Village Affairs

There was a village meeting last night, and obviously I went. This isn't Kettleburgh or Easton or Earl Soham or Laxfield - I could go on and on and on - or anywhere posh like that so there isn't the same middle class mafia that dominates the village affairs of those sorts of places. "They rich people come here from London and then complain there int no street lights" scoffed my most recent proper Suffolk handiman from one of these villages, and I know what he means. In our last village one well-heeled woman from Edinburgh complained bitterly about excessive lighting spoiling the dark skies, but had several "security" floodlights on her own home every night. 'Avin a laugh, she wos. Priscilla, she was called. Say no more. Last night, apart from 3 or 4 cut glass accents, the rest were properly local, the genuine article. The main point of issue was the chicken factory in the middle of the village, and the owners' proposal to remove it and replace it with housing. It's old-fashioned and not cost effective to run. If they don't get approval for housing they threaten to build a far bigger replacement. Everyone in the village wants the housing, or anything else apart from the stinky chickens. But the council say Cransford is a non-sustainable village and doesn't need half a dozen accessible and slightly less accessible houses. We're all up in arms, especially the lady who remembers the chicken huts being built 50 years ago, and knows for a fact that the farmer whose land they were built on got a nice fat back-hander for his generosity. Watch this space.

Other matters included the fibre-optic cables which have now been laid to the village and which will spring into action in a few weeks giving us super-duper broadband speeds. The clerk couldn't resist telling us with glee that it will be a different matter for Bruisyard who won't be getting the same upgrade ho ho ho! We may be your poorer neighbour Bruisyard, but watch us surf the internet ye Mighty, and despair!

One bit of sad news I heard last night was that Joan and John, the wonderful old couple whose garden is traversed by a footpath that I often used to follow on my walks, have moved into a home. I knew they were having memory troubles, him especially, but hadn't realised how bad it had got. Joan was hilariously funny even in her late 80s, and chatting to her was always a treat. I wish I'd spent more time with them and now it's too late. They probably wouldn't remember who I was.