Trouble on the Heath by Terry Jones Page B

there was no letter-box outside their front door and they had to walk two hundred yards down the road to post a letter. Fish didn’t harass you by ringing you every hour – on the hour – to demand to know why you hadn’t replaced the trees that had been cut down by accident two years before.
    And sometimes you caught fish.
    That never happened with members of the public. They always caught you .
    If you granted a planning application to build a really nice house with lots of rooms and a swimming pool, objectors would line up chanting in the road. They’d have their photos taken by the local newspaper, and spread rumours about the damage to the environment the house would cause. They’d claim it would upset the water table and destroy the local wild life. They’d storm the Council offices and spray green paint all over the computers. It had happened once.
    On the other hand, if you refused an application to build a really nice house with lots of rooms and a swimming pool, the applicants would threaten to take you to court. They’d bring in high-powered lawyers. They would say that you weren’t up to your job and that you were acting illegally. They’d phone you up and say they were going to take this matter “higher” and suggest that your job might be at risk.
    There was no pleasing the General Public.
    Look at that case with that supermarket a few years ago! The Council refused permission to build yet another supermarket which nobody needed. So the supermarket took the Council to court. The Council won. Then the supermarket took them to court again, and the Council won again. This went on for several years. Eventually the Council ran out of money, so they gave permission to build the supermarket.
    Instead of being grateful, the supermarket then sued the Council for loss of earnings. They won, and the Council had been nearly bankrupted.
    The Council, and particularly the Planning Department, just could not win.
    The daily harassment, routine abuse and endless round of complaints and objections and protests would grind anybody down.
    Trevor climbed the stairs to the Planning Department with a sinking heart. He opened the door and there were all the staff looking at him. Cynthia, who did the filing, was holding a cake.
    â€œHappy Birthday, Trevor!” they all shouted.

Chapter Three
    Lady Chesney was a tolerant soul. She tolerated the lowly people who jammed her sitting room at these meetings. She tolerated the off-the-peg clothes they wore. She tolerated their accents and the way they had to work for a living. She was even willing to shake hands with one or two of them, if they seemed important enough. Were any of them as grateful as they should have been? She doubted it.
    That awkward young man, Malcolm Thomas, was trying to call the meeting to order. She still found it perfectly shocking that he was supposed to be a professor of something or other at the University of London. He certainly didn’t look to her like a professor, and her opinion was worth something one would think! What was the world coming to, when a young man in a cheap suit, with a Liverpool accent, could be a professor?
    Lady Chesney sighed. The country was going to the dogs. She already knew that, of course, but it was painful to see the evidence in one’s own home.
    Eventually the rabble became quiet, and Malcolm looked around the room.
    â€œLadies and Gentlemen,” he said. “Fellow members of the Highgrove Park Residents’ Association. Welcome to this emergency meeting to deal with the threat to demolish two houses in the …”
    â€œWhat about the Minutes?” shouted a voice from the back.
    â€œAnd the Treasurer’s Report?” added another.
    â€œThis is an emergency meeting,” said Malcolm. “Can’t we just get on with the business we’ve come to discuss?”
    Mr Clarkson stood up. Before he’d retired, Mr Clarkson had been head manager