RANT: A modern mystery.

[Rath Darkblade]

The Mystery of Fulton Hogan

I woke yesterday morning ('twas a Saturday) to find that the parking spots outside my apartment complex, and the one next door, were filled with notices that a road-repair company called Fulton Hogan would be coming by to do some work the following day. The notice went on to tell me that from 8am to 3pm, I couldn't park there.

Well that was fair enough. I wasn't sure just what there was to repair on my street, as the roads are invariably in good condition. However, in the interest of not making a fuss or getting a fine, I parked elsewhere. I did this in spite of the fact that these people put up these notices every few months, inconvenience the folks who live here through making it illegal to park near their house, and then never show up to do anything.

Therefore you can well imagine that I was not surprised, dear reader, when no trucks from Fulton turned up on time the following day – but I had odd jobs to do around the house, and was not particularly concerned. I turned on the washing machine, had breakfast, and left to buy some groceries. By this time, it was around 9am.

When I returned from the supermarket about 25 minutes later, I was even more surprised to see the Fulton men hard at work – or doing something, at any rate. However, five minutes later they packed up and drove off. Astonishing, but not at all surprising.

All this raises two questions. One: why are these people continually hired by our 'esteemed' representatives at the local council, given that they have the work ethic of a sick snail with a limp? And two: why should I (or anyone else for that matter) care about their notices, given that they do nothing to enforce the parking restrictions and, furthermore, given – well – that they do nothing, period? If I had this sort of work ethic at my workplace, I'd be out on my ear.

Well, I've had it. The next time these jokers stick up their notices on my street, I'll take them down and throw them in the rubbish – and then I'll put up my own notice, which will say: “Park anywhere you please, at the express invitation of the local council.”

So in their honour (?), I wrote the following poem:

Workmen

The road-gang men today came by,
worked 30 minutes – then they left.
I cannot say I'm sad to see them go.
Their work is quite a blatant lie,
and of their presence we're bereft –
“Hurrah!” Say I, and “Don't come back,” you know!