<p>It should have been my wedding night, which we spent in the departure lounge at Manchester Airport waiting for someone to mend our Boeing737 before we left for Gerona, but last night eclipsed even that disaster.</p> <p>&nbsp;</p> <p>Despite the snow, of which we have more than our fair share, I got to work for 9 yesterday morning, and set off for our local depot at Middleton; a distance of about 6 miles. It took me 45 minutes and when I got there, I couldn't get in because of the snow. I turned round to go back to Oldham and this time it took me 2 hours 30 minutes. Climbing a short but steep hill, some idiot in a car stopped me. It would have been easier for her to set off again going downhill, but she baulked me and that was it; stuck for 90 minutes, until a friendly snow plough came past and helped me out.</p> <p>&nbsp;</p> <p>When I got back to the yard the boss said, "Will you go to Liverpool?"&nbsp; I'd never been to this collection before so I asked, "can I get in?" &nbsp;"Oh yes," the boss replied, so I set off. This was 1:45 in the afternoon.</p> <p>&nbsp;</p> <p>I got there at three and checked the yard out. Deep snow, but no sweat swinging in and lining up for the loading door. As I drew forward to line up, I hit a kerb, hidden under the snow, bounced over it, sank into snow the other side of it and that was it, stuck again.</p> <p>&nbsp;</p> <p>The vehicle had an electronic, automatic gearbox. These things are the worst invention since reality TV, the big difference being you can switch reality TV off. You can't switch these gearboxes off ... they do it themselves. After much to-ing and fro-ing, trying to rock the vehicle free, the gearbox got confused, didn't know what it was doing and locked up, trapped in no man's land. The onboard computer, convinced that it was under attack, reported an engine fault, and refused to start. the air pressure in the brake lines began to drop, probably because of the cold, and for those who don't know, when the air pressure drops in a lorry or bus, the brakes lock on, not off.</p> <p>&nbsp;</p> <p>By 5 p.m. I was not only stuck, but broken down. I needed towing out of the snow, but I couldn't be towed because the brakes would not come off until the engine started and the engine wouldn't start because the gearbox didn't know how to handle the snow.</p> <p>&nbsp;</p> <p>Mechanics finally arrived about 9 p.m. and plugged in their computer to correct the faults, but my onboard engine management system took the hump and refused to talk to their computer. They left at 11 after arranging for a recovery vehicle to come out and tow me to their local depot for repairs. He arrived at 1:30 in the morning and dropped me off at DAF's repair shop in Knowsley at 2 a.m. I'd had nothing to eat or drink since 5 in the afternoon and all they had was a vending machine serving cold drinks and bars of chocolate.</p> <p>&nbsp;</p> <p>One of our drivers finally turned up just after three to bring me home and we battled our way through blizzards and sheet ice to get back to the yard and sign off at 5 a.m., 20 hours after I started work. It took me 10 minutes to de-snow and de-ice the car, thirty minutes to drive home and another 10 minutes shifting the snow from my parking space so I could back in off the street. After a much needed cuppa, I fell into bed at 6:30, exactly 24 hours after I had crawled out.</p> <p>&nbsp;</p> <p>Then Her Indoors woke up and said, "I have to get up in half an hour. Are you taking me to work?"</p> <p>&nbsp;</p>

<p>&nbsp;</p> <p>I don't know what it is about me but everything in my life seems to be dogged with perfect timing. I've been off work six months because of a heart wobble. I'm down on my uppers, no longer suffering time poverty but genuine poverty and what happens? The bloody cooker and washing machine both go.</p> <p>&nbsp;</p> <p>So I have to spend on replacements. And it's money I don't have.&nbsp; Fortunately, those nice people at Visa and Mastercard do have it and all I have to do is fathom out how and when I'm gonna pay it back.</p> <p>&nbsp;</p> <p>The timing is even more inappropriate because, thanks to two knackered knees, one busted ankle, a dodgy hip and tricky ticker, I am no longer capable of installing the appliances. Not that such restrictions stopped me. I <em>did</em> install them. It took me almost a day. I recall a time when both would have been in and working in under an hour.