The Wages of Sin

I always thought the phrase "the wages of sin" was pretty silly. ("Good heavens, you mean I can get PAID for sinning? Where do I sign up?") But now I understand.

Last November, we moved offices to Blackwater. On arrival we found that there were these vending machines that dispensed chocolate. Now this was no problem for me, since as you know I have an iron will. But the skinny b*st*rd (*) who sits opposite me constantly buys chocolate bars. A thoughtful person would eat them. That's what I would do. Standard eating times are 2 seconds for a Crunchie, 4 seconds for a Kit Kat and a full five and a half for a Mars Bar, since it's rather chewy.

Not him.

He can take fifteen minutes to dispatch twenty M&Ms. Fifteen minutes! And he doesn't just eat them. He savours them. He "aah"s and "mmm"s as if they are d*mn making love to him. Worst of all, he stays thin.

So you understand I had to eat some chocolate. I didn't want to and I certainly did not enjoy it but by force of circumstances I was compelled. Therefore I arrived at Christmas weighing almost a stone more than I should.

Fortunately, my wife is ill. Oh yes, I can hear already the sharp intakes of breath as you all read that last sentence. But suspend your judgement for a moment, if you will. When my other half is poorly, that means fewer parties and dinners. Less eating and drinking. Less pain (we'll come back to that subject shortly) in the New Year.

So there was just one drinks party on Christmas Eve, another the following Sunday and a New Year's Eve do. Champagne, of course, is calorie-free, so I thought I was going to be OK until I was undone by two malicious acts of unspeakable evil.

The first occurred on Christmas Day. There was the tree, beautiful and decorated and, for the first time ever, not shedding needles. Underneath it were various presents in their glittering wrappings, including the biggest bar that Toblerone makes. (These bars are big enough that when Toblerone make them, the economies of the Ivory Coast and Ghana take off.) My older son, being a feckless university student, had decided to spend far too much of his over-generous allowance buying me chocolate. I wasn't having that. No, actually, I was. Less than 24 hours was all it took.

The second disaster occurred on New Year's Eve. I was a little worried that my clothes were a tad tight but I just had one more social engagement to survive and I planned to get through that by sipping my way through bubbles - there is NO way that bubbles can put on weight. Sadly after the bubbles came dinner. It was healthy and delicious. I ate green beans. For the first time in 2003. I might have imbibed a small glass or two of wine. But absolutely everything was under control until the dessert arrived. By the time I was offered dessert, NO-ONE had taken any chocolate mousse and the profiteroles were in danger of being remaindered so I did the decent thing. Against all my natural instincts.

And now it's the New Year. Without shuddering too much, I ask you to envision my slim and svelte body now has these modest extensions in the region of the waist. They don't have planning permission yet, although they might well need it if they get any bigger. They are in danger of becoming a paunch, the first in Haffey family history, and while I have often wanted to go down in history, this is not the way I envisaged doing it.

But, I remember, it is possible to cycle to work. It's about ten miles, with only minor hills. And I happen to know that there is a cycle network, because it's shown in the Hart Local Plan (page 108 of 111 for those who are interested.) The bike has been gathering dust in the garage and has two flat tyres but I can fix that. And, with the zeal of the New Year, I do. I buy lights for the bike and a lock and reflective strips for my clothes.

So yesterday, I wake up early and after breakfast I sortie forth. Just by the garage, which is a full four yards from our front door, I turn back. It's raining and I don't mind getting fit but I do mind getting wet. I drive to work, and the sunshine that breaks through an hour later works on my conscience all day.

Today I also wake early. I'd checked the forecast and it was for mild overcast weather. No rain. Perfect. At 7.30, with barely any light in the sky, I sally forth. (One only sorties forth on Tuesdays. Wednesdays are for sallying.) Half way up the driveway, which is a full five yards from the garage or eight from the front door, I realised that the pedals have something wrong with them. They really aren't straight and flat and I remember one evening a few years ago when I drove the car a bit too far into the garage and wonder if there could possibly be any connection. Also the saddle is too high and the handlebars too low so I can only see vertically downwards unless I rick my neck. But I am not turning back again.

