I opened the door to my shower cubicle to be met with a wonderful sight; hot water being emitted from my shower head. I jumped in as quickly as possible and proceeded to take full advantage of the situation. This was only my third hot shower of my stay and at this time I was unaware that this would be my last hot shower for the duration. When showering you have to ensure that you do not swallow or inhale the water. Unfortunately the water quality is so poor here in China; two daily showers can manifest itself in the form of diarrhoea and sickness which will grip you for three or four days. I have developed my own technique of taking a deep breath and then jumping under the stream of water, whilst slowly exhaling through my nose and mouth. This process is repeated for the duration of the showering of my head and face, but not a requirement for showering below the shoulders. This must sound like the ravings of a crazy person with obsessive compulsive disorder, but believe you me this is not something you want to risk with the limited bathroom facilities available here in China.

Having enjoyed this rare luxury I dress quickly and pack my bag for the day. As I exit my room I am greeted by our German distributor; who’s command of English is absolutely impeccable. As we exit the hotel together and start our fifteen minute walk to the office, we exchange funny stories relating to our Chinese hosts and the differences in communication due to the language barrier. We march along the busy, bustling street at a fast pace, today the shops seem even grimmer. Cracked grey walls with plaster and rendering missing; exposed and uneven brickwork. The sky is also a dull grey colour; the prospect of rain looks imminent for the first time during our stay. Suddenly without any warning my companion steps towards one of the shop doorways; beckoning me to follow.
I am aware of this particular shop; I had previously noticed the proprietor some days previous. Catching my eye slumped motionless head resting upon a shoe mounted on an anvil.

Today both he and his wife were tucking into a bowl of noodles. As we entered the tiny shop doorway the bowls were quickly snatched away. The man rose from his seat and greeted us both warmly. I tried to insist that they did not interrupt their meal on our account, the woman responded by putting down the bowls containing the food. She took my hand into both of hers and stroked my forearm. In broken English she asked if the tattoos on my arm had been painful. As she released my hand, turned and retrieved the bowls of food I noticed two dirty mattresses behind the curtain, separating the shop into two parts. This was obviously their home.
It transpires that the proprietor is a master cobbler; capable of making a pair of shoes from a picture. He produced a range of catalogues from around the world, which my companion had chosen two styles. Both of his feet had been measured and a top quality pair of shoes had been produced. All hand made including the stitching. A price of fifty Euros per pair had been agreed. The shoes were inspected and within a matter of seconds he had slipped them onto his feet. As he marched up and down the pavement, he marvelled at their perfection and comfort. He promised to return later in the day to collect and pay for the shoes.

As we completed the remainder of our short journey; my companion explained that a pair of shoes of this quality would most definitely cost in excess of four hundred Euros in Germany. He further explained that on his return to Germany he would send photographs of additional shoes; which would be delivered to the shoemaker. Our Chinese hosts would act as go between to ensure that once produced these shoes would be collected and despatched to Germany. The whole concept of owning a different pair of shoes for each day of the week seems a little strange to me; still each to their own as we say in England. My entire shoe collection consisting of one pair of going out shoes, one pair of training shoes and my trusty black sandals; which have large holes in the soles where the inks and solvents from my ink jet coders have eaten them away.

It was only on my return to the UK; that I realised I had missed an opportunity, to have my faithful old sandals restored to their former glory; or better still a bespoke pair made that would fit like a second skin. The Chinese cobbler and his wife will surely eat like royalty this winter, thanks to the sharp eye of my German companion. I will surely make this little shop my first port of call on my return to Shanghai next year.

At the evening’s end we all shook hands and promised to stay in touch, all richer for the experiences we have exchanged over the past seven days.
As I lay on my bed I soon found myself drifting off to sleep; a final glance at the clock confirmed it was 11:45pm.
Suddenly I am awakened by the terrifying screams of a woman. I sit bolt upright sniffing the air for signs of smoke; I had checked out the fire escape route on my very first night in the hotel; which appears to encourage the smoking of cigarettes everywhere from your room, the lifts and even inside the hotel lobby. I quickly flick on the light and pull on the first clothes that come to hand. I can hear many raised voices now in the corridor as I open my door. A hysterical young woman; our distributors wife from Turkey is being comforted by the German distributor. I eventually establish that the twenty or so huge black beetles I had witnessed in the corridor of the hotel earlier in the week had finally ended up as sitting tenants in her room. I decided to leave them to it and return to my room, I smiled to myself with the thought that my strategically placed towel had kept these sinister looking insects at bay. Maybe once caught these huge bugs would find them-selves frying in a wok and presented for breakfast the next day.
My smugness quickly evaporates as I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, not only is my T-shirt inside out it is also back to front; I really should organise myself better before I retire for the night.

