Despatching: Despatched to SE30

It was pouring with rain and I was pissed off. Not unusual, and not without reason. For starters, it was Tuesday, bad enough in itself because you know that means it’s a ages till the next weekend. It was also three o'clock, which is an irritating time. You’ve been at work for what seems like a full day but you know you've got at least another three hours to go before you can slope off home.
 
And to complete the misery, I'd been on standby in W1 for nearly an hour. All I could think of was Friday's wage packet, which I could imagine would be smaller than a stunted bonsai unless I got a job soon. It was also raining.
 
Quite an understatement, it was throwing it down. The feeble huddle of trees I was attempting to hide under weren't doing a very good job of sheltering me from the torrent - in fact they were looking pretty miserable themselves. Life was not looking rosy.
 
Suddenly, the radio crackled, hissed a bit, and produced a distorted noise that might have represented a human voice at the other end. "29-29-29-29," it blared at an outrageous volume that caused several secretaries in nearby offices to tut and huff, closing windows with an offended air. "29-29-29-29," screamed the controller again.
 
I realised with a shock that it was my call sign he was broadcasting. I scrambled in an undignified manner for the handset. “Ah, 29, where are you now?" Where I've been for the past hour, I thought, a dark cloud hovering above my head. Swallowing my irritation I answered Portman Square. "Oh, someone else is closer to this job, then. Standby." Bollocks, I thought, foiled again.
 
Water ran into my boot and squelched around my toes. Misery loomed heavy on the horizon and I was vastly tempted to piss off home. But the thought of returning to an empty flat where I'd have to sit in the cold because I was too worried about the heating bill made me even more depressed.
 
I stared at my feet then wished I hadn't cos I saw a split in the side of my boot. "Aha," I thought, “that is where the water's getting in." More money required and I was not earning any at all. I thought about emigrating to Australia (try Bangkok, much more fun - Ed) but I couldn't afford the airfare. Perhaps I should just take my (semi) waterproofs off and contract pneumonia. At least it'd be warm in hospital.
 
"29-29-29-29" squawked the radio again. I answered morosely, expecting another false alarm. "Direct Communications to cracklehiss-crackle." "Rog," I replied, having only heard half the message, but not really caring. From past experience I knew it'd be a short run across London as they used us very rarely and then for local jobs. No doubt this would be an urgent delivery from Soho to Regent Street or some such. The day got blacker.
 
Once on the bike I pressed the starter. We'd been stationary for so long that the engine had cooled and become wet, so the only response was a soggy splutter. Emptying the remains of an ancient can of WD40 over the bike did the trick, the bike clunked into gear and off we chugged.
 
Five minutes and one hairy moment on a wet zebra crossing later, we slid to a halt in Soho. I wasn’t being flash in gliding to a stop, I lost control on the last corner and simply flung the bike at the kerb and hoped. Standard practice really. Lucky for me that my bike knows what it’s doing better than I do, and often stays up against all the laws of physics simply to ao that it can drive better than can. At least it has an aversion to being dropped - I know some bikes whose characters are exactly opposite and suicidally charge at lamp-posts and Volvos.
 
Dripping as I moved, I rested the bike on its stand and squelched into the building, stepping in an unavoidable puddle as I did. Water positively gushed through the split in my boots. The pick-up was on the fourth floor and the lift was out of order. Halfway up my heart was pumping frantically and I was starting to pant. When I reached the I was in need of oxygen. I finally waddled into the reception area, a tatty desk in one corner, a broken armchair...

There was no-one to be seen. I dripped further into their suite of offices, leaving a small marshland in my wake. There was no-one there either but I eventually spotted a note with "Biker" on it. It told me to deliver the parcel to Carton House, Black Dog Lane, SE30. An A3 sized envelope with "Don't Bend" scrawled on it in red. How they expected a bike to transport something that size I don’t know.
 
I'd never heard of the street, had not heard of SE30 if it came to it. Bloody conspiracy if you ask me. There was no mention in the soggy index of my Streetfinder. My aged A-to-Z, the outer pages congealed together with oil, water and chocolate, wasn’t any better. I was going to have to return to the office.
 
I promised my legs they could have a few days off if they didn't pack in. I eventually staggered back in and was about to pick up the phone to complain to the controller about wasting all my time when I saw another note attached to a new copy of Geographer's Guide To South East London. There it was, between Catford and Brockley, an area of London I didn’t even know existed. I grabbed the Geographer’s Guide as I went, not trusting myself to remember exactly where this obscure little place was.
 