I make it to the top of the road and a full mile further before I arrive at Griffin Way North. You car drivers probably think Griffin Way North is flat but I can assure you that it is a pretty fierce hill. That would be bad enough, but there are several dozen kids waiting for a bus in the early morning gloom and I can see them pointing and laughing at me.

I am inclined to shake my fist and shout that they are spoiled br*ts but I am stopped by three things: (a) they are doubtless stronger than I am in my middle age (b) I am quite sure they can run faster than I can ride and (c) I am far too tired to shout and perfectly incapable of shaking my fist. So I cycle and seethe.

At the summit of Griffin Way North, I turn east on to the A30, and the first part of the "cycle network". I continue in this way for quite some distance until, 30 or more yards along the cycle lane, I realise that the road is wide enough for a car or a bicycle but not both. There is this white line along the edge of the road which I suppose marks out the cycle lane, but most of the time it is less than a foot wide and crumbling and if you think I am capable of cycling consistently in less than a foot of tarmac while heart pumps out my ears, my eyeballs bounce off the road and my b*m sticks in the air then I can only feel complimented. But I must disabuse you.

So, d*mn it, I cycle on the pedestrian footway. It may be illegal but no-one is crazy enough to be using it at 7.45 in the morning and it's two or three ft wide. It's downhill and death recedes. I zoom past the Crooked Billet pub at the bottom of the hill and need to start pedalling again.

Now, I remember when I bought this bike. The salesman pointed out that it had 15 gears and I just knew then and there I had to have it. Fifteen gears! I could cycle up Everest on that! Even better, I could cycle down. I should have known the salesman was lying. There are only three gears you use: Uphill, Downhill and Flat. The rest are absolutely bl**dy useless, except for exercising my wrists which seem to be the only part of me that isn't already in pain.

I'm now on what I guess might be a cycle path. It is only moderately potholed and given that at a stretch I can see three yards ahead, I have little time to avoid them. Or the bricks, cans and bottles that thoughtful people have removed from the road. Or the road signs. There's obviously no room on the road for road signs so they put them on the cycle path. The first d*mn near beheaded me, and there were times in the subsequent hour when I had wished it had.

Worst of the lot are some temporary signs warning of roadworks ahead. 600 yards before the roadworks is the first, right in the middle of the cycle path. I swerve around it, narrowly missing a rabbit, but the road is wide enough at this point that I don't go anywhere near a car. But the subsequent signs are where the road is narrowing. I remember being taught to put out my right arm to indicate that I will be moving right, and I do. I do not know how my hand misses a car, but it does and I make a mental note to carry a hammer tomorrow.

I die a little death - and sadly not the petit mort that makes us all jolly - on the road up to Hartley Wintney and then catch my breath as I make my way through the village. Half way there, I think, as I cycle out of the village. I start humming something from West Side Story that has the phrase "half way there" in it, and avoid looking at the hill half a mile ahead. I'm on either a cycle path or pedestrian footway again and feeling safe.

Until some idiot hurtles out of their driveway and pulls up across the pathway right in front of me. Woah! I know I have a mountain bike, but there is NO WAY I can cycle over a car. I am going at my top speed of eight mph at this point and zig and zag around the car, using the minimum of the fortunately wide road at this point.

And then, along the southern boundary of Blackbushe Airport, there's no cycle track. No pedestrian path. No good reason, either, since the road is flat, as you'd expect near an airport. Not only that but the road narrows. For the next mile I live in terror of my life but am alert enough to notice that the drivers of big juggernaughts are considerate and hold behind me until they can pass safely while the drivers of BMWs - doubtless VSPO** by the slow progress of the juggernaughts - will be the first targets of my hammer tomorrow as they have only missed me by the miracle of nanotechnology. Guys, I know that in the BMW 5 series you are allegedly driving the finest car on the road, but do you have to *prove* how accurate the steering is?

