This access isn’t direct – as yet. Ms Seymour is far too canny for that! She insists that she is now using the tiny back alley that runs to the rear of the three cottages – formerly used only by the refuse disposal services – as her chief means of ingress and egress. This small, dank lane she has named ‘Paradise’ (and has even hung up a sign to this effect!).
I was perfectly astonished when I ventured down there the other week by what an amazing coup our humble Ms Seymour had pulled off (I honestly didn’t think she had it in her)! I promptly consulted a local estate agent (Rick Cullen, from Cullen and Speck) who told me that by suddenly, effectively, giving her home direct access to the lower reaches of Piper’s Ghyll Road (one of the most prestigious addresses in BC) she has added a sum of at least £30,000 to the value of her property!
It now seems as though there are moves afoot for the residents of the other two cottages to follow her lead (they’d be foolish not to, I suppose!).
I must confess that I find the ‘Paradise’ sign especially infuriating. Not only is the name utterly inappropriate to the location of the property (and the property itself), but it’s completely out of sync with other street names in BC. It simply isn’t kosher (there’s a silly, hippyish, deviant, almost heretical flavour to it). Worse still, it’s a long-held tradition in BC – as you will doubtless already know – that none of the roads (least of all imaginary ones!) have signs on them. That simply isn’t the way we do things here.
I have every reason to believe that Ms Seymour was compensated financially when the bypass was built, so find it doubly irritating that she has now connived to add extra value to the price of her ramshackle little abode by dint of completely disregarding local planning regulations etc.
I currently have two council lawyers working on the case. My main objective is to try and find out whether there might be any way to oblige her to return some of the original compensation she was paid, or possibly to force her – at the very least – to take down her silly sign and rebuild the old wall again (back at its original height of seven foot).
Of course you will know (possibly better than anybody) that if one person is seen to be ‘cocking a snook’ at planning regulations in a Conservation Area, then a very dangerous precedent is set, and all manner of breaches are liable to follow.
I mean whatever next, eh? A massage parlour on the High Street? Saxonby Manor turned into a temporary internment centre for asylum-seekers? The village church mysteriously transformed, overnight, into a functioning mosque?! Is nothing to be held sacred any more?
I’m sure there must be something that we can do to set right this awful wrong…
Yours, etc.
Baxter
PPS Am reduced to using snail mail due to a pesky virus on the Mac.
[letter 12]
A dispatch from the desk of:
Baxter Thorndyke, Cllr
The Old Hall
Burley Cross
20/12/2006
For attn Sergeant Laurence Everill (Skipton) & PC Roger Topping (Ilkley)
Re Manhole cover theft
Gentlemen,
I am writing to you today in my capacity as an elected borough councillor and as a concerned – a very concerned – member of the Great British Public, about the burgeoning problem of manhole cover theft in the United Kingdom.
It is with a combination of astonishment and dismay that I am obliged to inform you that these apparently insignificant – you might think dreary, even inconsequential – items (a constituent part of every road and high street in the civilized world) have lately become the subject – the focus – of an organized, international crime wave, sponsored by no less an adversary than the Chinese.
If you are, as yet, unfamiliar with this startling phenomenon, do not be dismayed. I am more than happy to fill you in on everything you need to know…
The earliest, recorded cases of this heinous activity were registered approximately three or four years ago in the Far East. The thieves initiated this practice in China itself, then gradually began extending their tentacles into India (I presume certain cities and provinces in the Communist Republic started predating, like parasites, upon each other, before turning their greedy, pitiless eyes on to greater riches lying slightly further afield).
You may (or may not) be aware that this particular segment of the globe has been industrializing – at an extraordinary rate – over recent years, which (by necessity) has generated a powerful need for basic raw materials (coal, oil, steel). This need is now so immense, so boundless, that certain corrupt individuals within the Chinese establishment are willing to go to any lengths – I repeat: any lengths – to acquire the precious resources they so desperately hanker after.
