E-fit Released In Attempted Robbery Investigation - Hereford

Do you recognise this woman?

Police investigating an attempted robbery in Hereford have released an e-fit in a bid to identify a woman who tried to rob a mother as she pushed her child along in a pram.

Previous witness appeals have been issued about the incident, which happened on a footpath that runs between Abbotsmead Road and Northolme Road, at around 3.30pm on Wednesday, 20 November.

The victim was walking on the path and pushing the pram while talking on her mobile phone when she was approached from behind by the woman.

The woman tried to grab the phone from the victim’s hand before she shouted abuse at her and demanding money. The victim attempted to walk away from the woman, who tried to grab her handbag from the back of the pushchair while hitting out at her and scratching her face. The victim called for help at which point, the woman left the scene empty-handed. 

The same woman is though to have been involved in two other incidents that occurred on the same day:

• At around 2.35pm, a woman boarded a bus from Bewell Street to Belmont. She got off the bus at Northolme Road and followed a girl in her late teens a short distance before pushing her into the road.  The girl asked her why she had done this but she did not reply and left the area.

• At 3.10pm - shortly before the attempted robbery took place – a woman visited an address on Flaxley Drive. The householder opened the door and the woman began to shout abuse at her. The householder - who does not know the woman - told her to leave. Shortly afterwards, she was seen walking in front of traffic on Abbotsmead Road.

Detective Constable Charlie Wells is investigating the incident. She said: “I would like to thank all those who came forward with information when we first released appeals about this woman. We are very grateful to have received such a great response and we are asking the public to help us again.

“If anyone recognises the woman in the e-fit, please contact the police. She is described as white, between 5ft and 5ft 6ins tall, of a medium build and aged between 20 and 27. She had shoulder-length, curly hair with blonde highlights, blue eyes and a pointy nose.” 

Anyone with information is urged to contact DC Wells via the non-emergency police number 101 or information can be passed on anonymously through the independent charity Crimestoppers on 0800 555 111. Please quote the reference number 428S 20/11/13. Alternatively, people can also contact the independent charity Crimestoppers anonymously on 0800 555 111.”

Full Details Here

Please find attached draft minutes of the meeting held on Thursday 12th December 2013 at Belmont Community Centre, Eastholme Avenue, Belmont Hereford

Minutes - 12.12.2013 (DRAFT).pdf

Please find attached BRPC minutes of the Meeting held on Thursday 31st October 2013 at Northolme Community Centre, Northolme Road, Belmont Hereford

Minutes - 31.10.2013.pdf

Please find attached BRPC minutes of the meeting held on Thursday 19th September 2013 At Northolme Community Centre, Northolme Road, Belmont Hereford

Minutes - 19.09.2013.pdf

Minutes - 08.08.2013.pdf

There are police on the bridge tonight as apparently two people have fallen into the river near to Asda. I will update when I have more information.

I was reading through this article and wondered if this ever got completed because I do not remember seeing a canal in Hereford, can anyone throw any light on this for me please?

The academic arguments for urban trees are now well accepted but Hereford lags well behind other cities in this respect - High Town and Commercial Street each have only ONE tree!
Ironically, when the OLM development opens it will feature dozens of trees.
The OLM was sold to the Hereford public by promises of connectivity with the historic centre (and a cinema!) So, before Stanhope/McAlpine disappear, now is the time to insist the OLM planting scheme is extended beyond the new retail development and that a recognisable connection is created with the wider city. Anybody interested?

Last night, shortly after I'd engaged in sexual intercourse with my tormentor the wife, I began to read a very interesting book. It's all about reincarnation. How, when we die we get to come back from the other side but instead of being another human, destined to fail miserably in life, you get to be another earthly species.

In Chapter Two, titled, ' you don't want to come back as a dung beetle', the author suggested that you can actually will your choice of species after your heart attack brought about by high levels of cholesterol which then got me thinking!

Nibbling upon my custard slice I thought, well I've no desire to come back as an insect. I mean, who would? You'd be an odd sort if you wished for that. Horrid little things if my views are worth a jot of notice. Birds crossed my mind. Lovely things. Glorious creations of God but of course they eat insects and are forever pecking away at the contents of our black bin bags and whilst I loved the idea of flight I didn't fancy getting out of me nest every bloody day, flying off in search of an insect to eat. In fact, its this notion of eating vast numbers of insects, day in, day out, week after week that made me quickly decide that birds, fish and other creatures who enjoyed eating the mosquito were definitely not for me.