At the Cricket Hill Roundabout I turn off the A30, thank heavens. There is a proper, wide, world-class cycle track for the next two miles to work. As I marvel in the miracle of my survival, my thoughts drift back to last night. I was playing cards with my wife and son and at one point I played a very nasty trick on him. He was briefly mad and, in the language of the ghetto, suggested that I had an Oedipus complex. I ticked him off pretty severely for using such language in front of a lady, but I can tell you now that there are dozens of people with Oedipus complexes who drove along the A30 today and by the laws of statistics some of them must work where I do.

Now I am quite enjoying this cycle path through the woods when it starts going downhill. Downhill I can normally manage pretty well, but some underemployed cycle path designer has decided it can't go straight at this point so in seconds I find myself frantically leaning left and right to keep my bicycle on this path and avoid the deadly trees that some idiot tree-hugger planted everywhere. That cycle path design probably filled in a morning for the cycle path designer and I can tell you I'll fill in something else if I ever catch him alone.

However, without further incident I arrive at work. There are these bicycle hoops under a protective shelter and I think the same guy designed this lot. First you can't walk into the shelter without banging your head. At least now I know why I am wearing this silly helmet. Then the hoop is about five foot off the ground and I am quite incapable of lifting my bike this high and simultaneously operating the combination lock. I am about to start weeping with frustration when I think they can shove their hoops and I lock the bike to a pole. I've just this very moment remembered I left the lights on the bike and if I get back and they are gone I swear I will buy an AK47 and start my own CrimeWatch program.

I get into the office and collapse. It's 8.45. As I take off my jacket and jersey I see that every part of my body is sweating. My tummy is sweating. My legs are sweating. My arms - and I have really skinny arms - are sweating. My hair is damn sweating (sorry, I've run out of asterisks). Good grief, my glasses are sweating. Suddenly I realise my b*m (found a spare asterisk under my chair) isn't quite so sore any more. After years of careful neglect, my rear end is soft. How on earth can a bicycle seat be so hard?

Now I understand about the wages of sin. It's what I'm paying, isn't it? Not what I'm paid. I've sought out the vending machine and cut off the plug.

And if I ever manage to get out of this chair, I'm changing to badminton. No-one ever got run down on a badminton court.

---

* Yes, I'm one of those old-fashioned people who uses asterisks to pretend to hide rude word.



** VSPO. V=Very, S=Severely, O=Off. The meaning of P has been lost in the mists of time.

Reflections on the Bay

I have visited the United States about a dozen or two times. The people are friendly, the country is open, the history short but astonishingly impressive. I like Americans a lot. I respect their Constitution as possibly the single most important political document in history. I probably would have voted for George W Bush in 2000 were I an American and, like so many people worldwide, I was appalled at the attack on the Twin Towers on September 11, 2001.

Yet, a few weeks shy of the second anniversary of the September 11 tragedy, I find myself feeling increasingly uncomfortable with the USA's attitude to the world.

It started within hours of the September 11 attack. I saw a tiny part of the huge flood of email that the attack unleashed, including one from an American colleague who said words to the effect that "People need to decide whether they're for or against the USA and we'll nuke those who are against." At the time I expressed my disquiet to one of the people in this email discussion and she said that the man writing it "needed to vent". He probably did, and in the immediate aftermath, such venting was not uncommon and was generally accepted. The attack was horrific, unprecedented, immensely cruel and quite unjustified.



Going on for two years later, much has changed - some for the better, some not. Many questions remain and many new ones arise as I observe world developments.



Was it right for the United States to try to track down and bring to justice those who planned the attack and were almost certainly planning more? I think so.