</p> <p>&nbsp;</p> <p>I did the washer first because it meant crawling under the kitchen units to set up the feed and drain. That took the thick end of an hour and when I crawled back out, bingo! One washing machine <em>not</em> working.</p> <p>&nbsp;</p> <p>After wading through the Shanghai English in the instruction book, we suspected the water supply might be on the blink. I disconnected the feeds and began investigating. I had water at the sink. I had water upstairs in the bathroom, but no water coming out of the washer tap. Diagnosis. Tap barrel probably collapsed. Solution, buy a new tap. Off we tootle to B+Q and buy a new self-cutting tap, come back home, crawl under units again and hack it into the cold feed. Twenty minutes later, by which time my back, hips, knees and other bits and pieces were screaming at me for some rest, we have an operational washing machine.</p> <p>&nbsp;</p> <p>I'd had nothing substantial to eat because the cooker had not been installed. Man cannot live on jam butties alone. So after polishing off said jam butties, I squat behind the cooker and prepared to wire it up. This would be no problem. I had left the three wires set to slot straight into their connection bolts. Trouble is, the new cooker connections were laid out different to the old ones. After an hour of fiddling and faffing and bending recalcitrant wires into place, I finally connected the stove. I could almost smell the bacon sandwiches.</p> <p>&nbsp;</p> <p>So while Her Indoors was test driving the new appliances, I filled in the guarantee forms and learned that I needed the model and serial numbers. Where were they? On the back of both appliances. I had to drag them both out from under the units again.</p> <p>&nbsp;</p> <p>I would say I was fed up, but at that time, (almost five o'clock) I hadn't been fed at all.</p> <p>&nbsp;</p>

<p><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> Normal 0 false false false EN-GB X-NONE X-NONE </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> </xml><![endif]--> <!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-priority:99; mso-style-qformat:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin-top:0in; mso-para-margin-right:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left:0in; line-height:115%; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:11.0pt; font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;} </style> <![endif]--></p> <p>The latest theory concerning my troubles is that I have an unresolved haematoma pressing on the femoral nerve. I told the doc, I have ways of resolving issues. If negotiation doesn't work, try a big hammer. He said neither would persuade the haematoma to go away. Just what I need at my time of life; a bolshie haematoma.</p> <p>&nbsp;</p> <p>I have other problems, too, just diagnosed. COPD. To contradict some commentators, this is not an acronym for "Caught Out Pulling ..." yes, well never mind. It's Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disease or Disorder, depending upon how badly your GP wants to scare you. Since I don't scare easily, my GP described it as "Disaster."</p> <p>&nbsp;</p> <p>The test is known as spirometry, which I thought was a toy you could use to draw fancy, circular patterns. I had to give a few strong breaths into a tube. "You should be good at this, DW," said the nurse. "It's just like breathing down the phone." I'll have to get myself an agent. I have an appalling reputation.</p> <p>&nbsp;</p> <p>The machinery measures the amount and content of your breath by volume. A bit like assessing the strength of whisky. I failed miserably. I've been expecting it. The signs have been there for long enough. Running out of breath going <em>down</em> the stairs, don't have enough wind to catch the loose women even when they slow down.</p> <p>&nbsp;</p> <p>They blame smoking, but I can't see it. I've smoked 40 a day for the last 30 years or more, but I've only had breathing problems for the last 10. I think it's all the hot air talked by politicians, salesmen and football commentators.</p> <p>&nbsp;</p> <p>The doc, said, "You may find it difficult to breathe, but take my advice. Don't stop altogether or you'll be in real trouble." I replied, "I'll crack the gags on this blog, doc."</p> <p>&nbsp;</p> <p>He's given me a Ventalin inhaler and an aerochamber. I haven't worked out where you fit the cigarette but don't worry; I'm a dab hand at practical things.