The hardest of times? Cuts by councils? But the same men with the same lorries are still on the job
This Easter parable of the potholes begins at the lowest, most personal level: with the politics of the street, with the place where you (or, in this case, I) live. Five years ago, after a winter freeze, it was full of gaping holes, a perceived danger as traffic stuttered, lurched and roared. My neighbours on both sides joined forces on a second front. They demanded more than no holes in the road. They wanted bumps, pillows and humps.
It is relevant to relive their struggle now because the chain of unintended consequences suddenly reaches deep into cutback territory. First, the council's hired contractors filled in the pits and canyons. Then they resurfaced the entire street. Then, having made passage smoother and faster, they plonked tarmac pillows on top. But, one winter on, those pillows themselves had crumbled and caved. They were duly replaced.
Grind forward a couple of years, though, and even those pillows were suddenly deemed unfit for purpose. They were, in turn, replaced by an array of full-width bumps, some shallow, some so unexpectedly steep that the wince of crunched springs and screech of brakes was loud in the land. And that was only the start of phase two.
The end of the street ? and of all streets in the vicinity ? was dug up and covered by a raised expanse of red tiling. Just a few yards further back, three central reservations with bollards and attendant raised crossings were put into place. Little enclaves of off-street parking were designated close to these bollards, creating ad hoc chicanes. All a bit baffling? The crossings didn't define some well-trodden route from A to B. They began, and ended, nowhere in particular: and, for the first time in living memory, cars parked on the street had wing mirrors clipped as white vans tackled the obstacle course.
Finally, confusion compounded, a team arrived to build four extra hummocks ? returning a fortnight later to hack them away again. Too close to a corner, it was said. Not authorised. Only the scars of their brief existence remain.
So now spring arrives on the street where I live. All around, the final red tilings have been levered into place while, a few hundred yards away, more aimless holes are dug and more humps inserted. The activity is frenetic: and oddly familiar. Yes, it's the new financial year. What you see ? as bumps and sundry furniture ? is what could be commissioned from the bottom of last year's cash barrel. Spend fast, or not at all.
When Eric Pickles arrived as minister commanding such things 11 months ago, he made at least one pledge you could respond to. Cut the street clutter. Stop suburbia becoming a morass of warning signs, yellow lines and extrusions. Let's have a bit of peace and quiet.
Well, so far Eric has had nil impact. He may be closing hundreds of libraries, laying off thousands of workers, returning parks to nature. But the same men, with the same lorries and same temporary traffic lights, are still out on the job ? preparing perhaps to use the chancellor's added emergency millions for winter repairs before spending 2011's residual funds on extra bumps.
For this, you see, is local democracy at its most local: a handful of engaged residents, a buttonholed councillor ? and then a contractor arriving. It's only a one-off little job after all. Not something that has to be paid for year after year, like swimming baths. And thus, what one street gets another street demands. The coalition may preach the hardest of times. The town hall may prepare its agonised lists. But just look out of your window this spring. It's new bumps for old clunks. It's the status quo ante eerily restored: stuttering, wiggling, lurching just as before. It's where real politics begins many cash pillows later: the parable of the potholes, the street party that never ends.
Source: http://www.guardian.co.uk/commentisfree/2011/apr/24/parable-potholes-councils-spending-streets
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