. Something for which the word "nugatory" was invented, if you ask me.
Monday, July 20, 2009
Another 4x4 rant
Now that the schools have broken up and the roads around our house are mercifully free of the damned Chelsea tractors for at least 6 weeks, I can afford the slight rise in blood pressure to write about my reaction to a recent Mitsubishi advert.
Apparently one of their tanks has the lowest CO2 emissions of any 7-seater 4x4. Wow. Big deal. Still worse than a regular car though eh? How many of you really *need* 7 seats? How many of you benefit from (or even know how to engage) the 4-wheel drive?
Wankers.
Apparently one of their tanks has the lowest CO2 emissions of any 7-seater 4x4. Wow. Big deal. Still worse than a regular car though eh? How many of you really *need* 7 seats? How many of you benefit from (or even know how to engage) the 4-wheel drive?
Wankers.
Thursday, November 27, 2008
Who put the "con" in congestion charge?
Here we go then. Our voting packs for the "TIF" proposals (aka the Manchester congestion charging scheme) arrived this morning. We have until December 11 to vote, but ours will be in the post tomorrow.Various polls on local radio have suggested that a majority of voters will be voting No, but will that really make a difference? Scaremongering tactics among the yes campaigners would have it that this is a one-off chance; all or nothing; say yes now or lose all that lovely transport investment. I don't believe that for one minute. Firstly, I wouldn't put it past them to bring the scheme back under another guise in the event of a "no" result. I'm sure our councillors are quite capable of learning that trick from the EU. The new EU constitution has gone through on the nod, despite being virtually identical to the previous attempt and there being no UK referendum. So watch out for Manchester councils to reinvent the scheme, claim it has nothing to do with the old scheme and therefore doesn't warrant a new vote, and do it anyway.
Secondly, if congestion really IS that bad (it isn't. Industry watchers say that city centre traffic levels have remained virtually unchanged for the past ten years) then everyone will be up in arms in a little while and the money will be found from somewhere. It always is. Usually from the motorists. We all have bottomless pockets, you know.
I don't mind telling you it'll be a NO from me. The alternative is to force Nikki to take the bus to and from work every day - changing her 25 minute round trip into 2 hours - or incur the full daily charge of £5 to give her a lift. That's £1200 a year right out of our increasingly empty pockets. No thanks.
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
School run madness
I've commented on this before, but today I saw something that really took the biscuit. Being on the roads during the school run is always a nightmare, but I calm myself with the thought that most of the drivers have probably come from distances too far for their kids to walk, and/or not on handy bus routes. Today's candidate for my road rage didn't have any of those excuses.
The car turned out of a house on Alexandra Road South, drove to the junction with Barlow Moor Road, and then turned in to Whalley Range High School for girls. A distance of no more than 400 metres. A parent with a very lazy child, or a very lazy teacher? I don't know. Either way they shouldn't be on the road (and, interestingly, unless they make the return journey before 9.30am, they won't be subject to any congestion charge if the new scheme goes ahead).
My ire was alleviated somewhat on the return journey by the site of another cool number plate: TO 08 OSY. Spaced out to read TOO BOSY. Now is that supposed to be shorthand for too bossy, or should it really have a well-placed screwhead to turn it into too busy? You decide.
The car turned out of a house on Alexandra Road South, drove to the junction with Barlow Moor Road, and then turned in to Whalley Range High School for girls. A distance of no more than 400 metres. A parent with a very lazy child, or a very lazy teacher? I don't know. Either way they shouldn't be on the road (and, interestingly, unless they make the return journey before 9.30am, they won't be subject to any congestion charge if the new scheme goes ahead).
My ire was alleviated somewhat on the return journey by the site of another cool number plate: TO 08 OSY. Spaced out to read TOO BOSY. Now is that supposed to be shorthand for too bossy, or should it really have a well-placed screwhead to turn it into too busy? You decide.
Thursday, November 13, 2008
On our way 'ome
A considerably more substantial breakfast this morning, as I knew I wouldn't be eating again until we were airborne on the return journey. So I tucked in to a bowl of cereal crunch, a fried egg (freshly fried in front of my eyes by the griddle chef, or whatever they're called), sausage, schnitzel and potato cakes, juice, coffee and a small slice of delicious chocolate cake.
