Diary of a COO - The 1000-mile move
Intro
I get a message from our Head of European Operations. ‘Do you know anyone who wants to collect a car from Nice?’
‘Next Friday – it’ll be a whole weekend job’
‘Let me ask the team, and I’ll get back to you’, I reply.
I go back to him later in the day… ‘Who is it for? What is the car?’ I ask. It’s a Mercedes, it is for someone Chris (our CEO) knows, and it’s for charity, he tells me.
‘We need to keep the cost to a minimum,’ our Head of European Operations is quick to reply again, “The owner doesn’t want to burn up his charity-giving pot. Ideally, we need a driver who’ll do it free of charge, with expenses covered'“. I acknowledge the request.
Next morning. We have our weekly management meeting. I raised it in AOB: “Hey, great little opportunity in the office for one of the team to collect a Merc from Nice and bring it back to the UK. We could make it a fun competition for the team!” I enthusiastically suggest.
Worried looks around the table… Silence.
Seems like a great idea, what could be the problem with that?
“You know what happened last time we did this right?” Is the response, to which I shake my head. “One of the team from the office did a move from France, the car broke down, and it was a nightmare. We don’t need to do that again.”
Hmmm. In a momentary impulse of team-spiritedness and charitable earnestness, I say, “I’ll do it!” I speak French, so if I have an issue, I can sort it. I was comfortably expecting a ‘you don’t have time’ response, so my fleeting moment of generosity would not have to be realised.
“Great – that’s sorted then’’ came the reply from Chris with nods and knowing smiles from the room.
Later on, Chris sends me a link – it’s to a post on LinkedIn drumming up enthusiasm for the charity run to Nice event. It’s not a Mercedes SLR. Not even close. My heart sinks a bit. The car is a little 2005 C-Class Coupe Diesel. I immediately go to DVLA and check the MOT history. Not too bad, but the MOT is due soon. Only 120K miles. Must be fine, a well-looked-after car, I reassure myself.
Anyway – it’s too late to back out and be a diva about this – it’s for charity after all. Nobody wants to hear any whinging – “It’s a jolly – enjoy it”, Stuart, our Operations Director, tells me.
I speak to Jack, our Head of Marketing and fellow podcaster. I tell him what I’ve signed up for. It immediately triggers his inner Marketeer ‘You can do a Blog – A Vlog even!
I’ve never done a Blog, I’ve especially never done a Vlog. I barely take any pictures on holiday. “Err, ok, I’ll try and write it up”, I reply apprehensively… Can’t think there will be much of interest unless it all goes wrong, and then you’ll all have a laugh.’
To The Drawing Board
I’m sent an email with helpful advice, tips, tricks, and requirements from our Head of European ops, Monty. He’s done this many times before, clearly and knows of what he speaks.
Skyscanner is the first port of call. There’s a perfect flight from Birmingham to Nice on Friday lunchtime. Jet 2 at a reasonable £121. I book it. Result.
It’s happening then, no going back, non-refundable fare. Now I need to find a hotel for Friday night.
The car is going to be left at a hotel at Nice airport, so it would make sense to stay there, I deduce. A quick look on Booking.com changes everything. Wow, everything within a 10-mile radius is sold out or over €250 a night. Hotel Revenue management departments are clearly doing their thing.
I widen the search, I find a place with ok reviews, but it is still €148. Blimey. It’s the only place that isn’t a hostel, has a 1-star ‘adequate’ review, or requires me to ask Finance to increase my company card limit. I book it. It’s an Airbnb style annex private host in La Turbie above the hills of Monaco. Not really the right direction for the trip back, but I’m being frugal, and it’s just a night, I figure.
That evening, I casually dropped it into conversation with Suzie (my significantly better half) that I’ll be away for the weekend, ‘collecting a car for charity, doing a good thing, would rather have not done it, can’t be helped’ etc. etc.
She’s not buying it. “You want to do this, you’re dressing it up, it’s a jolly admit it!”
I carry on with denials, justifications, “it’s not a fancy car” and other feeble apologies, topped up with promises to “make it up to you”. She gives me the ‘whatever’ look. I’m going to be in for a bit of cold treatment for a few days, I can tell.
Later that evening, she asks curiously, “Are you going on your own?” I know this question. She smells suspicious activity. ‘Of course! I wouldn’t ask anyone else to sit in a car with me for a thousand miles!’
