Smoke-Filled Rooms

For a little while now, I've been on the campsite management sub-committee for Bradley Wood, a delightful little campsite in Brighouse that, if you're reading this, you probably know a little of that's chock-full of groovy things and nice people (we also have a great many bluebells.) I can't say with any degree of precision how long I've been on this committee because I never really agreed to be on it, but I wouldn't want to mislead you with such information anyway, as committee meetings have no regard for the usual laws of time. Anyway, I was rather hoping to get away from this meeting in good time so I could get to bed in preparation for an exam today, but that wasn't to be. I don't intend to bore you with the details - not even those of the particularly fascinating discussion of the various applications of JCBs that took place shortly after we'd decided unanimously that it was too late in the year to start digging things up with one - but I feel I ought to mention one particularly signinficant episode by way of a warning to anyone else who might get dragged onto one of these things over the course of their lives.

Last night, the Bradley Wood Campsite Management Sub-Committee spent fully ten minutes, if not more, discussing, analysing and generally mulling over a proposal that we continue to do things precisely as we always have. Quite what would have happened if we had rejected this particular proposal I'm not sure, but I like to imagine that it would have left us free to actually get something done down there without all this vein-bulgingly dull mucking about with committees.