After reaching Chapter seven, titled, ' don't pick something that sees you wrapped up in cling film on a supermarket shelf', I decided upon the ferret.

The ferret is a lovely creature. Highly intelligent, it doesn't eat insects and judging by what goes on within the cage of my two hand reared ferrets, they enjoy a highly sensual and sexual lifestyle which makes me conclude, if ever I get flattened by a ten ton truck as I stagger down to the Wye to fish for barbel, when I zip off racing toward the light, Im coming back as a ferret.

I mean, think about it, the ferret isn't something we choose to eat unless of course your bloody starving, it's not like the badger who's daily existence is blighted by the worry of a cull and the only unpleasant thing ever asked of a ferret is at Village Fetes when some fool steps forward, out of his mind on drugs and intoxicating liquor and he makes his ferrets rummage and scurry around beneath his trousers.

No! Whilst I've no desire to become a pet to a man who enjoys having me scurrying about around his genitals to entertain himself or others, I've no problem in saying, when I die Im coming back as a ferret.

There! Ain't that codswallop? Complete rubbish! Totally harmless and unless you are a fan of insects, it cannot cause any of you to cry out, 'oh! Im offended. Im upset by it all. So hurt and filled with angst am I, Im going to send Fortyseven a message saying I don't want to read this rubbish on our forum anymore'.

I hope Aylestone Voice comes back as a Maggot! Mature enough to dangle upon my barbed hook!

After the Saxon Hall debacle, I realised that I needed to make amends for the cost of the damage to the hall's ballroom floor, estimated at £50,000, which I'd been responsible for.

Perhaps you saw the news item in the Hereford Journal?  It's lurid headline read: 'Stonebow committal for man who trashed Saxon Hall'.

It went on to report that the man (who couldn't be named for legal reasons) had been committed to secure accommodation in the Stonebow Unit, pending psychiatric tests.  His defence to the charge of digging up the entire dance floor of the Saxon Hall, Bullingham, with a pick axe was that he'd received a message via the internet telling him that a Saxon treasure hoard was buried under the building, containing a gold, jewel-encrusted effigy of Zsa Zsa Gabor.  The individual was the legendary poster Bobby47.  And I'd posted the message.

With the help of a friendly local solicitor I managed to secure his temporary release, pending the trial.  Then Lady Luck smiled on us.  There splashed across the Jobs Vacant section of the Hereford Ad Mag was this announcement:  "Following the major restructuring of Heredordshire Council's senior management, Hoople is pleased to invite applications for the newly-created post of Director, Transmission (Urban & Rural) Delivery.  Salary: £165K + benefits; 29-hour week; 10 weeks paid holiday; starting date: immediate."  The acronym seemed somewhat unfortunate, but I downloaded the paperwork and by lunchtime had created an impressive job application and c.v.  The icing on the cake was the box at the end which stated: "In no more than 200 words, please tell us why you believe you are suited for the post advertised."  I managed to use the words 'deliver' or 'delivery' 37 times, plus 19 fit-for-purposes.  Bobby happily signed the application and by teatime we'd handed it in at Plough Lane.  We cracked open a couple of Carlsberg Special Brews.

I was confident he'd be offered an interview and wasn't too worried about who he would be up against: the usual public sector dullards who traipse around the country looking for career advancement and more money.  We'd tower above them.  It would be a shoe-in.  But was Bobby up to the challenge?  Having been on an enforced Stonebow diet of Weetabix, unsweetened yoghurt and powdered Diazepam for the last five days, he wasn't exactly sparkling with bons mots.

"Let's bring on a substitute" suggested my friend Simon Brown.  "An actor who'll give an Oscar-winning performance.  Know anybody we can ask?"

A friend of a friend knew Derek Jacobi, who regularly visits Hereford.  It just so happened that we was booked to give a poetry reading at The Courtyard the following week.  Derek agreed to see us between rehearsals.  I took a thespian friend along for moral support.  After we'd outlined the idea, Derek seemed keen to impersonate Bobby.

"I could do you my 'I Claudius' role if you like: come on in a Roman toga perhaps?"

"No luvvie - more low-key, more twentieth century," said my friend.

"Then how about my Hitler from 'Inside The Third Reich'?"

"Less hostile, sweetie: this is a man who wants to be a highly-paid, paper-pushing 'suit' - not a megalomaniac mass murderer!"

We settled for the character from 'Last Tango in Halifax' and Derek went back to rehearsals.

