IT SHOULD be crunch time, as in leaves. It is not, at least in my street. So I'm hoping the effects of the other crunch – the credit one – help restore the autumnal thrill of kicking one's way along crisp golden pavements.
How? Well, the one silver lining in councils' investment in Iceland is that the world's most ridiculous council job could go. And that job belongs to the Ghostbusters Man who roams the pavements and blows leaves out the way.
You know who he is. On
his back is a pack, with tubing. If Dyson did rucksacks, this would be it. This Ghostbusters look is essential as he is, effectively, a man who gets up every day and does the Hoovering in public. No man can do this without weighty kit on his back that confers upon the task some masculine status.
Initially, the job just seems silly. Ghostbusters Man blasts the deciduous droppings of trees into the gutter (so it is, technically, reverse Hoovering) and passers-by might merely wonder if it wouldn't be better to suck them up.
The job rapidly goes from silly to annoying when I realise most pavements near me have been Ghostbusted within a day of the leaves falling. Thus my crunch time has been taken away. I walk along the street– silently – missing the chance to rasp and scuff. For distraction, I start pondering on the more talked-about crunch. So many aspects of the Icelandic dimension intrigue me. For a start, what about their Prime Minister? Was a certain Scottish Labour leader last seen in Iceland shortly before reports of his death? Perhaps he didn't die; rather, the weather there cryogenically froze him and when he woke his lips were so numb that when he said his name everyone misheard. Ever since Keir Hardie has been Geir Haarde and, from his slippery socialist power base, he has been undermining the capitalist system.
And why did so many councils put their money into Iceland? Did banks there offer well-packaged, value products? Was there a subliminal "Kerry Katona" effect, causing councils' moneymen to associate the country with the eponymous food chain and, to them, the jingle became "that's why lump sums go to Iceland".
Back to Ghostbusters Man. What happens if he just leaves the leaves? They'd decompose eventually, surely. OK, they might choke the drains and that would be another system blocked but Gordon Brown will have a plan for that too.
I'm still hoping Ghostbusters Man is first out after council cut-backs caused by bank losses. Autumn leaves should lie naturally on the pavement, to be kicked through pleasurably by a passer-by. That's my kind of crunch.
Green could change slack attitudeTHIS global financial disaster is excellent news for future generations of women, you know. We may be saved from dogstooth jackets and raglan sleeves, and retail mogul Philip Green's shopping trip to pick up bargains is the reason. His apparent target, Baugur, has stakes in many British shops – and chintzy chateau House of Fraser is among them. All of their department stores feature the 'old lady floor,' where one finds Jacques Vert and Eastex, floral jacquard jackets and low-heeled pumps. The day comes when all women inexplicably exit the lift at this floor, but with the TopShop owner in charge, might an alternative emerge to the horror of timeless sophistication? Surely he'd bring out a collection by his favourite fash icon, and call it "Kate Moss at House of Fraser"? I truly hope its key pieces will include skinny slacks and "the Ugg pump", for feet of a certain age.
• Even in times of economic doom, there is ego to spare for political rivalry. Let's recap: Gordon Brown swanned into Paris earlier this week, clasping an eye-catching package. Other politicians embraced it, with gusto. At the same time, headline writers cooed over the figures they were seeing. We are, of course, talking about the Brown rescue plan. But doesn't it remind you of President Sarkozy's visit to London, when he brought Carla? Political tit for tat? Or, if the Brown package proves not to work, perhaps the other way round.
The full article contains 707 words and appears in The Scotsman newspaper.