My stay in China today reaches conclusion. As I awake I open my eyes to the realisation that my body clock has finally shifted to China time. On my return to the UK it will take me a week to re-adjust back again; much to the annoyance of my girlfriend. I will find myself wandering around the house in the darkness, unable to sleep but not wishing to disturb my family.
Although my hosts here in China just cannot do enough for me; I find myself yearning for some of my home comforts. Out of seven days I have only been able to have a hot shower three times; the remaining days a cold shower has greeted me twice daily. Speaking to other occupants on the days when I have not had hot water they appear to have had this luxury and the days between the reverse has been the case. I have missed having a towel that dries me; the towels in my bathroom are threadbare and riddled with holes. On one occasion this week I tossed the towel over my shoulder and as I grabbed the trailing end and pulled; the towel ripped completely in half.
I have missed my weekly varied breakfasts, crumpets with lashings of butter and Marmite, shreadless golden marmalade on toast and a boiled egg with my bread cut neatly into soldiers with the crusts removed. This is always accompanied by a glass of tomato juice with a splash of Worcester sauce.
I have really missed my electric toothbrush, I have felt a thin layer of plaque slowly building up over the period of my stay; manual brushing just does not hit the spot.
I would kill for a curry; jalfreizi or pathia with a chilli naan and poppadoms. I have missed my girlfriend and the nightly arguments we always have; accusations of who has got the most duvet usually ending with a tug of war; both trying to fall asleep with a tight grip on our respective sides of duvet. My mind drifts back to awaking one night to hear my girlfriend sobbing. It transpires that she had woken in the middle of the night; cold and uncovered. In a fit of anger she had attempted to wrestle the duvet back with some force, her hand had slipped and she punched herself in the eye. Nobody believed me; I was cast as a woman beater for weeks.
I miss my daughter’s Bengal cat, following me as I move from room to room chattering away non- stop in her feline tongue. I miss my teenage son and daughters bickering and arguing, vowing never to speak again; later on finding them sharing a room, chatting excitedly about mutual friends; Facebook and the events of the day.
But most of all I miss my toilet facilities, crouching over a hole in the floor does nothing for my aching back and creaking knees.

As I stand on the pavement outside the hotel, that has been my home for the past seven days. Watching thousands of people go about their daily lives. I glance back towards the hotel knowing that my life is going to take another seven days to return to normal. After every trip, when I return to my home a part of me remains here in China; over the following days the missing pieces of my life’s jigsaw slowly rejoins me day by day until I am complete again. This time is different; I know that I must return to China in less than two months time. As our manufacturing plant shifts from Shanghai to Beijing, to accommodate the production of our new ink jet coder and take advantage of the lower manufacturing and living costs.
Shanghai has finally caught up with the rest of the world. Beijing, a five hour train journey away remains a viable option for low cost manufacture. With the rapid transformation of this great nation, the tentacles of the monster called progress stretch ever outwards and onwards; how long before Beijing too is infected and consumed by this beast remains to be seen.

I awake suddenly with a jerk; its 8:15. As the software slowly downloads itself to my brain I calculate that I must have had a little over two hours sleep. I gently roll out of my bed, my back aching from another nights tossing and turning. I quickly take a cold shower; no hot water for the second day running. I throw on some clothes and set off on my fifteen minute walk to the office. I walk through the hotel lobby which is clad in marble from floor to ceiling, exit through an expanse of glass doors onto the hotel steps. I immediately find myself engulfed in a sea of bodies, a large delegation of excitable Chinese men, all smoking cigarettes, shouting loudly and gesturing wildly with waving arms. As I force my way down the steps through this mad crowd I collect a blow to the side of my face and a cigarette burn to the back of my hand for my trouble. Nobody apologises I am completely invisible. Finally I make it to the pavement; I check the burn on my hand and remember similar days gone by in the UK before the smoking ban.