She seems to accept the logic of that, as indeed she would have zero wish to do that herself, but I sense I still need to add further reassurance. I sent her the link to the Charity post on LinkedIn just to seal the deal. It never gets mentioned again.
On Thursday, I rang Michael, the driver. He is mid-trip, taking the car around Europe to Nice. He acknowledges and rings me back later.
It’s all going well, car is great, “she’s not the fastest,” he adds. That’s all well and good, but the most pressing question on my mind is the current state of the air conditioning.
“It does blow a bit”, he replies. ‘It’s got a nice sunroof though, bring your hat and sun cream – you’ll need it.”
I know what this means: there is no AC. I’ll bring my CD’s, that should lift the mood – that era Merc will have that at least, and French radio for 2 days won’t improve the journey. “Do that”, he encourages, and signs off.
I repeat the ‘No AC’ nugget to Stuart, he laughs “, You’ve been done.” Cheers for that, Stu.
Friday
The drop off on Sunday is near Droitwich. My mother lives in Droitwich. I make a logistical plan. I drive to her house, leave my car, and she drops me at the station. Well, actually, I drive her car to the station with her riding along. She’s 83, fit as a fiddle, sharp as a knife – her car a 1995 Jaguar XJ 4.0 Sovereign.
Clearly, it’s all a bit much of a car, but she’s had it from new and loves that car more than anything. A small car just won’t cut it for her. I have long given up suggesting she swaps it for something more practical. She has all her arguments well-rehearsed, why she needs a massive Jag. Move on.
The train arrives on time at Droitwich, I change at New St for Birmingham International. It’s all going well, smooth, calm. We pass the HS2 development as we leave. I rarely get the train in this direction, so it’s a surprise to me the scale you can see from the train vista.
It’s the little shuttle into the airport terminal next. I have no bags to check, boarding card and passport are at the ready, plain sailing so far. Sun cream aside. With probably 25ml left in the 150ml bottle: ‘Sorry, Sir, in the bin she goes’. Grrrr.
It’s a Friday, though, and my phone is beeping and bonging constantly, so I reply to endless messages and emails. Then Stuart helpfully sends a message to everyone in the company telling them I’m away collecting a car from Nice, and he shares the Engineius job link on Teams. Now everyone knows what I’m doing, everyone is tracking me, and everyone is checking my work. Various amusing comments and GIF’s from the team emphasise the point. I’m going to have to practice what I preach on this move. All eyes are upon me. It’s 100% not a jolly now.
Then I remember. I need to write a blog. Damn. I mean, what is there of interest to say here? Took the plane, collected the car, drove back. Boring stuff. (Let me know if you think otherwise.)
I can’t let Jack down, though, and I am going to need to be more observant, record my thoughts; I’ve never had to do that consciously. The notes file on my phone is a starter for 10, but putting words and sentences down all feels so unnatural.
We board the plane; I have an aisle seat with an extra 10cm of legroom. It’s quite OK. I flew in the middle seat on Jet 2 to Cyprus recently and deeply regretted not succumbing to the seat upgrade option. Lesson learned.
I make a note of the plane's callsign. And find out it’s a 737-800 and 25-and-a-half years old. We depart just 10 mins behind schedule. The middle seat is free, just as I planned it when I did the seat selector. In the window seat, though, is a young mum with an 18-month-old on her lap, and he’s crying. I smile reassuringly to her that she needn’t worry, I’m not going to huff and puff and be that ‘hates kids’ passenger to stress her even further. She smiles back. Her little boy stops crying, he smiles at me too – very cute. His mum looks relieved and proud.
Up in the Air
We soar into the West Midlands air, the sky is blue, the little boy is looking out of the window, and his mum tries to show him the beauty of the West Midlands conurbation. He’s too young to understand this yet.
Jet2 Carl is in the zone. He really wants to make sure everyone on board doesn’t miss the opportunity of getting high street perfume at ‘up to 70% Off!’ And why wouldn’t he – that sounds like a deal!
I had asked Suzie that morning if I could get her something duty-free while I was away. ‘No thank you’ came her terse text reply. I know what this means, too. It’s an exotic blend of ‘you’ll buy me something awful and waste money’ fused with fragrant notes of ‘you’re not going to win me round with discounted perfume’. I have heard this script many times on my solo trips around the world. There is a price to pay, and it’s higher than a 70% off bottle of perfume.