An insignificant hunk of steel – the humble, utterly commonplace and dependable British manhole cover – has now become an essential nutrient in the ravening appetite – and overweening political ambitions – of the Communist Republic.
As I said previously, the earliest known cases of manhole cover theft took place within ‘the belly of the beast’ itself. In 2004 at least eight deaths were reported as a consequence of such thefts in India and China.
Deaths?
Hang on a second…
You are probably drawing back, startled, as your eyes re-run over those two, stark words. Eight deaths?!
‘But… but how…?’ you stutter.
I’ll tell you how:
The manhole cover might appear to be a piddling, paltry, even meritless object, in principle, but think about it, Constables: when one is stolen, what’s left behind is a whopping great hole for any innocent member of the public to tumble into (or drive over – generating horrendous damage to the wheels and bodywork of their vehicle – if the cover has been removed from the road itself).
This is a serious business. Still more serious when you consider how much these covers cost to replace. Steel yourselves, gentlemen (no pun intended): each individual cover costs in excess of £100.
Let me repeat that: in excess of £100. And we aren’t talking insignificant numbers here, either. This is a massive, professional operation, a major enterprise. In 2004, over 10,000 manhole covers were stolen from the Indian city of Calcutta in a period of only two months. Do the maths. That’s around about 208 covers per night.
Baffled and infuriated by these thefts, the Indian authorities in that benighted slum replaced the steel covers with concrete ones, but were then appalled when these, too, were stolen – for the iron rods within the concrete!
Of course (I can hear you reasoning – and quite rightly) it is illegal for scrap dealers within the boundaries of the EU to purchase MHCs (Manhole covers).
Oh yes, it’s illegal all right, but – trust me – it sure as hell still happens. And anyway, the Chinese are just as likely to ship the stolen covers back to China on a cargo vessel and melt them down secretly there.
An Important Question:
Why do I consider Wharfedale to be under special threat?
Here’s the answer:
Most MHC theft started off in London (in Newham, east London, over 200 grates and covers were stolen during 2004 -93 of these in just one week).
Since this time, MHCs have been taken, in considerable quantities, from places as far afield as Gloucester, Powys, Aberdeen and Fife (a batch of approximately 13 were stolen in Alness, but given that this was during a phase of snowy weather, the general consensus is that these may have been lifted by irresponsible locals to be employed as sledges).
The point I’m trying to make here is that Bradford, Leeds, and the outlying areas currently represent an immaculate – a pristine – hunting ground for these plucky, ruthless and tenacious Chinese thieves. Look at the map (enclosed): we lie right in the middle of their former targets. We are ripe for the plucking – a virgin patch!
So what the hell are we meant to do about all this?
I’ll tell you what: keep our noses to the ground and our eyes peeled. That, and spread the word: get the general publ
ic on board. Get them involved. Warn them, prime them, prepare them for what lies ahead.
Let’s educate, Constables, together. A campaign in schools and colleges (I’m more than happy to play my part, here), supported by the distribution of some well-designed posters and leaflets, followed by a media blitz, featuring some on-the-spot reports in local radio and television news programmes, articles and opinion pieces in the local paper…
What people don’t know – and what you yourselves may not yet realize – is that MHCs ‘offer living testimony to the industrial artistry of the second half of the nineteenth century’ (cf. Wikipedia under Manhole Cover Theft). These objects can be beautiful (see enclosed photographs – copyright BT), they aren’t just ‘hunks of metal’ but precious little pieces of our social history, and, as such, are not just priceless, but utterly irreplaceable.
Those thieving Reds need to be stopped in their tracks!
One final question (and it’s a tough one):
Do you two gentlemen have the balls for the job?
Well?
BT
PS Sergeant Everill. Further to our conversation in early Sept. re the BCPTW’s ‘August Initiative’. You didn’t seem to take our endeavours terribly seriously when I initially approached you, but it may be of some interest to you to discover that our website is soon about to feature photographs of (and car registration details belonging to) a notable member of the Bingley Constabulary. Off duty, naturally… Fancy a little chin-wag about it?
