Its Parking really

One reads of grand passions, one understands obsession, one empathises with the unhinged mind.

But the Sutton Councillors have set the bar to a new and exciting height.

This is a commercial. You have to be there. This is going to be on the the ‘must see’ events in the West Midland calendar.

Councillors meet with their constituents in Trinity Ward every month. A large agenda is published, various officers are required to attend, there are, amazingly, some members of the public present.

And the councillors grapple, in public, with the major questions affecting the voters. We did rubbish collection and we had a gentleman talk us through the brief for the restoration of the Town Centre.

And then. It was Parking.

It was as if someone had switched the light on. I ought to explain that three councillors had attended. On duty were Waddington, Parkin and Pears. The latter two were definitely alive, if somewhat torporous. You couldn’t image them hoppin’ and boppin’. Hoppin’ would certainly have us up before Trades Descriptions. We’ll leave out boppin’. But Mrs Waddington was giving serious cause for concern.

It wasn’t that she didn’t speak, smile, leer, nod or smile. She didn’t move. It came as a very considerable relief when the Chairman asked the Members (the other two!) to approve the minutes. She said ‘Agreed.’ Quietly.

But to get back to Parking – this electrified the other two. They carried large holdalls with petitions and protests and pleas and threats. They threw themselves into passionate denunciations of irresponsible parkers. The unfortunate Traffic Management Officer found himself battered by questions, suggestions and entreaties. Even the constabulary was dragged into the debate. One formed the impression that hanging was too good for the more obvious miscreants.

And this ecstasy lasted all of twenty minutes. And then it stopped. There were bottomless sighs from two thirds of the top table. That was very obviously that for another month.

The Councillors P, deflated, turned their attention regretfully to the crossroads at the Anvil. Whatever the solution, traffic lights, calming measures, stop signs, it was unable to hold a candle to the main business of the meeting. The light had gone out of their eyes. They trudged, metaphorically to the end of the meeting. They woke up Mrs Waddington and off they went.

There’s always next month. You have to be there.

Nightwatchman