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sparkindarknessI can't stop posting! I never post this opften. I'm going to burn out and crisp and DIE in an explosion of muses and angst. Actually, it's all been pretty light on the angst, I'll have to wake up Darren and Ian.
This one is short. Now I must slow down and get some actual work done. Yes, yes I should.
Honestly, this is worse than when I used to write slash in the margin of my property law notes.
Easy? Try impossible. And you can guess who’s going to get the blame for his, can’t you? Oh yes, that would be me. Not being a miracle worker is a heinous offence, you know.
Everything was, predictably, exactly as my wonderful reporter friend said it would be. No-one cared about it. No-one wanted to stop it. Most of them didn’t know anything about it. Bloody hell, where are the NIMBYs when you want them? I even grabbed a few local ramblers and tried to endear them into the wonderful properties the area has for a nature reserve. No dice. I’m not that good an Empath to make anyone love this place.
Still, I’ve done my bit right? I’ve done a full exhaustive investigation. I have discovered all the information I could possibly discover. No-one can expect miracles, right?
That’s what I said to my grandfather.
Apparently you may now all hail me as Rebecca Crowley, supreme being of the Midlands, Goddess of planning permission, please leave tribute with the secretary. Yay, go me.
I was mulling over ideas as I consulted my now copious notes (there’s an old saying that anything can be forgiven if you have a big enough paper shield. That old saying lies). Perhaps I could have the area declared a site of supreme natural beauty? Except it’s a hideous wasteland that may be improved by toxic waste. Maybe I could introduce some rare animal to live there and have all the enviros come out of the woodwork to protect the lesser spotted vegetable toad or something? That wouldn’t really be fair on the animals. Maybe I could make one up? Get 4 or 5 tweed wearing people with big binoculars to confirm sighting of the illuminous spotted crested grebfinch that must now be protected? That may mean I have to make up far more about the grabfinch than my shaky knowledge of birds can do.
I sat on the barren moor and sulked. No, wait, considered deeply. Honest. It was just that the site was so bloody ideal for development. There was no good reason not to develop it and everyone knows it. Making up a reason would challenge my integrity, ruin my ethics and be waaay too much effort.
Then it hit me. Light up a bulb over my head, cue flash of lightening and any other cheesy special effects you can manage. It WAS perfect for development… so maybe it should be developed as something else? Something less objectionable and polluting? Whoever developed it would have to overrule the local council…
I was up and running, leading into my car and setting off almost before the door was closed. Miracles? Heh, we don’t need no stinking miracles, we’ve got bureaucracy and New Labour targets!
This one is short. Now I must slow down and get some actual work done. Yes, yes I should.
Honestly, this is worse than when I used to write slash in the margin of my property law notes.
Easy? Try impossible. And you can guess who’s going to get the blame for his, can’t you? Oh yes, that would be me. Not being a miracle worker is a heinous offence, you know.
Everything was, predictably, exactly as my wonderful reporter friend said it would be. No-one cared about it. No-one wanted to stop it. Most of them didn’t know anything about it. Bloody hell, where are the NIMBYs when you want them? I even grabbed a few local ramblers and tried to endear them into the wonderful properties the area has for a nature reserve. No dice. I’m not that good an Empath to make anyone love this place.
Still, I’ve done my bit right? I’ve done a full exhaustive investigation. I have discovered all the information I could possibly discover. No-one can expect miracles, right?
That’s what I said to my grandfather.
Apparently you may now all hail me as Rebecca Crowley, supreme being of the Midlands, Goddess of planning permission, please leave tribute with the secretary. Yay, go me.
I was mulling over ideas as I consulted my now copious notes (there’s an old saying that anything can be forgiven if you have a big enough paper shield. That old saying lies). Perhaps I could have the area declared a site of supreme natural beauty? Except it’s a hideous wasteland that may be improved by toxic waste. Maybe I could introduce some rare animal to live there and have all the enviros come out of the woodwork to protect the lesser spotted vegetable toad or something? That wouldn’t really be fair on the animals. Maybe I could make one up? Get 4 or 5 tweed wearing people with big binoculars to confirm sighting of the illuminous spotted crested grebfinch that must now be protected? That may mean I have to make up far more about the grabfinch than my shaky knowledge of birds can do.
I sat on the barren moor and sulked. No, wait, considered deeply. Honest. It was just that the site was so bloody ideal for development. There was no good reason not to develop it and everyone knows it. Making up a reason would challenge my integrity, ruin my ethics and be waaay too much effort.
Then it hit me. Light up a bulb over my head, cue flash of lightening and any other cheesy special effects you can manage. It WAS perfect for development… so maybe it should be developed as something else? Something less objectionable and polluting? Whoever developed it would have to overrule the local council…
I was up and running, leading into my car and setting off almost before the door was closed. Miracles? Heh, we don’t need no stinking miracles, we’ve got bureaucracy and New Labour targets!