Now I am on the street, I glance up at the plush restaurant to the right of my hotel, people dressed in white already preparing tables for the daily influx of hungry customers.
A small gang of dogs patrol the steps leading from the restaurant; they all appear to be from the same litter. A single black male with a dirty necktie appears to be the Alpha. One golden female is stretched out in the sun, the other two females seem to have an ability to recognise tourists with ease; mugging them for food, titbits and a neck rub; hypnotising everyone with their big sorrowful eyes.
To my left an alley runs to the side of the approaching row of shops, cardboard boxes, drums of cooking oil, piles of rubbish littered everywhere, I notice a large rat sorting through a ripped black plastic bag.
An old man with a huge three wheeled tricycle sifts through the bins, sorting glass bottles and aluminium cans into two separate baskets on the back of his tricycle; he will sell and re-cycle these to provide food for the day.
As I draw level with the shops, I find myself so transfixed by the shops and their occupants, I fail to notice the cracked uneven pavement, I stagger forwards almost losing my balance. I continue my journey; eyes darting from pavement back to the sights and sounds to my left. A dirty looking cafe with peeling paint that may one day have actually been white, a sad looking old man sits in the window, barely visible behind the cracked and grimy glass; tucking into a bowl of noodles. The pavement is littered with scooter parts. On its side a scooter lies engineless, I glance into the shop doorway and notice two men working away, a filthy mattress and a wash hand basin lies to the rear of the shop; this is obviously a home as well as a place of work. Women crouch at the kerbside washing clothing in large plastic bowls.

I am stopped suddenly as my way is blocked by a compressed airline, two men are arguing as the smaller man attempts to put air into the tyres of his taxi; a huge compressor clatters away blocking the shop entrance. As I glance into the next shop three people are having their feet washed, an older woman is administering a foot massage to a man in a bright green T-shirt, this is the only bright colour in the whole of the street I have noticed so far. A husband and wife call out to passers-by to sample their food, a black filthy stove is cremating inedible looking shapeless objects covered in batter. Both dressed in chefs clothing once white but now a filthy grey colour. Outside a small bird sings in a wooden cage
An old man is asleep slumped across a shoe anvil; his head resting upon a shoe he is repairing, the smell of glue takes me back to my childhood days when my grandmother worked in the local shoe factory. A laundrette with poles sticking out horizontally from the wall, line after line of grubby faded clothing attached to the poles by string, pegs and clips.
Walking down this street feels like I am in a 1920’s photograph, with everything in black and white or a shade between.
A shop selling tyres for scooters, bikes and cars, the two proprietors sleep in two ragged filthy, oil stained fireside chairs. A woman standing to the front of the next shop calls out to me, she is vigorously tossing noodles in a blackened wok, mounted on a tripod with flames licking at its underside. The last shop along this colourless depressing straight of road finally comes into view, half a dozen occupants appear to be haggling over a packet of cigarettes; the proprietor snatches back a packet and gestures wildly towards the open doorway.

As I reach the street corner my journey takes me left, a bank, a takeaway restaurant and a mini supermarket suddenly transform this picture into colour again. A converted rickshaw laden with colourful fruit of all shapes and sizes catches my eye. I must now throw my life to the Gods as I attempt to cross the road. Cars, motorbikes, cycles, rickshaws, small trucks all coming at me from every angle, it’s difficult to hear above the constant drone of horns, blasting away continuously obscuring all other sounds. The biggest menace are electric bikes and scooters; capable of travelling in excess of 30 mph, but completely silent. I am about two metres from the other side when I see this scooter heading straight at me; I dive for the pavement and trip over the kerb, lying on my side I see my assailant wobbling into the distance. I count at least eight large industrial bottles of water attached to his scooter; what amazes me most is how I am the one left sprawling on the ground. People walk around me oblivious to my plight, as I sit on the pavement rubbing my ankle.

Finally I reach the entrance to my destination, a small industrial estate with a gateway with lifting barriers and a security hut. I weave my way through the collection of motorcycle couriers and two wheeled taxi’s. Suddenly I am part of a throng of Chinese people all marching to their place of work. As they chatter loudly amongst themselves once again I realise I am invisible.
Finally I reach my destination; the lift takes me to the fourth floor where I am greeted by two of my hosts. As I walk through the corridor with my two companions chatting about the prospects of our new inkjet coder, our voices are heard and a collection of people scurry from their offices to greet me.
As our now large group of people makes its way across the building, my colleagues chatter excitedly about our plans for the day; suddenly I am aware that I am no longer invisible.