Was it right for the United States to topple a foreign government in pursuit of this aim? In the case of Afghanistan and the Taliban, almost certainly yes. There appears little doubt that the Taliban were sheltering terrorists, that these terrorists had committed atrocities and that these terrorists were planning more of the same. A country has the right to defend itself and to retaliate when attacked.



However, I am not happy with defending a number of the other actions of the United States government.



I cannot justify indefinite holding of captives in Guantanamo Bay. The US Constitution itself says



'We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.'



Of course, people may put their life and liberty at risk. Criminals may be caught and punished and in the USA such punishment may include loss of life. Other parts of the constitution describe how the courts shall rule and their limitations. These include the "right to a speedy and public trial" (Amendment VI).



However, it appears that the United States government seeks to divide the citizens of the world into two classes - and to treat these two classes very differently. United States citizens are to be subject to one set of laws, other citizens to another.



In the case of the detainees at Guantanamo Bay,



- they have no right to freedom

- they have no right to a speedy trial

- they have no right to a public trial

- they have no right to appoint their free choice of lawyer

- they may be detained indefinitely

- the conditions in which they are detained are murky and suspected of being unacceptable in the Western World

- there appears to be little knowledge of the laws they are alleged to have broken

- their families appear to have few visitation rights



I could go on.



It may well be that many are guilty of heinous crimes. In that case, they should be charged; the charges should be publicly known; they should have the right to appoint their own lawyers; the trial should be publicly held, excepting possibly where secret information might be divulged that might imperil the USA or its allies.



It may also be that some are innocent; in the fog of war innocent people do often get caught up. It may be that others are guilty of foolishness rather than wickedness. It's hardly unlikely that many will have grown up or lived in an environment where truth and a clear view of the world were uncommon and they may well have been brainwashed.



For whatever reason, the government of the United States does not wish to bring these people to trial under United States laws. It runs a terrible risk; that people worldwide will perceive one type of justice for Americans and another for the rest of the world; that the values of the American nation, painstakingly developed over two centuries will be endangered; ultimately that the terrorist attack on the Twin Towers will indeed have started a process that undermines the greatest power and the most free country in written history.



America does not deserve this fate. Ultimately, only Americans can avoid it.

Eight months ago I did my best to get chosen for a job that almost no-one else wanted. If that was mad, it gave me good grounding for what was to follow. To my surprise I was elected as a district councillor representing the village of Hook in Hampshire.



Hook was little more than a hamlet in 1980. Today, 20 years later, it is literally 20 times bigger. Housing estates have proliferated. I suspect that there is a higher proportion of space devoted to parks in Central London than in Hook. We still have just the one school, which is expected to take on ever more pupils.



The problem is the government’s insistence on building more and more houses in the country. The more that are built, the less land left to build on – and yet the greater pressure from central government to build still more.



The issues are poor guidance, poor and declining infrastructure, at best medium quality developments, and a government that talks about “… sustainable communities … good schools … good public transport” according to John Prescott - but focuses on building houses. Lets cover each of these in turn.



The guidance from government - the so-called Planning Policy Guidance documents - is an appalling mixture of vagueness and specifics.



For example, according to the guidance, certain sites should support the building of at least 30 dwellings per hectare (about 2 acres). But there is no definition of what is a dwelling. Is it a one-bedroomed apartment? Is it a five bedroomed house? Other sites with “good public transport” are expected to support over 50 “dwellings” per hectare.



We’ve recently had a case where a developer applied to build on a site at a density of about 60 dwellings per hectare. Among other things, they justified this and the paucity of parking spaces on the basis that Hook has excellent public transport links as demonstrated by bus-stops and a train station. And their appeal was granted by a government inspector.



My son travels by train every day to Guildford on the 7.39 from Hook, changing at Woking with a few minutes to spare. Two episodes demonstrate just how “excellent” these links are.



On November 25th the 7.39 was cancelled.

On November 26th it was cancelled.

On November 27th it was cancelled.

On November 28th it was cancelled.

On November 29th it was cancelled.

On December 2nd it was cancelled.