The bike was cid and wet again. I told it that I was cold and wet too, and suggested that the sooner it condescended to start, the sooner we could both go home. I also muttered that I was a tad fed up with unreliable transport, and I'd seen a very nice GS for sale in the local bike shop... it took the hint and we slid off into the darkening day, heading for a bridge to take us over the Thames and towards good ole SE30.

Black Dog Lane was harder to find than I'd expected. The nearby A287 turned out to be much smaller than the map had indicated, and by the time I'd struggled onto it, page 44 in the map book was looking very sad indeed. Water had soaked the whole book and scrabbling through the pages with my gloved hands I managed to shred most of the relevant section.
 
Through the sheets of rain that were falling I could barely see the grid section with Black Dog Lane in it - but worse, I could see even less of the actual roads. I plunged on into the unknown, riding down what I hoped was the A287. After about three miles of nondescript, suburban side roads, I was about to give up. I hadn’t seen any landmarks, road names, signposts or friendly traffic wardens who might know where I was going. The bike had started to whimper; it was either completely water logged or running out of petrol. Quite frankly, I wanted to whimper too.
 
I was about to radio in and admit defeat when to my unbounded joy I spotted a worn sign that said "Carlton Mansions." It may not have been Carton House but it was a start. A nagging whisper told me that it wasn’t big enough to contain enough flats to have the number I needed, but I resisted listening to the voice of reason - my mind was made up; I didn’t want to know the facts!

I parked the bike - I didn’t need to turn it off as it died before the wheels stopped turning. Grabbing the soggy parcel and disentangling it from the mass of bungees that had supported it across town, I sprinted (well, as close to a sprint as I could manage) up the stone steps to the imposing front door of Carlton Mansions. The entry phone didn’t list the flat I wanted. I stared at the labels, unable to believe that, this close to accomplishing mission impossible, I was going to be foiled by the nonexistence of the flat.
 
Through the red haze that was forming across my eyes, I spotted a lonely door bell, nestling on a door frame with the right number written in black marker next to it. I almost fainted with relief and delight. My hand actually shook as I pressed the bell. course, no-one answered the door. I didn’t really expect anyone to, and I didn’t really care. The pesky parcel, that has caused me so much trouble, was folded, bent, mutilated and finally thrust — through the oversize letterbox. I cackled wildly, skipped back to the bike (which actually started first time without complaining) and rode off in the general direction of my home.
 
Two blocks down the road I realised that something was missing. I was certain that it was something obvious, something vitally important, something that I could not do without... why was m clutch hand so cold? Oh my God, of course, in my hurry to escape from SE30, I'd clean forgotten to pick my glove up - it was probably sitting in the porch of Carlton Mansions. I couldn't face further complications after the day’s events so I continued homeward, promising myself I'd return in the morning and retrieve the abandoned item.
 
Well, the best laid plans of mice and DRs... the next morning I rose from my sleeping pit (it's a bit of an exaggeration to call it a bed) and almost frolicked to the bike. I wished it a cheery good morning and it regarded me with world weary disbelief. I was in good spirits. I was planning on picking my glove up, zooming to the city and earning a minor fortune. I was going to have a good day. Oh no I wasn't.
 
SE30 struck again. I couldn't find the bloody place! I rode round and round in a huge circle, looking for a landmark from the night before, but I couldn't spot anything that would lead me to the A287 or Black Dog bleedin’ Lane. I dug the Geographers Guide out of the fabled top box yet again, but to no avail. Page 44 had given up the ghost and succumbed to a night of soggy torture, leaving a a mess in its place. 

Peeved beyond belief, I did the only sensible thing. I gave up. I hadn't liked that glove much anyway, even if it was half of a very expensive, utterly waterproof and snug pair of Supermitts, which had come strongly recommended by all the magazines. No, I decided that my sanity was more important that a mangy old glove, and bid the absent article a fond farewell.
 
Later in the day, a sudden fit of conscience struck me, and I remembered that I'd virtually stolen the Geographer’s Guide. I wasn’t worried that they might report a theft but they might report it to my boss or stop using the company a With the work situation the way it was, we needed all the clients we could get. So I decided to drop in on their offices next time I skidded past Soho, return the map book, and maybe I'd moan a little about how difficult the address had been to find. (No other courier I’ve spoken to since has ever heard of SE30 or any Black Dog Lane - nor have I found either in any atlas since then.) 

When I wobbled to a stop in Soho, all evidence of the company’s existence had disappeared, no name and no furniture in the office. No-one in the building had a forwarding address. There’s more too, while I was in the office, the map book which I'd absent-midedly left on the bike seat was taken, so my last connection was severed. At least they paid up the invoice, including all the extra time I'd claimed for running around in circles, much to my astonishment. That has to be the least believable aspect of the whole escapade...
 
Rowena H