In the sixties; as a child I became aware of an influx of Italian nationals coming into the UK.
In order to survive they stuck together as families and formed their own communities. They invested their own money and time into developing businesses and quickly became a part of this great country. They offered us new skills and introduced us to new and exciting culinary delights.
The rot started to creep in and become evident in the nineteen seventies. A once great and proud nation, suddenly found itself gripped by the power of the big unions. With the ability to bring the whole country to a virtual standstill, with strike action and a misguided sense of what they were doing was beneficial to the country as a whole. Unfortunately this was far from the truth with many small specialised businesses being caught in the fall-out and destroyed beyond repair.

During this period a large influx of people; flooding into the UK from India, Pakistan and Asia, was regarded by a number of the UK as a bad thing. It became all too easy to blame this migration of foreign nationals as the main reason for the decline of the UK.
In truth we had already lost the plot as a country, fuelled by our own greed and personal gain with no thought of the cost to our fellow countrymen.
Once again this new influx of people stuck together as a community. They invested their own money and time into small businesses, shops and restaurants. Encouraging growth and industry, whilst the rest of the country sat on its backside and scoffed.
They purchased thousands of corner shops, extended the opening hours to late in the evening; a brilliant service which transformed our lives. They rallied together as families to ensure growth and survival. The money they earned was invested back into this country’s future. Most importantly though what this highlighted was how lazy we had become, finally our inflexibility, our very Britishness had become our downfall.

Over the next three decades we became obseessed with our own needs and material possessions. We purchased far too many imported goods. British manufactured goods became expensive to produce, due to our over inflated self worth and our inability to produce the quality once envied by the rest of the world.
We have seen Japan take our ideas and over the years turn them into top quality every day essentials in our current lives.
Which brings me right back to where I started? I am here in China to share my knowledge and technology; in return I am hoping to learn many new techniques which I can use to benefit my business. My aim is to use this as a platform to begin manufacturing my range of coding and marking products solely in the UK. Hopefully more British companies will follow suit.

I will leave you with this last memory; which I think goes some way to explaining the levels we need to achieve to put this country back on track.
As an apprentice engineer my first task was to produce a component on a lathe. I presented the finished article to my instructor. He asked me; if this component was on a shop counter, would I be prepared to purchase this part. My reply of ‘No’ was met with a snarl of anger and his reply has stayed with me throughout my working life.
“When you can present me with a product that you would be proud enough to purchase yourself, then and only then will I consider it worthy of my time to inspect it, now P*** off and don’t waste any more of my time until you produce a product you are proud to put your name on”.

Early signs looked favourable, we boarded the plane early and everyone promptly took their seats.

Unfortunately two jokers did not have a valid visa and were removed from the plane, which resulted in their baggage needing to be located and ejected from the hold. Culminating in a missed slot for our scheduled take-off.

We ended up sitting around for an hour before we could fly, turning an 11 hour flight into a 12 hour flight. This was compounded by not being allocated a landing slot, which again held up proceedings, turning a 12 hour flight into a 13 hour flight.

I am not really sure if the seats on the Virgin plane were harder, or if adding another year to my age contributed. What I do know is that my body still aches four days into my stay. Compared to British Airways the food was exceptionally poor, and the service was not on the same level.

Anyway enough about my flying gripes. I was picked up from Pudong airport by Liu. A delightful, cheerful little Chinese man, who’s English, improves with the passing of every visit. En route I could not fail to notice all of the new high rise buildings, which have replaced the dirty, grey drab slum areas I spied on previous visits.

I finally arrived at my hotel; a magnificent new building with marble tiles covering every inch of the lobby. On entering my room I was greeted by a very modern look, red furnishings, high gloss shelving and furniture. My bathroom once again covered from top to bottom in marble tiles.

It wasn’t until I decided to take a shower that the other side began to reveal itself. Firstly there was no hot water. My towels were a dirty off white colour with massive rips and holes in them, my brother has better towels for drying off his precious Husky dog, should she be unfortunate enough to be caught in a rain shower.

