Wednesday, 30 June 2010

On cones and motorway travel

Fifty is now the new seventy on motorways across our country. Perhaps it is just me being an old cynic or perhaps it is the inefficiency of over-burdened business these days but it seems to me, that only a year or so on from three years of roadworks on the M1 that one might have hoped to enjoy travelling in one's chauffeur driven limousine at seventy rather than fifty as soon as one got a few miles north of the original site for these interminable works.

It looks like a government sponsored scheme to catch frustrated motorists with the towering yellow "average speed cameras" that lurk along our roadsides like something out of "War of the Worlds" only without the grace to die off from the common cold and bother us no more. I have seen some with notices leaned against them stating they are not in use, so thinking about it, perhaps they are invaders from the red planet put to use in an alliance with the highways agency and the Department of Meanness & Disservice.

It wouldn't be so bad if these chaps were working all along the stretch which they close down but I saw a few hundred yards of work and plant and then twenty odd miles of cones before there were three machines in a fifty yard space and then nothing until the torture ceased.

Have you also noticed that even when they do finish, they leave signage and other stuff around. Often you will come into a patch with two fifty signs still standing before you realise, they have just been abandoned when the invasion ended and enough motorists had been defeated. Obviously, the profits from this roadside extortion and grief are sufficient that you can idly chuck away equipment when you are done.

I must look up the old school list and see if any of my chaps have jobs as civil servants or ministers in the DoMD. Otherwise I'll have to bang on at our local mp, again. Ah for the times when my ancestors would have hounded after the progenitor of such mean-spirited and badly organised works with a riding crop or a blunderbuss!

The gates of the manor open

So, against my better judgement and with much nagging from Lady Madelaine, I have agreed to open the grounds of Offputting Manor once a week to the unwashed masses. I know I shall regret this. I should have turned it into a golf course like everyone else is doing, these days, dammit!

Me? Well Squire Townshend St John De Grincheaux, of course! Who did you think I was, a damn tradesman?! And that's pronounced Town-shh-end Singe-en De Grinch-o. Singen not Saint John. Don't they teach you people anything at school, these days? Why when I was at Warboys, you'd have got one across the knuckles for pronouncing a good English name so sloppily.

I daresay the opening of the grounds will be the talk of Hogenroast Malpractice for some weeks. A subject of even greater tittle tattle than the annual garden show. And while we are on the subject of pronunciation, the proper way to say that is "Hoonroast", the g is silent. Roll it around your tongue and you'll get it right, eventually.

I daresay the ancestors will be turning in their graves at the idea of the greater populace treading our ancient lawns. If the stories are true, George, the third baronet used to hunt poachers with a blunderbuss and pickle stirrer across the fields and gardens of the manor.

Well don't stand around gawping. Haven't you got some honest work to be getting on with?