On December 3rd it was cancelled.

On December 4th it was cancelled.

On December 5th it was cancelled.



On December 6th he was fortunate enough to be ill and unable to travel.



On December 9th the service was cancelled. And the 10th. And the 11th.



On January 6th it ran very late and he missed his connection.

On January 7th it ran very late.

On January 8th it ran very late.

On January 9th it was very late.

On January 13th the Woking connection was cancelled.



More perceptive readers may have spotted a pattern by now. They may also be questioning whether this is an important train, and I’d like to (a) thank them for that question and (b) point out that – when this train is on time – it gets to Waterloo at 8.35, in almost perfect time for an underground connection into London to arrive for a 9am start to one’s working day. In other words, this is the main commuter service.



This is not, however a rant against the train service. Well, not much.



I drive every day to work in the Thames Valley. I leave home at 7.30 and arrive in the office 40 minutes later. The same journey by train or bus takes at least twice as long. I recently phoned up our local bus company to find out how I could travel by bus to Reading. The two alternatives are either to leave at 6.27 and arrive at 8.04 or leave at 8.04 and arrive at 9.34. In other words, a 90 minute journey to replace a 25 minute drive by car. Guess which most people choose?



The Deputy Prime Minister spoke on Wednesday 5th February 2003 about “good public transport.” Where is it?



How about the houses that are built? How good are they?



The answer is that they are not too bad. I was talking to a developer the other day who said that the houses his company is building will last for about 70 years. Today on this island we have many houses that are hundreds of years old and still going strong despite quaint designs, low wooden beams and old or no technology. They have long outlived their designers and builders. Yet nowadays we build houses that will last less long than the average lifespan of a newborn baby. One day, my son, none of this will be yours. It will have fallen down. This is probably just as well, since it’s apparently acceptable to build in areas that are subject to flooding “once in a century”.



But worse, by far, is the dreary sameness of these estates. Yes, each individual house looks crisp and neat. But by making it so easy for construction companies to build estates – and so hard for individuals to obtain land and build – we have ended up with vast tracts of cookie-cutter construction, with few variations of brick or tile. I live in one of these estates.



It’s impossible to imagine that any of these will ever become listed buildings.



Worse is the foolish drive to ever greater housing density. We do not need another London (or another Hull) in Hampshire. We do not want our city children to have to travel to Europe to enjoy a day in the country. On one recent development, the “detached” houses were initially planned to be extremely close together. When it was discovered that many had fireplaces and chimneys, the layout had to be reworked simply because of the few extra inches the chimneys needed on the outside. One wonders whether it’s the houses that are detached or the planners.



The government talks about Planning. They don’t mean planning – they mean paving: paving over our fields, our hills and our dales. They tell developers not to provide too many parking places, but public transport in the countryside is so poor that there is often no practical alternative to the car.



It is time to stop.



The infrastructure no longer works adequately. Before we give consent to any more green-field developments, we must build more schools. We must have trains we can depend on. We must have buses that travel where and when they’re needed. And we must above all prioritise brown field development.



The Government – and in particular the Deputy Prime Minister – will tell you it’s critical for us to build more houses. But behind the pretentious political pontificating is a wilful ignorance of the devastation being wrought forever on our green and pleasant land. Although the Deputy Prime Minster claims the government is against “urban sprawl”, such immense pressure is being put on District and County Councils that they are being forced to consider eliminating strategic gaps between towns and villages which were put in place precisely to guard against sprawl.



Now, if you are living in the city and reading this you might be thinking that it’s hypocritical for someone who enjoys living in the country to stop others from having that enjoyment. But ask yourself these questions. Do I want my children to be taught in overcrowded classrooms in schools extended piecemeal? Where is the government money for public transport? Without it, do I want to risk being regularly late for work? Do I want to live in a place where because of government diktat there is no parking for the car I need because public transport doesn’t work? Will we really make life in the city better by making life in the country worse?