Trudi’s ramblings

It’s been a while...

...since I’ve prepared an article for the Enthusiast.

In 2020 I missed the gathering of the Saab Widows. Until this year I didn’t realize how not seeing everyone can put such an impact on moral and that favourite word this year, isolation. I am to assume many of you stood in the garage looking at your vehicle and wondered how can I make an excuse to get out of here? Answers in the next magazine?

Meanwhile I will tell you how I know others escaped, or didn’t. Not forgetting those that were put straight into furlough. I had to look that word up, I though it was a length of a field to put potatoes in, apparently not. My brother, one of the potatoes, was already on a short week, because of Brexit from January. Slap! Promised not to get political.

There were many who received a letter telling them because of their health condition they were to stay at home and rely on others. My father was one, at 82, was allowed to escape on a daily basis and being a party pooper I didn’t appreciate the Thursday clapping and fortunately our neighbours didn’t take up the challenge. They were too busy and tired, a Fireman, a Veterinarian Nurse, Lorry driver, Cleaner and me. My very part-time job went out the window, getting to work two hours before the pharmacy opened, staying after it shut, skipping lunch (never did get tea breaks, a mug put in front of me to go cold, nice). I was shattered. So another way to escape? Volunteer.

There were lots of options and we needed them so badly at work, to assist our delivery driver who normally had a regular routine of twenty to thirty housebound patients. The strict isolation rule prevented many of our regulars from collecting their own prescription and Christchurch has one of the highest densities of over 65s (actually 90 is about average) in the country. We needed help.

Firstly, to get to work I have two modes of transport, weather and traffic dependant. Those who remember my previous ramblings was about the success in upgrading my motorbike license and that is the mode of transport that makes me happy about going to work and equally quickly returning home. The other is trapped in a queue to get out of Bournemouth for what I have been reliably informed by a lady from Peckham, is worse than London rush hour (my boss).

This was no longer a problem with no traffic it took less than 20 minutes to arrive at the hospital grounds, instead of over an hour. Our ‘biker’ friends were climbing the wall, not going round it, as seen at the fairgrounds. They all volunteered! Great,

except without top box or panniers (those with cruisers, dare I say it Harleys.....) were dismissed. They returned with said box and panniers.

“Andy? You don’t live in Christchurch, how well do you know the area? You know the police station? Speeding ticket?! Okay, go home, slowly...”

Dismissed. Eventually we have a nice selection of drivers, bikers and cyclists who were given little areas with suitable sized packages. Our delivery driver was promoted to Transport Manager, taking on the difficult and larger deliveries and delegating the others.

As the morning ticked by, our volunteers arrived to sign in and collect. The lady on the pushbike took the main straight route on the cycle path, she was 75 and we debated if she should be out, or how she felt delivering to people half her age. She became surrogate granny to several small children.

The lady with the Morris Minor van (sign written ‘flowers’) was brilliant, started linking her deliveries, so we had a system eventually, where everyone in Brisbane and Canberra Roads arranged to collect for those unable to get out.

Maybe that clapping on Thursday did have a benefit, roads began being social, at the government distancing. They began linking their own prescriptions with an elderly neighbour so they could collect them both. She put herself out of a job.

There was a couple of young mums, whose partners were working from home and they would deliver as an opportunity to avoid the children going bananas at home for an hour couple of days a week. A lowered BMW in lacquered black and sparkly bits, a VW day van with one of those stick families on the back (one with drill, or axe not sure which, one with a glass and large bottle, hopefully of water, two identical stick children on skateboards, a smaller one, a stick dog, even smaller stick baby in a nappy...) and a battered Honda Jazz.

The bikers would arrive later in the day to deliver further afield, we tried to make it a trip on their way home and any signed paperwork dropped back next day. They also did our emergency drops, antibiotics mostly and anything sent by the doctors too late for the daily round.

Of course we had to warn our patients a sweaty leather bound biker may be on their doorstep or a scantily dressed young lady knocking on the window (have you forgotten the warm weather we had?). It went down surprisingly well.

One elderly lady called to thank for her delivery arriving by classic motorbike, it was just like the one she rode after the war. A gentleman called to complain, he saw his neighbour get a delivery from our own driver but his hadn’t arrived. We checked and assured him Rebecca would be with him later, although we then noticed he had quite a serious heart condition. She had promised to start wearing a shirt.

Meanwhile at home, the retired husband decided to continue with a shed tidy up and get sidetracked frequently tinkering with the car, motorbike and the moped he accidentally bought with his winter allowance, from eBay.

The 9-5 stood idle and occasionally went on a short trip to collect large items, a washing machine from the click and collect Currys, a workbench released from a nearby business, no longer required, shelving also no longer required. Which is when, in a thunderstorm I get the call. “The car won’t start”

The AA got there quicker than me. Torrential rain, he at least was better prepared dress code wise and a quick boost to the battery. “A car like this needs long journeys, give it trip”

Oh if only...