You know where I am.
Bax
PPS Oh yes… And before you go to the unnecessary effort of wheeling out that whole, rather tired ‘working undercover’ dodge, there was nothing remotely ‘undercover’ about the kind of activities that scoundrel was engaged in. Trust me.
B
[letter 13]
Highbank
2 Shortcroft Rd
Burley Cross
21 December, 2006
Dear Nadia,
This simply has to stop! I just can’t bear it any more! I’ve had enough! And when I say stop, I mean stop – no more phone calls, no more letters, no more tantrums, no more tears, no more threats…
If you do come over on the ferry and turn up at the house, unannounced, then I shall hurt myself. I shall slash myself with a razor. I mean it, Nadia. I’m desperate. I have nothing left to lose. I carry it with me at all times, tucked into my bra, just in case. It’s there right now – right this minute, pressing against my skin – wrapped up in a little piece of tissue paper.
Every time I hear a knock at the door I reach for it. Every time I answer the door – or Peter answers – I have it hidden in my hand. I will use it, Nadia. I swear on everything I hold sacred. I will use it.
It’s over. It’s over. Why don’t you understand? How much more plainly can I state this? What more can I say? Why won’t you just listen? (What’s wrong with you? Are you deluded? Insane?) I want you out of my life! There! I’ll say it again! I WANT YOU OUT OF MY LIFE!
Is that plain enough for you? Is that clear enough?
How did you track me down? How? How?! And why? Why did you persist when it was so obvious – so obvious! – that I didn’t want to be found? I changed my name, my hair colour, my accent, my religion. I changed it all. I lost it all. I wanted to lose it, don’t you see?
I’m a different person now. I’m someone else. I play bridge.
I do tapestry. I sing in the church choir. I raised £235 on the Walk for Life. I’m a good person, a stable person.
And I’m not your mother. I was never your mother. I never wanted you. I’m sorry to have to say that – to write that down in black and white – but it’s the truth. I’ve given everything I had to give. I’m very sorry if it wasn’t enough for you. I apologize. I truly apologize – but this is who I am, Nadia. This is me. I’m sorry if you find it disappointing. I’m sorry if you’re angry. But have you ever bothered to think – even for a second – about what you’re putting me through? You only seem to think about yourself – your feelings, your rights. But what about mine? If you honestly cared for me – as you insist that you do – then why can’t you just show it by LEAVING ME ALONE?!
I didn’t ask for this, Nadia. I didn’t ask for any of this. It’s making me ill. You are making me ill. I am very depressed and on edge. I can’t sleep. I can’t eat. I can’t seem to concentrate my mind on anything. Peter has noticed. He’s started asking me questions. I swear to God, if you turn up, unannounced, and ruin the life I’ve struggled so hard to build with him, I shall never forgive you. Never. Never. I shall hate you. I shall spit in your face and then slash my own throat.
I’m sobbing as I scribble all of these terrible things down, because I’m sorry. I am sorry. I’m sorry that it has had to come down to this. I’m not a maniac, but this situation is in danger of turning me into one. I have lost all sense of self-control. I keep bursting into tears. I am a different person. I can’t seem to recognize myself.
This isn’t normal for me. But I’m cornered, like a trapped animal. You have cornered me. You are in control of my destiny. You hold it in your hands. My destiny! My destiny! Not your destiny, but my destiny!
LET ME GO! LET ME GO! YOU HAVE NO RIGHT TO DO THIS TO ME!
I am afraid, Nadia. I am terrified. And I shall do anything – anything – it takes to survive this. I shall come out baring my teeth and my claws. I shall scratch and bite. You’re giving me no other option. There is no other way.