Since the lectures today were repeats of yesterday, in pretty much the same order, there was little value in returning to the conference centre (although coaches were provided for those who still had business to do), so I elected to take a walk into Augsburg and see something of the town.
A light drizzle greeted me as I stepped out of the hotel and turned right onto (what I thought was) the main street. I'm always fascinated by the subtle differences in local architecture when visiting other countries, but I wasn't prepared for the wonderfully eclectic mixture of old and new buildings as I made my way slowly down Gögginger Strasse in the direction of Stuttgart. This one sported an inscription mounted around the top floor, each glass block holding a single letter. Further up the street a private apartment building carried this unusual mural.
The further I walked the stronger the drizzle became, until after about 25 minutes I realised I risked being caught in a downpour and turned back for the hotel. Altogether I was out for about 50 minutes and didn't see any sign of a shopping centre. A later examination of the town centre on googlemaps revealed that I should have turned left rather than right at the end of the road on which the hotel stood.
I spent the rest of the morning in the hotel lobby, reading, caught the coach to Munich airport at 12.30 and arrived back at Stansted shortly before half past four. I could have done without the four-hour drive back to Manchester through the M11/A14 rush-hour traffic, but since it was the only way to get home I gritted my teeth and got on with it. An interesting experience, all things considered, but not one I'd be in any hurry to repeat.
Since the lectures today were repeats of yesterday, in pretty much the same order, there was little value in returning to the conference centre (although coaches were provided for those who still had business to do), so I elected to take a walk into Augsburg and see something of the town.
A light drizzle greeted me as I stepped out of the hotel and turned right onto (what I thought was) the main street. I'm always fascinated by the subtle differences in local architecture when visiting other countries, but I wasn't prepared for the wonderfully eclectic mixture of old and new buildings as I made my way slowly down Gögginger Strasse in the direction of Stuttgart. This one sported an inscription mounted around the top floor, each glass block holding a single letter. Further up the street a private apartment building carried this unusual mural.The further I walked the stronger the drizzle became, until after about 25 minutes I realised I risked being caught in a downpour and turned back for the hotel. Altogether I was out for about 50 minutes and didn't see any sign of a shopping centre. A later examination of the town centre on googlemaps revealed that I should have turned left rather than right at the end of the road on which the hotel stood.I spent the rest of the morning in the hotel lobby, reading, caught the coach to Munich airport at 12.30 and arrived back at Stansted shortly before half past four. I could have done without the four-hour drive back to Manchester through the M11/A14 rush-hour traffic, but since it was the only way to get home I gritted my teeth and got on with it. An interesting experience, all things considered, but not one I'd be in any hurry to repeat.
Monday, October 13, 2008
Back in the saddle
What's that? Almost a month since my last post? Umm...yeah. Sorry. There's no one reason. It's a combination of things, the main one being a slight change in our daily routine which means I rarely have any computer time in the early evenings or before retiring for the night.
That small change meant something had to give, and for the last four weeks the loser has been this blog.
On top of that, we've had Nikki's Mum & step-Dad here for a week (they left on Saturday but owing to a slightly foggy Heathrow didn't fly home until yesterday), which always means more pub time :o)
It's a little disingenuous of me to use their visit as an excuse - if anything I had *more* computer time last week than usual - but for some reason a lot less enthusiasm for blogging. The time off work was welcome though, and we spent a very pleasant day in Bakewell, driving over the Cat & Fiddle around midday and arriving to find it was market day there (Monday last).
The market provided many opportunities for "arty" photos such as this study of the cotton reels on a haberdashery stall. I took a couple of the obligatory apple shots too. We had a very nice lunch in one of the town centre pubs, and checked out all the local shops while Neil whiled away the afternoon enjoying the hospitality of Mr. W. Hill. Bakewell's one of those places we've driven through many times over the years but never stopped for a really good look. And no, we didn't buy a tart.
Took the Cat & Fiddle road back home too, but by this time the weather was closing in and the views weren't quite as spectacular. We did stop off for a pint at the pub though and very refreshing it was. I did wonder whether they suffer much trouble at that location. The winding road and superb views both attract a lot of bikers and walkers to the area, but that doesn't necessarily explain the need to have a sign behind the bar saying "Be Nice Or Leave." :o(
It was virtually deserted while we were there though - just a lone biker enjoying an early tea and an elderly couple of walkers - so we managed to avoid getting beaten up. Just.
That small change meant something had to give, and for the last four weeks the loser has been this blog.
