WE’VE just had a problem getting our delivery truck tested. It is now 15 years old, but far from worn out. I bought it from someone in the London area about six years ago and it was totally rust-free. Little was it aware that the moment it set wheel in the North East it would be subject to a constant coating of salt. Councils in the area seem obsessed with salt and the moment anyone complains, out they come spreading the stuff almost regardless of the weather. There’s no question it wrecks your vehicles and I would prefer they just used sharp sand. As a result, the garage was unable to remove rusted screws and bolts to replace light bulbs and as the repair could be scarily costly I’ve once again been looking in the London area for a replacement.

The truck I’ve spotted is 12 years old, rust free and has a low mileage. It’s been used as a mobile workshop and looks like new. It just goes to show what damage salt does to your vehicle. If I buy it I think I’ll try and coat it in grease or lacquer or some kind of coating – or maybe I could climb into the compound and let down the tyres of the gritters. They even grit the roads when it’s dry and sunny, leaving them resembling tracks in the Sahara desert. If people got up a little earlier and drove more carefully then none of this would be necessary.

The service to the truck took two weeks as opposed to the anticipated two days and we were desperate to get out deliveries. Just when it seemed hopeless, a local haulage company stepped in and loaned us their 44 tonner. In an age where we are constantly overcharged, subjected to numerous hidden costs and generally ripped off, it was refreshing to receive help from a local company I didn’t even know and it proves there are still some good people out there, even if they are in the minority.

After battling on in a site which is far too small, I was recently offered some buildings which had spent most of their lives as a grain store. Moving the operation would be very costly and that’s before gaining permission from the local authorities who seem to have a blanket ‘NO’ response to small businesses. I’ve toyed with the idea of a split site, using one for production and the other for storage and distribution. However, I’ve had bad experiences of working two sites in the past and my enthusiasm has cooled. Basically, the site where you’re positioned makes money and the one where you’re absent doesn’t. And you can’t be in two places at once.

Micro-management sounds severe, but the last couple of sunny Saturdays proved my point. The sun (that rarely seen yellow object in the sky) seems to bring out all the lunatics. I arrived at work at 7.30am to find a van at an angle across the entrance. The driver was asleep and one of the tyres was punctured. His girlfriend had sent him to the yard to collect some logs to make horse jumps and he had clearly not quite slept off the previous night’s alcohol. We alerted him to his flat tyre, rang his girlfriend and pushed the transit into the side of the road. The next customer – a shady-looking character – tried to steal wood. Customer number three then blocked the entrance with his tractor and proceeded to have a very public argument with his wife on the phone. Customer four left the yard with his tailgate open and deposited most of the sawdust he’d collected along the road.

Customer four left the yard with his tailgate open and deposited most of the sawdust he’d collected along the roaCustomer four left the yard with his tailgate open and deposited most of the sawdust he’d collected along the roa (Image: Voice)

And so it went on. I even had someone steal the padlock from the front gate. It was at this point I decided two sites probably wouldn’t work.

As we all know, much of the last year has been dominated by the weather, and business has been tough. However, things have now picked up and I hope this doesn’t end when everyone heads off on holiday. During COVID it was noticeable just how much money was available when people weren’t jetting off abroad, although a few days in Cornwall afforded me the opportunity to see why they do.

The British tourism industry should be rebranded the Great British Rip-Off. My wife and I decided to take a short break in Cornwall and took a short flight from Newcastle to Bristol. My wife is pregnant, so we opted to fly, but were unprepared for a seven-hour delay due to a punctured tyre. The airport was hot and airless and I was amused to watch the women in the duty-free area spend hours in this stifling atmosphere walking around distributing free samples of perfume. What a job. I smiled inwardly at the thought of the HSE criticising my workplace and reasoned that I wouldn’t swap what I do for the world. I decided to have a walk round and get some air. Then, when I returned, I found we’d been given a £6 voucher as compensation for our delay. Starving, I headed to a sign which read ‘Giant bacon stotties’. Stotties, as all Geordies know, are flat breads the size of a dinner plate, and if the pictures were anything to go by I was in for a real treat. At £8 each I was prepared to take the risk, but was devastated by the drop scone that appeared. There was a tiny bit of greenish bacon and the bread was as dry as sawdust, so rather than queue for another ten minutes to complain I threw it in the bin and joined the queue at Burger King.

We eventually reached Bristol and I was relieved to see the car hire company was still open. Better news was that our Vauxhall Nova had been upgraded to an MG SUV with leather upholstery. By now it was almost 1am and I put my poor driving skills down to tiredness. I was puzzled that each time I was near the white line something seemed to want to pull me over into oncoming traffic, which I’m informed is a new addition to motoring called ‘lane assist’. The steering wheel was positioned very low and was aggravating my bad back. The brakes were spongy and the gearbox was like an old ERF truck my dad owned in the 1970s. On a number of occasions I had to beat it into gear to avoid crashing at roundabouts and there was a bit of plastic stuck in the middle of the windscreen which I had to keep ducking under to avoid killing cyclists. Remarkably, we got to our AirBnB unscathed and the accommodation – I’m pleased to say – was excellent. Although, as my 18-month-old daughter insisted on being carried around, my back problem only got worse.

My 18-month-old daughter insisted on being carried around, my back problem only got worse.My 18-month-old daughter insisted on being carried around, my back problem only got worse. (Image: Voice)

I’m afraid ‘eating out’ is something I’ve come to loathe, with my experience at the airport only reinforcing that view. Instead of just selecting something I like from the menu, I now try to find a meal that will ‘fill’ me and prevent me eating my own arm. I once ordered a ‘meat basket’ in a Newcastle restaurant, anticipating a carnivorous feast. I was confronted with a few bits of wobbly pasta and a spoonful of mince and resorted to emptying sachets of mayonnaise and ketchup to bulk out the meal.

I ordered steak-and-kidney pie and chips and my wife ordered fish and chips. I was served with a bit of gristle and eight chips while she received the equivalent of a goldfish. We sat there feeling quite aggrieved and wondering whether we were just being greedy until we heard people on another table saying they intended to get a carry-out on the way back.

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It seems to me the whole tourism industry wants to rip you off and it was a relief to drop the MG SUV deathtrap back at the hire company before climbing aboard the Newcastle-bound flight. Here we got hit with a £48 excess baggage charge on our return journey times three as they applied the charge to all our luggage (that’s a new one). As we all know, collecting family from an airport now costs money, and at Newcastle it’s £8. £8 to drive in, collect your passengers and leave. However, the machine wouldn’t accept my contactless card, so I had to get out of the car to submit my details, but if you stop in this zone on the red lines it’s a £100 fine, so there I was with one foot in the car, which was still moving as I was trying to put my card details into the machine. Benny Hill would have laughed at the scenario.

I couldn’t wait to get home, to drive the Hilux after the MG SUV backbreaker, and see the garden. Even in that short time things had grown and to my surprise a polycarbonate greenhouse had arrived which I had ordered weeks ago and forgotten about. True to form it was only 5’ 5” tall (I wouldn’t get in it) and constructed from 19 x 19mm sticks. It’s so flimsy I didn’t even bother removing the wrapping and will return it and make one myself. As for future holidays, I could well turn into one of those old folks on the promenade with a picnic and a flask.