Opting for a strip wash after boiling the kettle in my room was a bad mistake. I tried to get my foot into the wash hand basin and promptly put my back out of joint.

In certain areas the Chinese people have the most amazing sense of attention to detail. I have a fake Rolex watch which is perfect in every detail, and still keeps perfect time. This attention to detail on the surface is however sometimes not backed up by what I would class as a total quality end product; once you scratch below the surface. That said I always go home with a couple of little gems. This time has not been a disappointment either with a couple of new products I can add to my coding and marking equipment port folio.

On my return to my room tonight, I found myself transfixed by a line of huge black beetles marching down the corridor towards the lifts. I counted over twenty before I gave up and went back to my room. I jammed one of the scraggy towels under my door to stop them sniffing out my stash of biscuits and slipping beneath my door under cover of darkness.

As I lay on my bed thinking about those huge beetles, it suddenly occurred to me where the rips and holes in my towels had most probably come from. Maybe the previous occupants had also witnessed these huge black insects and done likewise with their towels.

I received an e-mail about six weeks ago from a lady in Nigeria. A request for us to supply a Willett ink jet coder, this was a strange request as this type of system died out around 10 years ago now. She explained that she was setting up a water bottling plant; as water is a rare and precious commodity in South Africa. Unfortunately Nigeria is still trying to play catch-up with the rest of the world in every aspect, and the very latest ink jet coding and marking equipment sadly falls outside of their financial boundaries. Technical support for the older ink jet coders is around in abundance, not so for anything younger than 8 years of age.

Although we support a vast range of old Willett ink jet coders, the request from Nigeria was going to require something a little out of the ordinary. This machine would have to be assembled entirely out of spare parts. As these parts are now rarely required, we have stored them away in the roof space for safe keeping. Access to the roof space is via a rather large 5 foot long by 4 foot wide hatch. The very high ceiling is about 16 foot from the floor. so access is via a special ladder arrangement. During one of my sorties into the roof space in the hunt for elusive parts for said ink jet coder, my mobile phone rang and in the struggle to retrieve it from my pocket I stumbled backwards over the pile of parts I had accumulated.
As I hurtled backwards down through the loft hatch I managed to hit my head knocking myself unconscious.
I remember opening my eyes and my first experience was the severe pain in my back and in my head. I slowly pulled myself to my feet and staggered to the cold water drink dispenser.
After drinking some water I realised that I was alone and with a very strong urge to lay down, decided to drive myself home for a lie on my bed.

Fast forward four weeks and every aspect of that day had been erased from my memory until, Friday evening I drove the five miles to my home as normal. I must have been halfway between my car and the front door of my house when Zap !. A searing pain in my lower back and side brought me crashing to my knees. Which brings me back to my dream.
Whilst I endure a variety of tests and scans in order to ascertain how much damage I have done to my left kidney, during the fall. I have been prescribed a cocktail of drugs to minimise my suffering.
Unfortunately these drugs appear to have a slight hallucinogenic side effect, whilst under the influence of sleep. Every time I awake from a sleep I find myself laying there trying to work out what parts of my life are reality, and what parts are still there in my sub-concious but were in fact part of one of the many dreams I have invented in my head.

The ink jet coder has now been completed and fully tested to the point of destruction. On Friday our Nigerian lady arrived on the train to view her new/old Willett coding and marking machine. After an intensive training course we packaged up her ink jet coder and drove her back to London. She flies out to Nigeria this week with the final piece of the jigsaw in order to begin bottled water production in Nigeria.
In a little over six weeks we have made this lady’s dream a reality. Something in my head tells me that although we are in fact many years ahead of our unfortunate brothers and sisters in South Africa, in terms of technological advances in industrial production techniques; we are in reality not that far ahead in terms of the medical service offered to our patients on the National Health System.
Unfortunately my dreams will have to continue to be anything but reality for some months to come, whilst I await more scans, tests and a diagnosis to ascertain a course of action to rectify my problem. Until then I will continue to keep taking the drugs.
Sweet dreams everyone.

I have for some time been designing a new inkjet coder in my head, with perfect peace and quiet and the phones on divert; now seemed like the perfect time to get my ideas down into a hard copy format.