On top of that, we've had Nikki's Mum & step-Dad here for a week (they left on Saturday but owing to a slightly foggy Heathrow didn't fly home until yesterday), which always means more pub time :o)
It's a little disingenuous of me to use their visit as an excuse - if anything I had *more* computer time last week than usual - but for some reason a lot less enthusiasm for blogging. The time off work was welcome though, and we spent a very pleasant day in Bakewell, driving over the Cat & Fiddle around midday and arriving to find it was market day there (Monday last).
The market provided many opportunities for "arty" photos such as this study of the cotton reels on a haberdashery stall. I took a couple of the obligatory apple shots too. We had a very nice lunch in one of the town centre pubs, and checked out all the local shops while Neil whiled away the afternoon enjoying the hospitality of Mr. W. Hill. Bakewell's one of those places we've driven through many times over the years but never stopped for a really good look. And no, we didn't buy a tart.Took the Cat & Fiddle road back home too, but by this time the weather was closing in and the views weren't quite as spectacular. We did stop off for a pint at the pub though and very refreshing it was. I did wonder whether they suffer much trouble at that location. The winding road and superb views both attract a lot of bikers and walkers to the area, but that doesn't necessarily explain the need to have a sign behind the bar saying "Be Nice Or Leave." :o(It was virtually deserted while we were there though - just a lone biker enjoying an early tea and an elderly couple of walkers - so we managed to avoid getting beaten up. Just.
Monday, August 04, 2008
People are our greatest assets
I can't hear that phrase without a feeling of creeping cynicism. It's a mantra that HR departments and directors always trot out when they want to impress the workforce with how well we're being treated. Like the BBC hype surrounding their execrable new drama Bonekickers however, the message does not reflect the medium.
I arrived at work this morning - the first time I've been into the office for some weeks - to find a corporate email in my box. It was about business travel. Some poor graduate trainee has been given the task of analysing the business mileage data for the last year, and the message is that the top 10 drivers are responsible for 41% of total mileage claims and spend 62.5 days per year in their cars.
These incredible statistics, along with averages for the rest of us, are used to promote the message that we should all be more careful at deciding whether we drive or not, and consider alternatives such as telephones (no! really?), voice conferences, video conferences or instant messaging. So what drives the corporate need to achieve a reduction in miles driven? Is it concern for those poor employees, trapped in their cars for nearly 9 weeks of the year? Is it perhaps a recognition that we need a better work-life balance? Are they trying to reduce stress levels among the employee population? Or maybe it's a simple case of wanting to save money?
No. None of these things. They've pledged to reduce the corporate carbon footprint, and this is one of the most significant contributors.
Give me strength.
I arrived at work this morning - the first time I've been into the office for some weeks - to find a corporate email in my box. It was about business travel. Some poor graduate trainee has been given the task of analysing the business mileage data for the last year, and the message is that the top 10 drivers are responsible for 41% of total mileage claims and spend 62.5 days per year in their cars.
These incredible statistics, along with averages for the rest of us, are used to promote the message that we should all be more careful at deciding whether we drive or not, and consider alternatives such as telephones (no! really?), voice conferences, video conferences or instant messaging. So what drives the corporate need to achieve a reduction in miles driven? Is it concern for those poor employees, trapped in their cars for nearly 9 weeks of the year? Is it perhaps a recognition that we need a better work-life balance? Are they trying to reduce stress levels among the employee population? Or maybe it's a simple case of wanting to save money?
No. None of these things. They've pledged to reduce the corporate carbon footprint, and this is one of the most significant contributors.
Give me strength.
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Insignia - you drive; we nag
I made the mistake of giving the local Vauxhall dealer my email address, so every now and then I receive a gentle reminder that it's been a while since I bought a car. The reminder usually includes a supposedly tempting offer I can't refuse and/or an "irresistible" graphic of their latest climate change inducing product.
Nothing, however, could have prepared me for what arrived in my much-abused Inbox yesterday.
This is the Vauxhall Insignia. "Designed to make life easier," the marketing blurb trumpets, "new Insignia is packed with technological innovation:" and then proceeds to supply a bulleted list of features clearly intended to make the prospective car buyer's mouth water.
My mouth watered alright. Only it was the kind of watering that usually precedes vomit. Especially when I reached the final point.
