Another working day, so finish the breakfast, lock up the house, and walk down to the car. This morning the mechanics of the garage opposite have decided to forego the usual cut and thrust of car repair, and instead opt for the traditional teabreak. They line up at the top of the ramp, bellies thrusting inside their oily overalls, cups in hand, eagerly predicting the visual spectacle of Caldrail Going To Work. Man and machine in no harmony whatsoever.

Right. Here goes. Key in slot. Turn... And... Open sesame! I fight the natural urge to hug and kiss my car (we're friends again) and wave good morning to the disappointed mechanics in triumph. They wander back inside disconsolantly, but I doubt I've seen the last of my impromptu audience.

That well dressed woman turns up in her Audi. She always parks here in my neighbours slot even though its a private car park. I'm sure she she doesn't live here, I'm sure she hasn't seen the sign, and from the look of her, I'm sure she'll get irate if I point out her error. Or is she having an affair with the goth metal layabout next door? You never know...

The garage boss has parked his 4x4 next to the alleyway again. Its such a huge truck he can't park it accurately, and to be honest, I doubt that careful parking has entered his conciousness. Ease past it carefully... its black paint gleaming in mirror-like obsession and an obvious sign of possible legal action if I get too close.... and its down the uneven rain-eroded path to the main road. I hear the car scrape something as i run over a pot hole. Maybe the 4x4 isn't so stupid after all. But how does he get that truck down this path? Its too narrow. Its not humanly possible to squeeze that automotive leviathan between the houses and trees. Or does it come with a button to retract the wheel arches? How much does that thing cost? I wonder what he charges for labour? No, its too frightening...

Along the main road, left at the roundabout, where that dark blue Ford does its usual party piece by going all the way round in the wrong lane, and off down toward the warehouse. Sixty miles an hour allowed along this windy stretch and the guy in front is driving at twenty. Its no good, I can't pass him on this road, so I grit my teeth and wait for the straight bit... Where he accelerates to sixty on a section of road limited to thirty miles an hour. Is he taking the mickey? Of course, at the bend he slows down to twenty again.... and finally at the gate to the industrial estate, where a car transporter and trailer is busy doing a twelve point turn across the road... No mate, left hand down a bit more... Tell you what, go forward and try it again.... Aaargh!

I always remember speaking to an american woman on one evening out, who was from Iowa, or Idaho, or somewhere flat and empty. The conversation happened to get around to driving in Britain, and she gasped - "You people are soooo-per-men!". Apparently she was overawed by our skills and reaction speeds compared to american drivers she was used to back home. Well I don't know what part of Britain she was driving in, but it certainly wasn't Rushey Platt...

Task of the Week AD points at a length of shelving running along the west wall. "We need that dismantled, Caldrail, here you go..." and passes me a ratchet and adjustable wrench. Oh joy... Cue Mission Impossible theme tune....

Hang on... How am I going to get the bolts undone the other side? Well, it looks like I'm going to have to haul the shelves away from the wall... Gouging deep furrows in the concrete floor, I pull the line of shelves round inches at a time. Management training at its best.

With a mighty crash the shelving falls over. AD glances out the portakabin window during his phone call to Head Office, no doubt explaining the sudden crescendo of noise as "Oh thats just Caldrail, he's dismantling the shelves for me". I give him a reassuring silly grin. Covered in cobwebs and dirt, polo shirt snagged and torn... Ten more minutes of this and I'm going to look like I've been savaged by a rotweiller. Just in time for that important meeting... Life on the sharp edge of warehousing...