A glance at the clock confirms it is seven fifty five. I had failed to notice the failing light; compounded by the poor weather conditions. I seem to remember reading somewhere that we actually lose forty three minutes of daylight in August. With that my mind drifts away to the thought of yet another summer which failed to live up to expectations.

Memory does tend to play tricks on you, but I would swear that thirty odd years ago when I was a young lad, summers used to be at their peak through July and August, and you were virtually guaranteed snow from December through to February. These days summer doesn’t seem to get going until September, by which time the light nights are history.

If that is the accepted pattern, then over the course of thirty odd years the seasons appear to have shifted position by around two months. Which set me wondering why, February only has twenty eight days. If February had actually had thirty days, then over the last thirty odd years the seasons would surely have stayed in exactly the correct place. So should it just have the twenty eight days, or was there some clerical oversight when we switched from the Lunar calender to the Julian calender, and somehow February managed to slip through the net.

The real answer to the February conundrum is somewhat less inspiring than the idea of a century’s long cover up.

We have to look back to the Romans, who first tried to reconcile the moons twenty nine and a half day cycle, with the Earths three hundred and sixty five and a quarter day rotation around the Sun.

The original idea to build to a year around twelve lunar cycles actually came up eleven days short, so an extra month “Mercendinus” was added.

Supposedly it was Julius Ceasar who decided that this lingering attachment to the lunar cycle was unwieldy. It was said that he decided to ignore the Lunar cycle and get rid of Mercendinus, by arranging the number of days into twelve months to add up to exactly three hundred and sixty five and a quarter days. February wound up with with twenty nine days, plus an extra day every fourth year. In this arrangement, July – the month named to honour Ceasar himself, had thirty one days. August by contrast had only thirty.

Supporters of the emperor Augustus were having none of that. So a day was removed from February to August and hey presto, the calender we all know and love was born.

It occurred to me whilst discarding this flawed February hypothesis, that quite often in the world of coding and marking product design, if said product or system fails to work as originally envisaged, I doubt any of us would be so quick to jump to the wrong conclusion, but certainly picking up the cause of any problem depends on being equipped to ask all of the right questions.

Successful design of the perfect industrial coding and marking products, depends on the right questions being asked all the way along the line. The input from existing customers for this task is absolutely paramount, their observations and experiences however hard to sometimes stomach; should be used as the framework from which all future coding and marking machinery is designed around.

Over the past twenty years the coding and marking industry has, like many other industries reaped the benefit of massive leaps in technological advances. This has enabled ink jet coders to go toe to toe with many of the labeling systems, which were regarded not so long ago as the only viable option for logo’s, matrix and bar coding onto our produce. The most significant advances have however been made in the reliability of the ink jet coding equipment. Service intervals previously spanning a three month period are now more likely to be twelve to twenty four months.

Which brings me back to my journey; Travelling south on the M11 I had just reached Stanstead Airport when the heavens opened, the rain was so torrential that any speed in excess of 20mph would have been reckless.

This weather continued for the remainder of my journey into central London, which was a stop start affair due to at least three accidents caused by this adverse weather.

As I sat in my car static in an endless queue which disappeared over the horizon towards London, I started to think; the advancements we have made in industry and manufacturing processes, have surely been replicated both technologically and in terms of reliability when it comes to predicting the daily weather. How can the Met office continue to get things wrong with all of this sophisticated measuring and monitoring equipment available today. If our coding and marking equipment displayed this tendency for unpredictability we would be out of business within months.

Which brings me finally onto our current road situation. I have lost so many vital hours of my life stuck in traffic across this country, by the time I actually croak I will have probably lost 10% of my life sat in my car absolutely static, watching the traffic flowing freely in the opposite direction to which I am travelling. On my return trip I started to formulate a plan which should hopefully, over a two year period reduce this lost time for all involved at Coding & Handling by as much as 60%. In five years time my plan should return up to 90% of this lost time, making a massive impact on how we operate and the implications of overall cost effectiveness for our UK customer base. Unfortunately my plan cannot be tweaked in order to alleviate the third rate road system in this country, nor can it be adapted to improve the information regarding our weather. It will however result in faster response times, lower charges and more up-time for our entire customer base.