Shortly after, Jet2 Carl starts pitching discounted duty-free products with similar enthusiasm. He can’t tell us the deal over the intercom, it’s that good apparently. Jet2 Carl has pushed the carts up and down twice now – running over my toes in the process – I think he’s done his best to earn a bit of commission. Jet2 Management would have been happy with the effort. Very happy indeed.
I love a bit of people watching – who doesn’t? Maybe I can flesh out the blog with basic observational stuff, I thought? I mean, if Tim Dowling can earn a living doing this every Saturday in the Guardian for years, how hard can it be? Maybe I could be good at this? I’d looked up on my phone how much journalists earn for their articles. It’s low unless you’re Boris Johnson. OK, this will just have to be for fun then.
I am the only person on the flight not going on holiday. The cabin crew reinforce this with endless ‘enjoy your holiday’ references. I wish I were going on holiday, then I could have a drink other than Coke Zero.
The couple in the row in front are the first to gain my attention. They are going on holiday. Probably got a fancy villa for 2 weeks, I surmise. They are my age, mid 50’s, I’d say. She has had her hair done for the holidays, nicely styled blond hair, quite glamorous.
She has thought about what to wear, has put on a lovely linen shirt and relaxed linen trousers. They are probably new. I muse that she wanted to fly BA and go to the lounge at the airport, but has somehow ended up on Jet2 with Pringles and miniatures and is ever so slightly annoyed by this.
Her husband hasn’t read the room when he booked this. He reminds me of former avuncular snooker player John Virgo. This recognition makes me smile to myself.
I’ve been good so far, not ordered any onboard food. I am trying to be careful with my diet, and it being a touch overpriced helps keep my cravings in check with a rational nudge. The little lad next to me has Pom Bears crisps, but fortunately, he doesn’t offer to share them with me. I’m doing well.
But hold on. Jet2 Julie tells us that Jet2 is committed to reducing waste and is now going to offer unsold hot toasties and Paninis at half price. My willpower cracks at the thought of saving, and I get one.
Predictably, the Jet2 toastie was soggy and tepid, it wasn’t worth £2.50, let alone the £5.00 full asking price. I feel disgusted at myself and vow to chalk this up as another lesson learned and then recalibrate in my head what I might not eat later to save the carb and fat-ridden 500 calories I had just gorged on.
We glide to a smooth touchdown, almost glider level smooth. Well done, Captain. The little boy next to me hasn’t made a peep the whole way from Birmingham. His mum and I offer each other a relieved smile. He gets to put his little blue dinosaur backpack on as we disembark. I liked it.
There are more private jets on the apron than commercial planes. If I’d had a window seat, I might have been nosy/nerdy and looked up who owned some of them, but we’re taxiing too fast to bother. Oh well. Farewell, George Clooney’s jet.
I get my post-Brexit Black (Blue?) passport stamped, and I’m away. Everyone else has luggage except me; I’m agile, a businessman on a mission.
I step out into the warm Mediterranean sunshine, and the world feels 20% better immediately.
I pause for a while, taking in the atmosphere. Trying to recall the last time I stood here, it was 25 years ago. Back then, I worked for Europcar International in Paris. We sponsored the Cannes Film Festival, so we brought customers down for some La Croisette hospitality and red carpet (literally) treatment. We had a Europcar logo’d Maserati 3200GT and got Kevin Costner to pose with a thumbs up in it. All good content on the internal employee newsletter. But that was 25 years ago. I lament leaving it so long to return.
I cross the immaculately grass-infused tram tracks and casually amble over to the Hotel where my charge is hopefully parked. It’s 33 degrees and feels it. I then remember to click ‘Heading to Pick up location on the Engineius App. The team back in Birmingham have been watching for this correct App usage, I know.
Then I see it, my little red Mercedes – Starsky and Clutch stickers on the doors.
It’s parked across two disabled bays outside the hotel. I go and check to see if I have a parking ticket already – there is none, phew, I need to get out of here.
The receptionist has the keys, so I open the windows and get to taking my pick-up photos. It’s a £1000 car at best, but there isn’t that much damage considering age-related wear and tear, as the advert might say.
I open the boot, there is a small bottle of water and some small packs of crisps. I grab the hot water and a Cheese & Onion, set my Google maps and get going.
