pumpkinstrokemarrow

There was a time when one could rely on the DT to take a reactionary line. The paper of choice of retired military men (officers not men that is) and of disgusted from Tonbridge Wells. But the other day it was bleating on about a drop in the number of women in very high places. To my mind, this business is drifting towards that other new labour nonsense that we can all be better than average. So, in this case, to my mind and putting it reasonably crudely, it is evident that there are, in this selfish era, three main concerns in peoples' lives. Work, play and family. And that, on average, a woman will put a relatively bigger percentage of her effort into family than a man will. A biological differance which we should not want to try to squash. Therefore, she will put a relatively smaller percentage of her effort into work, and, as an elementary consequence, on average, she will not climb as far up the greasy pole. All this being so, one should not get over excited about statistics which confirm this interesting fact.

From nonsense statistics, we move to oral history from TB, of which I offer two snippets. First, once upon a time, in the sixties, in the days when the environmental waste engineers were called dustmen, the occupation was known as being on the dust and the dustbins were made of steel, there was a dustman in Epsom. One day, his dustcart was going down the road and the dustman noticed a rolled up carpet, in its plastic bag, neatly perched on top of two dustbins. Ah ha, he thinks. Someone is trying to pinch me for pinching carpets. So he knocks on the door and the lady of the house explains that she does not want the carpet and here is a fiver to take the thing away. At which, as quick as you can say Jack Sprat, the carpet is on the top of the dustcart. Some days later it is covering the floor of the upstairs bedrooms of the dustman's house. At about the same time, the man of the house is lodging a complaint at the town hall that the dustmen have pinched his carpet. Big interogation. The lady of the house is summoned and, to the relief of the dustman, confirms his version of the story. The man of the house retires hurt, muttering something about no more surprise carpets. And the carpet has been in the upstairs bedrooms ever since.

Second, at about the same time, a lady of the house came rushing down the road after the dustcart, in tears and explaining that by some awful mistake she had put her jewellery box in the dustbin. Dustcart stops and dustmen gather around and make sympathetic noises. But, unfortunately, since doing her house, the dustcart has been tipped up and any jewellery box will be well mixed in with everything else. So, down to the waste transfer station (I forget what they were called in that benighted age), past the weighbridge without weighing (an omission which does the team's bonus no good) and shoot the rubbish out onto a patch of clear concrete. The dustmen start sifting. The lady of the house snivels and watches. They keep at it for about an hour and, then, the driver of the dustcart finds the rather grimy box. Exit left one very happy lady. A few days later a cheque for £300 arrives at the town hall, for distribution to the crew of the dustcart concerned from very happy lady. A few days after that, the dustcart happened to be passing her house again. They see a marquee in the garden so that carry on past, not wanting to disturb her party (this was in those far off days when dustmen went around to the back of the house to collect dustbins). Lady of the house comes rushing out. I'm throwing a thank you party for you. Can't do that lady, says the driver. More than my job's worth to abandon a round. Ah ha, says the lady. I've arranged with the town hall for you to be relieved. And, lo and behold, a second dustcart draws up behind the first, on relief. So the dustmen enter the marquee, meet all the neighbours and have a jolly good time for the rest of the day. And there was beer as well as cucumber sandwiches. Now would such a thing happen today?