Public Service?

          What’s the definition of a bloke? Someone who can lend you an angle-grinder. In the corner of the waterside car park visible from our window, stood three rusting posts, about a metre high, cemented into the ground and joined together by a length of chain. Their purpose I could only guess at, since they just seemed to get in everyone’s way. Over time, two of them became dislodged and were thrown over the sea wall, where they dangled, attached by the chain to the last post standing. It was an eyesore – to me, at least. I kept promising myself that I would do something about it and each time I did so my intention edged a little closer to execution. The first thing I needed was a bloke.

          Of course, you could argue that the rusting posts were not mine to interfere with. Assuming that the council erected them in the first place – and possibly for good reason – my duty was to report their demise to the authorities. But we all know where that would likely lead: protracted correspondence with understaffed, under-resourced departments whose remit does not cover anything as inconsequential as the removal of obscure infrastructural enhancements the origin and purpose of which have been lost in the melee of re-shuffles brought about by budget cut-backs. I did look at the council’s online reporting facility, but no category matched the criteria for my request. So, there seemed to be just one way forward. Unilateral action.

          But still I hesitated. This is public property and I could be putting myself at risk of approbation or, worse, prosecution if I were to tamper with it. I considered the somewhat cowardly option of covert action, but in a public car park, on a pedestrian thoroughfare that is lit during darkness, there is no cover. A better plan might be to brazen it out during working hours, wearing a hard hat and fluorescent gilet – just as, apparently, ‘workmen’ have in the past pulled off some audacious thefts of valuable public property. Then I began to reason that nobody was likely to notice the absence of the posts – apart from the motorists who had inadvertently backed into them and the kids who had subsequently heaved them over the wall. And if they did, would anyone object to my removing unsightly junk? After all, passers-by often make a point of thanking me when I’m picking up litter around the parks and pathways.

          On that subject, I’m getting a little jaded by their complacent compliments and have reached the point of having to hold my tongue from saying, “If you’re so pleased to see a tidy environment, why don’t you help?” Or “Have you ever thought about doing it yourself while you’re walking your dog(s)?” The latter especially, as they are obliged to pick up their own dog’s deposits and could make better use of their time by doing a little public service while they’re at it. I found it especially difficult to respond politely to the woman who stopped me (interrupting the podcast I was listening to) to say that she had just seen someone else picking litter nearby and was it a “thing” and were we all in a group? “Yes” and “No”, I said. It is a thing, but anyone can do it and it’s not necessarily a group activity. Why don’t you have a go yourself? She hurried off, looking uncomfortable and I sensed I had mishandled an opportunity for a conversion.

          But back to the rusty posts: I requested at last the loan of an angle grinder from a bloke friend, who duly delivered it to my door when he was passing one day. I hadn’t told him the purpose but, when I showed him the job, he had no second thoughts about being an accomplice and happily helped hack away the retaining link. Nobody challenged us.

          The scrap metal is languishing temporarily in my garage, awaiting a trip to the tip. Meanwhile I gaze out upon the last remaining post/eyesore and realise: the job is only half done.