Melanie Mercedes
Day 1
The AC doesn’t work. I knew it! I slide the large pano roof open and open both windows, baseball cap on and sunglasses essential. I ‘cruise’ down Promenade des Anglais, taking in the Nice vibe. Attractive people seem more plentiful, maxi scooters whizz in and out, and the 06 département plates feel reassuringly familiar (I had a company VW Beetle at Europcar once with 06 Côte d’Azur plates in Paris, for some odd reason I rather liked that).
But there is a problem, as bad as the missing AC. The engine has lost 50% of its expected power. Is the weird old school foot-operated handbrake on? It is not. The gearbox changes up at 1500 rpm and won’t change back down, no kickdown at all. I’m going to have to manually change gears in this thing. Michael has helpfully left 3/4 of a tank of fuel in the Mercedes. I’m hot but relieved to have the car and be on my way to the Airbnb.
30 minutes later, I thread my way up the steepest hill above Monaco and find the house, it is just a number on a closed gate, and there is no way in. The buzzer doesn’t work. I call the host. “Bonjour, je suis Roger, votre invité, et je suis dehors.”
“J’arrive,” he replies.
The gate swings open, and a middle-aged man with no shirt ushers me in. I can tell he doesn’t speak English, so I press on with my rusty French. He takes me round the back to a little annexe. It’s clean and tidy with a small kitchen and an empty fridge. I get a glass of water and light up a small cigar outside. I decide to text Michael to tell him all is well, I have the car. I ask cheekily where the horses went, referring to the duff engine. He replied, ‘In the field’. Not sure how to interpret his answer as his irritation at my dissing Melanie or his Irish sense of humour. It's hot, I’m tired, I can’t be bothered to get the car out and go and find food, such is the faff of the barely accessible hilltop location and the heat. It was only then I was glad I had that soggy toastie. Five-hundred calories duly saved.
Day 1 is complete.
Day 2
I wake at 6:30. I have no food, just a sachet of Nescafé and a sachet of sugar. It’ll do for now. I leave the room almost exactly as I found it, 20-minute turnaround required. I’ve always done that.
It’s quite cool at 7 am, which is a relief. I jump into the car and with a noisy diesel rattle, she fires into life. I’ve tried to leave quietly, not to wake my shirtless host, but he is up and outside, wishing me bon voyage. I thank him, wish him au revoir and à bientôt. The latter feels a little disingenuous, small talk, I doubt I will ever see him again in my life. I think we’ll both get by.
I roll back the sunroof, drop down the steep hill and straight onto the A8.
I need more coffee and a proper French breakfast to start the day off right, but the motorway is empty, so I push on, powered by the Nescafé and sugar sachet.
I pass impossibly evocative sorties - Nice, Antibes, Cannes, Saint Tropez. I’m not packing the necessary Euros and fancy wheels to usefully enjoy these destinations as intended. I make a plan to stop at Aix-en-Provence, which has always been a place I’ve been aware of but never visited. I’m now starting the péage hokey cokey with my RHD car. I put the hazards on and try to go to the one with the least traffic. I may be some time. After positioning the wing mirror 5 cm from the ticket dispenser, I pop Mel into park and clamber unceremoniously across the central transmission tunnel. Another 5 cm and I’d have to get out. This will be one of the main features of my day.
I pull off at Aix, looking for my imagined typical boulangerie and supermarche where I can stock up with water and snacks. I am in luck, I find both next to each other, it’s only a small Casino but it’s perfect. In the café/Boulangerie, I predictably order a coffee and an almond croissant and feel just a tiny bit French for a few moments.
Cézanne's studio on 13 Av. Paul Cézanne, a museum, would have been my first tourist stop, but I’m working, not on holiday, no time, it’s getting hotter, and I have another 600km to cover at least today.
The autoroute is almost empty, fancy 06 department plate cars start to disappear, and the more expected old Citroens, Renaults and Peugeots chug along at less than the speed limit.
German and Dutch-registered Porsches blast past me, 50% faster than little Melanie is capable of.
I’m passed by 10 BMW police motorcyclists, lights ablaze, all doing 160kph + in the fast lane. You don’t see that very often in the UK, not sure if most police forces have 10 motorcycles anymore.
In total, that day I counted 18 police bikes passing me as well as 12 cars and vans of Police Nationale and the Gendarmerie. They are all in a hurry, but it’s not obvious if there is a purpose or if they just like riding and driving that fast.
