At the risk of alienating every single one of my neighbours, I
can no longer resist writing about this. My peaceful,
Middle-English village is up-in-arms about plans to build a waste
recycling plant roughly half a mile from our southern-most edge.
Predictions are dire:
There will be noise. There will be dust. There will be
seven million lorries a day passing through. There will be
groundwater pollution, miscarriages, deformed babies, plagues of
frogs, plastic bags in hedges.
The village is mustering. Battle plans are being drawn up.
I've been pretty relaxed about it, to be honest. I mean, look at
the bigger picture for a second: we all know rubbish management is
a major long-term problem, we accept that we should be re-cycling
more and that such re-cycling has to be managed. Isn't a piece of
land, adjacent to an already noisy and busy industrial estate, with
an existing road infrastructure, just about the best solution we
could hope for?
Then I found out that the man who sold the recycling company the
land is the same scary (and possibly unstable) farmer with whom I
had a major falling out last summer. He shouted. He called me
names. He ordered me off his land (the exact same piece of land,
fancy that!) He followed me along the path in his Land Rover,
revving his engine menacingly. He lay in wait for me the next day
and did the same thing again. He brandished his shotgun and
threatened to kneecap me and blow my dog's ears off. Okay, I made
that last one up, but you see where I'm going with this?
Scary (possibly unstable) farmer and I cannot be the only people
in the village who actually want this recycling plant to go ahead.
It would be too ridiculous. We'd have to bond. We'd have to meet
down the pub to discuss the counter campaign. We'd have to go out
canvassing together. Where would it all end? Supper
invitations?
So, I've had to jump ship and swim rapidly to the other boat.
Luckily, though, I don't need to do anything other than admire from
the sidelines and send a couple of emails, because as village
campaigns go, this one is pretty formidable. Meetings have been
held. Lawyers have been consulted. School children have been
inundated with propaganda. Posters have gone up. There is a
discussion forum. And, best of all, there is the recent discovery
that the piece of land in question might be a habitat for the Great
Crested Newt.
Because if it is, it's game over. The Great Crested Newt is not
only protected by British Law but by the unassailable EC Law and
anyone found destroying its habitat will be stripped naked,
publicly flogged, hung, drawn, quartered and turned into Polish
sausage. OK, I'm making it up again, but you get my drift. Don't
mess with the newt. Now all I have to do is find evidence that it
inhabits said field and not only am I the local hero of the hour
but I get to give scary farmer a right royal kick in the
proverbials.
Evidence though? I possibly know more about forensic trace
evidence than most people around here but even I'm at a loss. If I
catch one of the little blighters, or interfere with them in any
way, I'm breaking the law. It's similarly illegal to possess or
control any live or dead specimen or part thereof. So I can't even
grab one by the tail and hope it let's go. (Or is that lizards)
What evidence, exactly am I supposed to find. Discarded fag ends? A
footprint in the mud?
How about photographic evidence? Can I dress up as a newt and
get my picture taken? Ridiculous, I'm far too big. On the other
hand, last time I checked, I did have a small child in the
house.
'Small child! Are you free?'
*****
Some time later…
We did it! Small child and I got a photograph of the Great
Crested Newt on the site of the planned recycling plant and the day
is saved. Take that, scary farmer, I knew I'd get you in the
end.
