Green with Anger!
The August silly season is upon us. Despite the glut of incredible stories from around the world, the newspapers have begun to sneak in tales about Mike Tindals’s wedding suit (shock horror he kept it on for 2 days) and Real Ale’s image problems (socks and sandals, and Morris dancing).
This column is no different and I would like to share with our good readers the negotiating story of the beach hut.
3 years ago I was bequeathed a beach hut on the beautiful peaceful south coast. I’d tell you where but am afraid it would go the way of my favorite bar on the Isle of Wight following Beyonce’s Tweet from its lounge. Can no longer get within 100 feet of the place now.
Anyway the local council insists on the beach huts in this area being well maintained, and employ a Beach Patrol officer as part of the planning department to ensure compliance. Now that is a job.
Always keen to hold up my end, I repaint the hut every couple of years, and salute when the officer passes in a vaguely, but not obvious, ironic way.
This year in spring I got ready my paintbrush and dashed off to B&Q (other DIY stores exist) to buy the white paint, which is de rigueur and insisted upon. No fancy paints allowed. And a can of green paint with which the apex must be painted. To be certain I called the planning office to check on the shade of green allowed.
“Any dark green, no neon. Stick to that and you’ll be fine” the cheery American declared. How and why Brad found himself in the council offices of a small provincial county I did not dwell on.
Hut painted. Job done. Summer eagerly anticipated.
Then it all went off. I received a letter from the planners to say that my hut had contravened regulations and I needed to redo the green in a Regent Green no other option allowed.
Spitting feathers I called Brad.
Needless to say Brad could not remember the phone call. That said he did seem to agree it was possible we had conversed<