Doing a job properly

Two sub-contractors for Hampshire County Council are painting white lines on the A338. There are worse jobs on a nice day - out of doors, plenty of motorists to annoy, nobody to tell you not to light up. But all of a sudden, a problem.

"'Ere, Bert - wossat in the road?"

Bert leans forward and removes his sunglasses.

"Bugger me, Aristide, issa dead summat."
"Well, I can see that, Bert... looks like it might have been a badger."
"Bloody badgers, no road-sense. Worse than cats. Blimey, he's really copped it, 'asn't he?"
"Must have been there for a week by the look of it."

Bert thoughtfully rolls a cigarette.

"Well now, young Aristide, this is a bit of a problem. Can't paint over 'im, now can we?"
"Well, no, but I'll just get me shovel and..."

Bert gives his young colleague a pained look.

"Ho no you won't get your shovel. 'Aven't you learned anything on the job yet? Lines is us, no problem there. We work for a company who works for a company who works for Hampshire County Council, right?"
"Yes, I know all that. But why can't I just..."

Bert raises a magisterial forefinger.

"And Hampshire County Council - and its contractors or subcontractors - is under no circumstances responsible for removing roadkill. That would be New Forest District Council. Different bunch altogether. You've probably seen their boys around... bunch of cheeky buggers they are an'all."

Aristide looks puzzled.

"But... Bert, it'd take two seconds to scoop the bloody thing off the road and heave it into the hedgerow. He's past caring and who's to know?"

Bert shakes his head in mild despair and puts a gnarled hand on Aristide's shoulder.

"Look, lad... I know you weren't brought up with the old idea of demarcation, but this is exactly the same thing. It ain't our job, it's some other bugger's job. Can't go round doing some other bugger's job, where would that end up? We'd be helping stuck motorists, giving directions to people, picking up litter... gawd 'elp us and save 'us, it would be chaos! Besides, and this is what it's all about these days, we 'aven't been trained in the removal of roadkill. Can't do anything what without being trained, surely you know that?"

Aristide scratches his head.

"Can't see much training needed for scooping a couple of pounds of dead badger four feet off the road. I mean, I've been trained on the shovel. Three weeks that took, and a certificate."

Bert looks at him in some surprise.

"Three weeks? Bloody 'ell, they rush you young 'uns through it these days, don't they? But quite apart from that, we 'aven't got a licence. Got to 'ave a licence, obviously. So no, I'm your gaffer on this shift, and we ain't touching it. We'd be sacked on the spot - well, after a couple of weeks' counselling, anyway. We'll just to do the best we can, get back to the depot, fill in the RR27(A)(Mammal)(A-road) and fax it through to those lazy sods at New Forest."

Aristide sighs and shrugs his shoulders.

"OK, you're the boss. Still seems daft to me, though."







With a deep sigh and a hat-tip to the BBC.