My Day as a Delivery Lorry Driver
My Day as a Delivery Lorry Driver
By: A. Road‑Runner
Published in The Daily Lorry‑Post
Nothing quite lifts the spirits before the rumble of a fleet of chrome‑finned lorries yawning across the sunrise‑bleached highways. I, a humble member of the “London‑to‑Country Courier Corps,” was scheduled for a day that would prove to be a merry carousel of pun‑s, pint‑s, and the occasional panic‑over‑missing‑parcel.
07:30 – The Lorry‑Love Language
I joined my trusty metal steed at the depot, where I was handed a clipboard that looked like it belonged to a schoolteacher from an alternate universe. The keeper, Mrs. Patel, winked and reminded me that if the “E” clamps didn’t engage properly, the lorry would start speaking in sigh‑locked English and refuse to budge. I thanked her, checked my coffee mug (which was just a chipped kettle gone rogue), and rolled out.
08:45 – Postcodes and Popaganda
My first stop was a post‑code sweet spot: W14, the more wind‑blown part of the West London. The post office clerk, an elderly dame with spectacles that seemed to thin the air, reminded me that “mail” had a bit more weight than “triple‑double” (the fabled coffee at the station). I delivered a parcel of freshly baked croissants that were, humourously enough, able to crack the soup in the same breath. Mrs. Veer, the concerned neighbour, asked if I’d seen her cat, Mr. Whiskerson – he was missing right when she asked. I promised to keep any wandering feline in my rear‑view.
10:30 – The Motorway Monopoly
Mid‑morning found me navigating the teeming motorway, the battle of the horn‑blowers and the oily, steaming cargo lane. I used my “nav‑voice” (a set‑of‑maps app that knew all the milk‑shake stalls in the M25) to dodge a stalled lorry that had turned into a potted plant of stubbornness. Lorry‑footprints were found all over the grass as the autonomous delivery fleets tried to get me to pile their bags under the bridge. Two years later I still can’t fathom the mysteries of the lorry‑world.
12:15 – Lunch with the Lisa‑Saith
I tackled a mid‑day interrupt: the fast‑food herb lad, Lisa‑Saith, who demanded that all “gravy” be served “vor the gravy.” She requested there was a chilled cappuccino topped with fat‑free froth. As I gasped at the indulgence of her request, I reached for the cheapest chocolate chip cookies and announced I’d pamper her snack with extra cream. The way she bowed and clapped – the lorry driver’s famed reputation – the world became a spot of early‑Brit tea‑time. (Tea – I still do not understand the whole drinking‑volcanic-heat).
15:00 – The Tom‑Tom Thunder
At 3 PM, my lorry’s voice choked on a grammar error. I jokingly shut it and pretended to just listen to the moo‑y weather. “Roaring skies? Down in the Thames‑ton valley?” The GPS pretended to giggle in the roar of the motorway. I declared it a technical fault and opted to read an old book – “The Old World of the Road.” The advertisement at the back of the book served a local pub, and while my alarms were a bit off–kiss, the lorry was offering a laugh.
17:30 – Return to the Dockside, or “Back to the Rough‑Padded”
I arrived home, ready to put aside the coffee mug for a well‑deserved rest. The lorry, a quiet companion that had soon become a proper friend, had finally settled into the familiar bump and hum. The day’s mileage, full of an eccentric tea‑time about a local Cupboard Queen (Who) and safety test vials popped out of the inters — each a life.
In closing, I see my day as a small, waltzing “delivery dance.” If you’re ever in wall‑bell, question if the local lorry driver would have a croissant waiting for you. Because hello, I always have a place that buys you an umbrella when the rain picks up.