"The Front Camera System even reads speed limit signs and displays a reminder"
Whoop-di-do! You know, that's really useful. Cos my eyes aren't that good any more and I find it hard to read those little round red "30" signs when I'm doing 85 past my local primary school. So a dashboard reminder is guaranteed to make me think "oh - 30 is it? Gosh, I'd better slow down right away."
Good grief.
'Course, it's only a matter of time before that "Front Camera System" is connected directly to the throttle and rather than displaying a reminder it will simply adjust the speed for you. Welcome to Stepford.
Nothing, however, could have prepared me for what arrived in my much-abused Inbox yesterday.
This is the Vauxhall Insignia. "Designed to make life easier," the marketing blurb trumpets, "new Insignia is packed with technological innovation:" and then proceeds to supply a bulleted list of features clearly intended to make the prospective car buyer's mouth water.My mouth watered alright. Only it was the kind of watering that usually precedes vomit. Especially when I reached the final point.
"The Front Camera System even reads speed limit signs and displays a reminder"
Whoop-di-do! You know, that's really useful. Cos my eyes aren't that good any more and I find it hard to read those little round red "30" signs when I'm doing 85 past my local primary school. So a dashboard reminder is guaranteed to make me think "oh - 30 is it? Gosh, I'd better slow down right away."
Good grief.
'Course, it's only a matter of time before that "Front Camera System" is connected directly to the throttle and rather than displaying a reminder it will simply adjust the speed for you. Welcome to Stepford.
Saturday, June 21, 2008
People
Sometimes, people can move you to tears with their compassion and their generosity. Then there are those other times where they make you want to weep for an altogether different reason. Their selfishness, ignorance, and arrogance.
I had to go out today. A dream weekend for me is one where I pull up in front of the house on a Friday night and don't have to go out again until Monday morning. Or at the earliest, Sunday night. But this weekend I discovered the nails I'd bought for putting the floorboards back down again were way too big, I was on the verge of running out of filler, and we hadn't bought any snacks with this week's shopping so Friday night had already been a traumatic, snack-free zone and I couldn't face Saturday night being the same. Gritting my teeth, I set off out the door to a series of irksome encounters that proved over and over again how selfish people can be.
It started innocuously enough. The roads around Whalley Range and Chorlton were busy with Saturday afternoon traffic and, as always, heavily parked. Being the patient, considerate chap I am, I spent a lot of time waiting beside a parked car for the oncoming vehicle to come through. I was always taught that it was manners to acknowledge such courtesy with a small wave of the hand, but one after another I received no such acknowledgement. The drivers didn't even nod vaguely in my direction. Or look. Time after time there was no hint of recognition that I had put myself out and waited for them, rather than barging through and forcing them to stop. During the whole journey I didn't receive a single wave.
First stop B&Q, for those smaller nails and that filler. Clearly the Chorlton branch didn't expect to be busy on a Saturday afternoon, as they had only one till operating. One till with a queue of six people. I selected my goods and returned to the till, where the queue had dwindled to four. On the other side of the store a guy shouted over that he was opening another till, whereupon a couple who had been approaching the first till veered off to make use of that one. Not a glance at those of us already queuing. No hint that they might let anyone at the end of our queue precede them in their desperate hurry to pay. As it happened, it made no difference to me. Of the four people in front of me two proved to be together, so by the time I'd have arrived at the newly opened till I would still have been second in the queue. But, you know, it's the principle. The British are supposed to be a nation of queuers and intrinsically understand the rules. Even that bastion of civilisation is being chipped away by the me generation. In more hot-blooded countries people have been killed for queue jumping.
Out in the car park the space I'd parked in had become a drive-through. As I opened the car and deposited my bag on the back seat, another car rounded the corner of the building. He had a choice of a dozen or more spaces in the row in front of me and I'll let you guess which one he chose. Even though he could see I was preparing to leave.
Next stop Morrison's, for the snacks. As I walked along the snack aisle I saw something incongruous among the crisps, Doritos, bombay mix and Twiglets. A joint of beef. Someone had clearly changed their mind, and rather than walk the vast distance of four aisles to return the beef to the chiller cabinet, they had simply dumped it on the nearest shelf. How long would it sit there before being found by a member of staff? And having found it, would they return it to the beef counter? Its sell-by date intact, but having reached room temperature for perhaps several hours, this will be, for someone, one of those cold purchases that inexplicably goes bad long before its due date. Or worse, leads to a case of food poisoning. All because some ignorant sod couldn't be bothered to put it back where they found it.
