Couple of bees in my bonnet fam. There’s a post on facebook with a thread a mile long, discussing what recycling item goes in each bag or box. I’ve been watching with interest.
Last week, a local councillor was advertising that he had a brand new set of PCC recycling bins, for the princely sum of fifty pounds. Apparently they work great, and he’s really happy.
Meanwhile, at the foodbank, the packaging on the charity food is excessive to say the least. The packaging companies force you to take steps like cut the bottom off your Pringles, to put the metal in one bag, so that the tube can go in another, and the lid can go in yet another.
All this fuss, all this expense, all these first world concerns in a county where not many local wages can afford a home and where villages have three people living in them, the rest only being used for holiday homes and air B&Bs.
And at the end of it all, this trash that we worry so much about, and are encouraged to use a week’s food money on accommodating PCC and their refusal to hand out proper recycling receptacles, is being shipped to Malaysia and dumped on a beach. Our crap goes to them to sort out, to bury, to dispose of, but we can be very righteous, because we can proudly display the new status symbol, which is a bunch of plastic boxes on a made to measure trolly.
Yesterday I went into the doctor’s. The woman on the desk told me that I can’t get my Ventolin, because people “abuse the system” and I can’t make an appointment there and then, while I’m in the building, but I must go away and then phone them, knowing full well that people wait in excess of an hour for someone to answer.
I suggested that this might be something to do with the systematic privatisation of the NHS, which she vehemently denied and insisted it was because of Covid. The fact that there is one surgery to service 28,000 people seemed to be irrelevant to her. The thought that another surgery is clearly needed, was horrifying. She got very defensive. That situation would be fine and dandy were it not for Covid. Someone would definitely answer the phone then, with one line for 28,000 people. Yes absolutely. Of course they would. She even told me that there were free appointments most days, but you can’t actually book one of those appointments, because the only time you can ring for one is first thing in the morning, so all those spare appointments don’t get used, because you have to go home and phone for today’s spare appointments tomorrow. I’m yet to investigate whether you get charged for being on the line for 90 minutes listening to the same part of the same song over and over again. Someone enlighten me.
So. Councillors, stop demonstrating how better off you are than your ward constituents. Keep your flash new bins to yourself.
Ban bricks and mortar holiday homes. Holidaymakers want a status symbol? They can go and buy one of the quarter of a million pound chalets at Lydstep.
While we’re at it; a rent cap on private properties please. Stop charging 600 quid for a two bedroom house with no garden and then forcing people to claim benefit to pay their rent, using the taxpayer to pay some landlord for their asset.
And while we’re at it, build some bloody social housing. Stop calling affordable housing affordable housing when it’s not.
Sort out more doctor’s surgeries so that a pandemic doesn’t put the system on its knees. Make enough provision for people to access the health care they have paid for thought their taxes. Stop making people feel like they’re begging because they need their prescription. Stop stressing people out by not letting them see a doctor. Stop forcing them to use A&E. Stop forcing them to use the HNS direct line, which is a private enterprise.
And lastly, stop stealing plants from my front garden. Spare a thought for a world where people think it’s cushti to rob a big pot of chives and some fuchsias from a fellow worker. If you have to nick something I hear there’s valuable stuff on the street owned only by the upper echelons of society who can afford it.