</p> <p>&nbsp;</p> <p>COPD is incurable but manageable and I've planned E-day (the day I pack in the weed) for next Friday, as we take off to Tenerife. I tried in January but failed. This time I'm better armed. I have all the nicotine replacement tackle with me. The downside is I'm going to an area where they sell the cheapest smoke in Europe. Five euros for 200 ciggies? Think of the money I'd save by carrying on smoking.</p> <p>&nbsp;</p> <p>I was worried about flying. I mean, suppose I have breathing difficulties on the plane? Then it dawned on me. I'll just ask the stewardess to open a window.</p> <p>&nbsp;</p> <p>But I am going back to work on Monday. The company have moved me to a more sedentary job with the Operations Control team. This does not mean I will be scheduling surgical rotas for the NHS. If I were, my belligerent blood clot and lackadaisical lungs would be right up there at the top of the charts.&nbsp; Instead I will tell drivers where to put their trailers. They say I need training but I don't know why. I've always been good at telling other people where they can stick their opinions of me.</p> <p>&nbsp;</p> <p>Regardless, at six o'clock Monday morning, while you lot are lounging around in your pit, I shall be getting back on the horse in the real world of work. The missus is so overjoyed, she's already spent my first month's salary on a new handbag ... and a dress to match. Why does she need either? It's not as if I ever take her anywhere.</p> <p>&nbsp;</p>

<p>&nbsp;</p> <p>About 35 years ago, in dark days of December, I was on a regular job trucking waste paper from Leeds to Manchester. Down the hill I came from Junction 22, which for those who don't know is on the Yorks/Lancs border, and I ran into thick fog.</p> <p>&nbsp;</p> <p>A shape loomed up ahead. Like a good little trucker, I checked my mirror, signalled and prepared to move over. Imagine my surprise when the shape had wheels coming out of the side.</p> <p>&nbsp;</p> <p>"Hello," I thought, "this is curious."</p> <p>&nbsp;</p> <p>It was an overturned tanker and I hit it. If I hadn't dragged my steering wheel hard right at the last moment, I would have been killed. As it was I was trapped in the wreckage of my cab for half an hour before the firemen freed me.</p> <p>&nbsp;</p> <p>I tore the ligaments on my right leg and I was in plaster for six weeks.</p> <p>&nbsp;</p> <p>How did I pass my time? I sat at home playing Scrabble.</p> <p>&nbsp;</p> <p>Last November, as many of you will know, I fell down a pothole in a factory yard and broke my ankle. It was encased in a ridiculous moonboot for weeks.</p> <p>&nbsp;</p> <p>I'm ready for going back to work but the working world has changed somewhat since the 70s and I can't go back until my bosses arrange for various safety assessments to be carried out on me and my ability to do my job.</p> <p>&nbsp;</p> <p>Will whoever said, "don't waste the money just sack him," kindly leave this blog?</p> <p>&nbsp;</p> <p>So how am I passing my time? Apart from annoying you lot, that is? I'm playing Scrabble.</p> <p>&nbsp;</p> <p>These days, it's electronic Scrabble and I access it through Facebook. But I think the rules have changed since the day when I gave my sons and daughters a lesson in wordiness. This version has a dictionary as part of the set up and yet, I'm sure that under the rules of Scrabble, you're not supposed to use a dictionary unless there's a challenge.</p> <p>&nbsp;</p> <p>Something else has changed, too. My eldest boy, David, has learned a lot more words than when he was five. Bugger!</p> <p>&nbsp;</p>

<p>&nbsp;</p> <p>You may have noticed I've not been quite as busy these last few days. Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe you didn't notice. Maybe you noticed and thought, thank God for that, we've seen the back of him.</p> <p>Whatever your stand, I have been AWOL because I've been busy elsewhere. Life is on the move again. I'm going back to work on Monday.</p> <p>To recap I fractured my ankle in November last year and the treatment for said fracture - wrapping it in a moonboot (see picture) - damaged my knees. Eight weeks ago the doc said I could return to work subject to a satisfactory assessment of my capacity to do my job. That assessment will take place next week.