The (pot)hole story

Kate and me both live in St Albans. Rob Harris, who will hopefully be making his debut post in the not-too-distant future, lives in Woking, Surrey. From time to time I have occasion to drive down to Rob's neck of the woods. The two areas are fairly similar. Subtle differences in geomorphology mean that Surrey is significantly more wooded than Hertfordshire; there are some differences in the local vernacular architecture, but mostly they are two areas of mainly small towns and cities and a bunch of villages linked by single carriageway roads. So, apart from the extreme annoyance that is the Heathrow section of the M25, going from one place to the other offers few surprises.
Except that Surrey does not have Hertfordshire Highways. I know that might sound obvious, but you have to experience the breathtaking inability of HH to keep the roads of the county in anything like acceptable order to fully appreciate its significance. A few months back someone had her axle wrecked by a pothole and was told she was not eligible for compensation because fewer the 13 (that's THIRTEEN) weeks had passed since the pothole was reported. Doesn't that seem a long time to let an axle-wrecker fester?
Then, last Christmas, I was driving home on the A5 just past Redbourn. There was a fair bit of traffic about, so I had my lights dipped most of the time. I hit mainbeam on instinct and avoided running straight off the unlit road thanks to the joys of ABS and traction control. No functioning cat's eyes. No reflectivity in what passed for white lines.
I was coming from my brother's in Northants. May I suggest that Hertfordshire Highways takes a night time trip up there, to see what proper roads look like?

Back to the garden window

I was going to post the second half of the comment about the view from my garden window, but things have change in a most encouraging way. The street has come to life - just a bit, but a hopeful bit. Street football is back.
All the stereotypes are present and correct:

• The serious players (stepovers and flashiness, poor finishing)


• The cheeky chappie (more enthusiasm than skill, but always with a smile)


• Billy Big Bollocks (has to show how hard he can kick, so loses the ball quite often).

Curiously they play across the road rather than along it, like we did. Quick enquiries revealed that this was because the goalies could use the grass verges. Apparently that don't have the bottle to dive on tarmac, like we did.
Ah, well. Can't have everything.

Water bore

Bloody typical. You wait months for a post, then three come along at once.
So anyway: Three Valleys Water sticks a note through the door saying. "Your water will be off while we lay nice new plastic mains. Oh, by the way, your electrical earthing may no long work, but that's not our problem, call your electricity supplier" (OK, so they may not have worded it quite like that).
Powergen: "Not our problem, guv. Talk to EDF."
EDF (formerly 24-7): "Not ours. Talk to Powergen".
So, in this post-privatisation age, what the sodding hell does one have to do to get someone to take responsibility for things?
Had I asked for the mains to be replaced it would, of course, have been a slam-dunk "my problem". But I didn't, so why is administration being delegated to me?
Rant over.