Awoke late, to a light dusting of snow. Making my way into town through the park I found the little bridge across the old railway cutting taped off although there was no apparent obstacle and people were stepping under the tape and carrying on anyway. Eventually a short, stout, middle-aged man, wearing shaded glasses, a peaked cap and a Securicor uniform emerged from the cabin by the bowling green, bawling and shouting. I asked what the problem was and he said he had fenced off the bridge because people might slip and sue the Council. ‘With all due respect,’ I said, ‘this is daft. Why not just put down some salt?’ ‘Not my job,’ he said. ‘In any case I haven’t got any.’ ‘Tell you what,’ I said, ‘why don’t I buy some in town and give it to you on the way back and then you can spread it.’ ‘Not my job,’ he repeated. He added almost pleasantly, ‘Someone will probably tear down that tape in the next ten minutes, then I’ll have to close the whole park.’
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