And don’t think for a moment that it’s because I care for him more. Why do you keep on saying that? Why?! I don’t understand the logic of your way of thinking! It’s so stupid! It’s so selfish! I don’t care for him more. I care about the work I’ve invested! I care about the years of work I’ve invested. I won’t have you just turning up and ruining it all for me. You ruined it all for me once before, thirty-six years ago. I won’t let you do it again. I’d kill myself first. I won’t go through it all again. I can’t. I can’t! Don’t you understand? I can’t! It just isn’t fair!
Why all these questions about your father? What more do you feel you need to know about him? Why don’t you just let these things alone?
It’s almost like you blame me. You call yourself a victim, but I was the victim. Don’t you understand? I was the victim. I am still the victim.
Of course I don’t know what the medical implications are! Speak to your doctor! How am I meant to engage with all of this? It’s monstrous! It’s obscene! He was my uncle. I already told you he was a blood relation. My mother’s brother. I already told that to the adoption people. I was twelve years old! A child! They swore to my mother – they swore to me – that they would maintain my anonymity.
I have rebuilt my life. I have paid the price. I was never able to conceive again. My womb was too small to go full term. The baby should have been aborted but my parents wouldn’t hear of it. I nearly died in the delivery. I lost five pints of blood. I told you all of this on the phone. I never wanted to have the baby. It was a mistake, a terrible mistake.
I’m sorry the baby was you. But I never wanted you. I wanted another baby, my own baby, but that was never to be. I was denied a child of my own. Peter was denied a child of his own. I have been punished – by God, by him, by… I don’t know… I have suffered enough. I have kept the secret all these years and I’m damned if you’re going to spoil everything for me. I won’t let you. I’ll do anything, anything it takes. I am beyond fear. I am beyond care.
Please, please, let this finally be an end to it.
Please.
Rita
[letter 14]
A dispatch from the desk of:
Baxter Thorndyke, Cllr
The Old Hall
Burley Cross
21/12/2006
Brian,
REMEMBER TO DESTROY THIS LETTER AS SOON AS YOU HAVE READ AND MEMORIZED THE CONTENTS!
DON’T BIN IT.
DON’T SHRED IT.
BURN IT!!
I thought it was prob
ably advisable to pass on the details of the Sex Hex by post, under the ingenious disguise of ‘Boring Council Business’. We don’t want Petra accidentally happening across it – in the form of a stray email – while idly going through the online receipts for your annual tax return, do we, now?
As I told you when we conversed on the issue in the bar after council: I’m not prone to handing out information on the Hex to just anyone, willy-nilly. Consider yourself lucky. Consider yourself ‘blessed’.
The Sex Hex works. It is powerful magic. Don’t play around with it. It is deadly, deadly serious. Use it at your own peril in other words.
Got that? Good. So let’s get down to business…
For a successful Hex, you will need:
1. A SHEET OF PLAIN, WHITE PAPER FROM A PREVIOUSLY UNUSED BASILDON BOND NOTEPAD.
(Basildon Bond are a good quality paper manufacturer. The original spell demands ‘virgin parchment’ – which could just as easily be a stray page ripped from a scruffy student notepad. But where’s the fun in that? I find the spell is at its most potent, its most powerful, when each individual ingredient you use is as good and as ‘pure’ as it possibly can be.)
2. A MATCHING ENVELOPE (AS ABOVE).
3. A DOWNY FEATHER FROM THE BREAST OF A TURTLE DOVE.
I have a casual acquaintance (the husband of Tammy’s former acupuncturist – greasy little chap, also an aficionado of the Hex) who happens to breed grouse and doves. He has kindly provided me with a ready supply of downy feathers. I have taken the trouble to enclosed one for you, here.
4. A HAIR FROM THE HEAD OF THE OBJECT OF YOUR DESIRE.
A good technique to acquire one, I often find, is to get into a lift (or on to a bus – if you ever use public transport) with the Hex-ee and stand directly behind them. You can then remove a stray hair from the back of their dress/jacket with relative impunity.
Burley Cross Postbox Theft Page 14