Finally, leaving Morrison's, I had to back out of my parking space into the main exit lane. A few yards back, an elderly lady waited with her indicator flashing to take my space once I'd vacated it. Did Chorlton's finest shoppers wait patiently behind her for the few seconds it would take me to complete my manoeuvre? On this day of almost complete selfishness and ignorance, I think you can work out the answer. No, they pulled past her, forcing the incoming traffic to stop, and making it extremely difficult for me to see whether or not it was clear to reverse. But they didn't worry about any of that. What's important is what they want. To get out. To get home. There's no-one else who also wants to get out and home. Or at least if there is, they're not as important. They're OTHER people. The ones we don't think about. The ones we don't even look at.
I had to go out today. A dream weekend for me is one where I pull up in front of the house on a Friday night and don't have to go out again until Monday morning. Or at the earliest, Sunday night. But this weekend I discovered the nails I'd bought for putting the floorboards back down again were way too big, I was on the verge of running out of filler, and we hadn't bought any snacks with this week's shopping so Friday night had already been a traumatic, snack-free zone and I couldn't face Saturday night being the same. Gritting my teeth, I set off out the door to a series of irksome encounters that proved over and over again how selfish people can be.
It started innocuously enough. The roads around Whalley Range and Chorlton were busy with Saturday afternoon traffic and, as always, heavily parked. Being the patient, considerate chap I am, I spent a lot of time waiting beside a parked car for the oncoming vehicle to come through. I was always taught that it was manners to acknowledge such courtesy with a small wave of the hand, but one after another I received no such acknowledgement. The drivers didn't even nod vaguely in my direction. Or look. Time after time there was no hint of recognition that I had put myself out and waited for them, rather than barging through and forcing them to stop. During the whole journey I didn't receive a single wave.
First stop B&Q, for those smaller nails and that filler. Clearly the Chorlton branch didn't expect to be busy on a Saturday afternoon, as they had only one till operating. One till with a queue of six people. I selected my goods and returned to the till, where the queue had dwindled to four. On the other side of the store a guy shouted over that he was opening another till, whereupon a couple who had been approaching the first till veered off to make use of that one. Not a glance at those of us already queuing. No hint that they might let anyone at the end of our queue precede them in their desperate hurry to pay. As it happened, it made no difference to me. Of the four people in front of me two proved to be together, so by the time I'd have arrived at the newly opened till I would still have been second in the queue. But, you know, it's the principle. The British are supposed to be a nation of queuers and intrinsically understand the rules. Even that bastion of civilisation is being chipped away by the me generation. In more hot-blooded countries people have been killed for queue jumping.
Out in the car park the space I'd parked in had become a drive-through. As I opened the car and deposited my bag on the back seat, another car rounded the corner of the building. He had a choice of a dozen or more spaces in the row in front of me and I'll let you guess which one he chose. Even though he could see I was preparing to leave.
Next stop Morrison's, for the snacks. As I walked along the snack aisle I saw something incongruous among the crisps, Doritos, bombay mix and Twiglets. A joint of beef. Someone had clearly changed their mind, and rather than walk the vast distance of four aisles to return the beef to the chiller cabinet, they had simply dumped it on the nearest shelf. How long would it sit there before being found by a member of staff? And having found it, would they return it to the beef counter? Its sell-by date intact, but having reached room temperature for perhaps several hours, this will be, for someone, one of those cold purchases that inexplicably goes bad long before its due date. Or worse, leads to a case of food poisoning. All because some ignorant sod couldn't be bothered to put it back where they found it.
Finally, leaving Morrison's, I had to back out of my parking space into the main exit lane. A few yards back, an elderly lady waited with her indicator flashing to take my space once I'd vacated it. Did Chorlton's finest shoppers wait patiently behind her for the few seconds it would take me to complete my manoeuvre? On this day of almost complete selfishness and ignorance, I think you can work out the answer. No, they pulled past her, forcing the incoming traffic to stop, and making it extremely difficult for me to see whether or not it was clear to reverse. But they didn't worry about any of that. What's important is what they want. To get out. To get home. There's no-one else who also wants to get out and home. Or at least if there is, they're not as important. They're OTHER people. The ones we don't think about. The ones we don't even look at.
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