Against my better judgement he finally turned his attention to good old e-bay. On Saturday I received an e-mail attachment from him followed by an excited phone call. He was very enthusiastic about a 2004 Vauxhall Vectra, low mileage with a 2006 front bumper headlights and plastics. I tried to explain that this all sounded very dodgy, what with a new front end from a later model and the owner only desperate to sell because he was emigrating abroad. He explained that he had telephoned the owner and had been assured that the car was in very good genuine condition and would be a very good proposition for my friend.

The bidding finished at nine thirty on Saturday evening, we were all waiting in the pub for his arrival to find out if he had bid successfully. In he walks with a grin like a Cheshire cat, exclaiming he had secured the car for £1900; some £1600 below his budget. The car was some 200 miles away in Blackburn.

On Sunday morning he boarded a train heading for Blackburn with £1900 cash in his wallet, some three transfers and four hours later he was met at the railway station by the owner as arranged with the Vectra.

Every body panel was damaged, the CD/radio player was missing, the clutch was slipping and the gear lever tried to jump into the back seat every time you lifted off the accelerator peddle. In short the car was a complete tin of nails. I received a call from my friend late on Sunday evening he was stranded at a Railway station in Milton Keynes, with no hope of getting home until 5am on Monday morning. I ended up driving through the night to fetch him terrified that I might run over a badger or a rabbit and have a death on my conscience.

On our journey home he told me his tale of woe, he had lost a day of his life and was £50 worse off for wasted train fare.

This set me thinking about the high number of calls we receive every week of every month of every year. The conversation usually starts off with a request to fix or make good an ink jet coder which does not work. Further investigation usually reveals that said ink jet coder has been purchased at auction, or from a second hand machinery dealer who has no intention of offering after sales support. We usually find that a sum between £1500 to £3000 has been spent on the coder. A further call to the specific manufacturer is followed up by a service engineers report that reveals that a further £1500 minimum is required to restore the inkjet coder to its former glory. This is usually the point where we get the distress call, with the customer already having blown his full budget on a machine which is only fit for the skip.

Please be assured if you are considering the purchase of an industrial coding and marking machine; there is no such thing as a bargain. Buying from auctions or second hand dealers will invariably cost you thousands of pounds in the long run. Why go to all this trouble when you can purchase a fully reconditioned system, with a full parts and labour warranty for less than £3000. Backed up by an after sales service that has few equals for the industry sector.

My friend has finally seen the light, he has set himself a maximum travelling distance of 70 miles and has decided that he will only buy from a garage or dealer. He is now prepared to stop looking for that elusive bargain and realises he must pay a fair price for a fair vehicle.

If only we could educate those people that are looking for coding and marking machinery bargains, unfortunately these fools stand to lose a whole lot more than a £50 train fare.

The journey was uneventful for a Monday morning; it always pays to set off that bit earlier to avoid the main rush. I arrived on site at 08:00 and within 30 minutes both inkjet coders were set up and ready to rumble. Training was all done and dusted within 30 minutes, these Codejet E18+ ink jet coders are so easy to operate even a 5 year old could pick this up. I hung around for a further 45 minutes watching everyone buzzing around shifting the coders up and down the conveyor system, whilst arguing about where the optimum coding position would be; good job these little coders are very lightweight. Once they had finally agreed on the position the next debate was the height of the printed characters and if they should take the form of a dot matrix code, or be a solid character like you would expect to find on letter type.

I explained that the dot matrix effect would half the running costs, as less ink is required for this type of font. That seemed to settle this issue with the man who signs the cheques having the final say. Not that these things are expensive to run anyway, most of my customers only use one cassette per year.

With both systems running effortlessly now, the print quality being pin point perfect; one could only compare this to the poor old Willett 3840 which we restored some weeks ago. Unfortunately the Willett 3840 has a 70 micron nozzle, the droplets being quite large and deposited at a high velocity tend to distort the print somewhat. This is not something anyone would consider until both coded products are compared side by side. By the time I had loaded my car up for the return trip the Willett inkjet coder was being wound down.

On my journey home my mind wandered back some 30 years ago, when I somehow found myself with my first Keyboard Input Device in my hand and a Willett 3800 ink jet coder in front of me. Never work with Animals, Children or Continuous type ink jet coders someone had told me, I remember replying that I did not intend to make a career out of this.

Here I am many generations of inkjet coder further on and still the 3800 is a part of my everyday life.

Something tells me that the Willett 3800 will still be around even when my ashes have been scattered.