</p> <p><br /><img src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_Fj8xlE2N0lY/SgLwe9vXC4I/AAAAAAAAAUU/eYzuIYjJbUA/DSCF0345.JPG" alt="" width="640" height="480" /></p> <p>Other road users are spared my presence behind the wheel of a 44-tonner for the first few days because I will be riding shotgun with another driver. This is to get me used to getting up and going to work again. As if I needed it. I've been getting up between 5-5:30 every morning all the time I've been off, including Christmas Day.</p> <p>Going back is not without its difficulties, however. The assessment involves driving on public roads. My employer's insurance company won't cover me while I'm on sick, so I've had to go to the ridiculous extremes of signing off as fit for work even though we're not sure. I could go back Monday and be off sick again by Wednesday. My doctor's not bothered. According to him, it's par for the course these days.</p> <p>A return to work after a lengthy layoff means different things to different people. To me it's like being released from prison (where I've never been) or hospital (where I've been three or four times and that's three or four times too often).</p> <p>To the missus it means a reappraisal of her spending plans ... upwards.</p> <p>&nbsp;</p>

<p>On Monday April 5th, 1965 I started work for what was then the North Eastern Gas Board. It later became British Gas, and God knows what it is now, but I don't think it's British.</p> <p>&nbsp;</p> <p>Today, December 3rd, 2010, I finished work.</p> <p>&nbsp;</p> <p>For trivia lovers, that is 16678 days.</p> <p>&nbsp;</p> <p>It should have been longer. I have another four years, one month and a few days to my state pension age, but my health has declined so badly over the last three years that I buried my pride and pig-headedness, accepted my GP's opinion and approached my boss for dispensation to retire early. I decided to get out of the rat race before the other rats gave me a push.</p> <p>&nbsp;</p> <p>It wasn't an easy decision. I have no serious pension put by. When I left school, you didn't need one. "You just work," they said. "We'll support you when you get old." So I did. Now I have to go cap in hand to beg benefits from a system I've contributed to for the last 46 years and I expect to have to fight them all the way.</p> <p>&nbsp;</p> <p>In addition, there is that fierce streak of independence in me. I'm my own man. I don't need anyone else.</p> <p>&nbsp;</p> <p>Unfortunately, I do. State handouts aside, I need someone with me when I'm out in case I have one of my "turns": critical breathing episodes than can floor me in a matter of 15 minutes. I have trouble climbing stairs, I can't walk further than 50 yards without experiencing shocking pain. Carol has to be nearby when I get in and out of the bath in case my knees give way. I can't even climb a stepladder to change a light bulb anymore.</p> <p>&nbsp;</p> <p>It may sound as if I'm feeling sorry for myself. I'm guilty of a lot of things, but never self-pity. It's more frustration and anger that I am not the man I was.</p> <p>&nbsp;</p> <p>Some things haven't changed. I'm still a hardarse on most fronts. I don't suffer fools, politicians, salespeople or bigots at all, never mind gladly. I'm still as outspoken as ever. Only now I'm all these things at home: permanently.</p> <p>&nbsp;</p> <p>And I still have the one thing that keeps me going through the toughest of times: the one-megaton sense of humour. I have to laugh at things because if I didn't I'd probably cry.</p> <p>&nbsp;</p> <p>I have other assets too, amongst which are valued friendships that I've forged over the years surfing the web: friends like you Writelinkers who put up with my tightwad, downtrodden, married man whinging.</p> <p>&nbsp;</p> <p>None of my health problems are critical. They're not life threatening, merely disabling. I'll be around for a long time yet. And I'll be around a lot more often <em>(spammers take note)</em>.</p> <p>&nbsp;</p> <p>It was quite an emotional farewell. One girl burst into tears as I left. I heard her say, "I thought we'd never get rid of him." The company did not put on a leaving do for me. I asked them not to. But I've a feeling they may have thrown a party as I walked out the door.</p> <p>&nbsp;</p> <p>Final note: it was a pure coincidence that the publication of Voices fell on the same day as my retirement. But it does give you a hint to my (possible) future.</p>