I join the A46 and skirt round the eastern suburbs of Lyon, past the fairly new but certainly impressive Parc Olympique Lyonnais.
I’m in need of fuel and a pitstop. I’m now back on the A6 just north of Lyon, I pull off at Villefranche-sur-Saône. Full tank of cheap gazole at Carrefour and a quick trip inside the supermarche to grab some fruit and a salad (still being good). I waste 20 mins wandering around the shop and then head for the self-service checkouts that predominate.
The level of security on these checkouts is a different level. 3 security guards monitor automatic exit gates that only open when you scan your receipt.
Oblivious to this protocol, I walk straight smack into the gates, thinking they opened by themselves. The shop assistant is irritated but realises I’m not a shoplifter, I am just a British guy who doesn’t know the Carrefour rules. He gestures for me to scan my receipt, the lights go green, and I’m allowed to leave, red-faced.
17:30 and on time, I reach Auxerre.
I had checked at lunchtime, and there is an Ibis in the centre which looked perfect. I pull up almost outside in a free parking bay. They have a room, they have a bar. I ordered a ‘Grand Pression’ beer at the reception/bar hybrid they have these days. After 500 miles, I tell myself I deserve it.
I’ve never been to Auxerre, so I am delighted at how picturesque and medieval it is. I cross the bridge over the river Yonne and get a table at a riverside restaurant. We are in the Burgundy region, so I order 500cl carafe of the locally produced Chablis to go with my filet de boeuf. All very French, all perfect.
After dinner, I try to walk off the Chablis and bouef around the medieval centre, the streets are almost empty, so I take some evocative pictures of the impressive Cathedral of St. Étienne, the old clock tower and the Abbey of Saint-Germain.
It starts to rain, so I head back to Ibis and bed.
Day 2 complete
Day 3 The final stretch
Ibis’s in France are usually very efficient, le petit dej. starts at 6:30 am even on a Sunday, and I’m not the first there. I grab a small pastry, fruit selection and a coffee and dash out into the pouring rain. I hope the wipers work. They do, we’re ok.
There is almost no traffic, the rain lashes down for another 30 minutes as I rejoin the autoroute dir Paris.
I play my Jean-Michel Jarre CD, it feels appropriate as we skirt around the eastern side of Paris. I used to live in Versailles to the SW, so the eastern side I’m not too familiar with. The autoroute does, however, sweep around Roissy CDG airport, where I used to fly to and from almost daily. Nice to see you, old friend terminal 2F.
Once out of the Paris sprawl, after the 3rd repeat, I decide enough of the 80’s French Electro synth music and put on the Rest is History podcast about the Medici’s in Florence. That sustains me on my lonely, dull A1 autoroute slog up to Pas de Calais. It’s not the prettiest scenery this part of France. Not remotely blog worthy.
The km’s are clicking down, I see the ferry signs, I’m ahead of schedule. I pull into the DFDS check-in, they tell me I might be able to get on the earlier ferry if I go now. Result. Double customs border checks pass without incident, and I’m ushered straight onto Cote des Flanders, one of DFDS’s bigger RoRo ferries. It’s quiet, really quiet. The car deck is only 30% full at the most.
The depressing on-board café is staffed by your stereotypical French militant ferry employee, having to speak English all day and serve disappointing sandwiches and beer. His accent is hilariously exaggerated English/French, it reminded me of Benoit Blin from Bake Off the Professionals. I laugh to myself at this comparison. I order in French, he replies in English – damn.
1 hr later, the white cliffs of Dover loom over us. Leaving the port is smooth, I’m driving on the right side of the road for Melanie and no more peage gymnastics as I begin the final leg to Droitwich.
The M25 predictably slows to a crawl around Heathrow, but onto the M40 and we’re clear again.
I call in to see my mother, and she follows me in her Jag to the drop-off 5 minutes away.
I pull up and start taking my drop off photos, Michael, the charity fundraising (to the extent of not re-gassing the aircon!..) comes out to check Melanie over and thank me. He explains why someone needed to drive it back, as it was his daughter’s wedding the day before, so he needed to be back, all makes sense now. He’s happy to see Melanie and me back in one piece and on time, and so am I, relieved to clock up 1055 miles without incident or accident.
Maybe next time I’ll do a job closer to home.