The job interview was a doddle.  The interview board comprised John Jarvis (chairman), the Dean of Hereford and the Salvation Army lady who sits in the porch of the Butter Market.  Of the three other candidates, one had to withdraw after police discovered child porn on his office computer's hard drive; one was rejected because of a pendinng charge of embezzlement of council taxes; and the third missed her appointment because her train into Hereford was cancelled.  By all accounts, our substitute played a blinder, peppering his answers with 'fit-for-purposes like a parakeet.  Result!  We celebrated in The Barrels with a brace of Special Brews.

Stage Two, of my masterplan to rebuild Bobby's Sovereign Wealth Fund, was to get him unscathed through his first days work on the Plough Lane treadmill.

At 9am sharp we were met in the lobby of the council's palatial hq by a woman who'd make a Holloway jailer look as attractive as Katie Price.  Black-died pudding basin hairstyle; West Mercia police-issue blue shirt; black serge trousers; Doc Marten boots; three security lanyards; and a plastic-coated clipboard with a Hoople logo.

"For your first morning's induction," she barked, "you'll be shown all fire exits and assembly points; you will be taken on a tour of our toilet facilities; and you will attend a one-hour seminar on the correct useage of waste paper baskets.  After a coffee break, you'll be briefed on the correct procedure for filling in our triplicate stationery requisition forms.  Then it'll be lunchtime".

Lunch turned out to be rather good.  In the canteen on the 9th floor (they've built themselves a high-rise extension at the back) we enjoyed a 5-course meal plus a bottle of Chateau Lafite.  All for £1.95p.

At 2.30pm the black-haired harridan returned for Bobby's one-on-one 'Computer Familiarisation' session.  She ushered us into a space the size of a five-a-side football pitrch.  "This is your office," she snarled.

"What's that in the corner?" Bobby asked.

"That's your computer."  Turning to a nerdish young man who had followed us in, she snapped: "Derek - take Mr Bobby through the controls, will you please?"

We walked across to admire the electronic monster as Derek began a nasal diatribe.  "It's a twin-cam, turbo-charged Pentium Drive HP6000.  Ninety-three trillion megabytes.  This baby's so fast it can create a 96-page report before you've even thought of the title!  He patted its side lovingly.  "Cross-dressing widgets in all modes."

"Any questions?" barked our guard.

"Err...what exactly does it...err...do?" asked Bobby.

"Do?  DO?  It's a bloody computer - YOUR computer!"

"Sorry, I'm probably not making myself clear here.  What exactly IS a computer?"  You could've heard a widget-pin drop.

Derek broke the silence.  "Have you...err...not used a computer before?"

"Never even seen one.  Neat isn't it?  Can it get 'Match Of The Day?"

The guard dropped her clipboard on the carpet and screamed "Jeeeez!"  Then swiftly regaining her composure, she snatched up the desk's phone from its cradle.  "Tracey?  Sabrina here.  I need an urgent video conference call with the chief executive.  When?  NOW!"

............................................................................................................................................................................................................................

Half-an-hour later, after much toing-and-froing, phone calls and paper shuffling, we found ourselves in an overheated, windowless conference room in the basement, seated behind a large oval mahogany table.  Opposite sat Sabrina, a legalistic bloke who never spoke and a man I recognised as Alistair Neill, Herefordshire Council's Chief Executive.  With a nod from Neill, the legalistic bloke slid three sets of documents across the table in front of Bobby.

"The papers on your left," said Sabrina, "are your Severance and Remuneration Package.  The one in the middle is our standard Non-Disclosure Undertaking.  You will discuss this matter with no-one, not even your cat!  The one on the right is an Official Receipt for the return of your security lanyards, car parking disc, luncheon vouchers and all council-owned paperclips.  Please sign them all immediately."

"Did you say something about remuneration?" Bobby asked plaintively.

Neill coughed nervously and whispered to Sabrina who replied curtly: "An electronic credit transfer for one year's salary - £165,000 less deductions - will be made to your bank account by the end of the day."

"Deductions?" I queried.

"Your lunch!" she snapped, reaching for a calculator.  Two persons at £1.95p.  So the net payment works out at...........£164,996.12p."

At 4.50pm - less than eight hours since we'd walked in, and almost £165K richer - we strolled out of that Plough Lane lubyanka and into The Plough Inn opposite.  We were the first customers.

Bobby approached the bar.  "Got any Chateau Lafite, guvnor?"

The landlord bellowed down to the cellars through the opened hatch.

"Oi Doreen - has that 2010 Chateau Lafite Rothschild come in yet?"

"Nah!"

"Sorry gents, we're waiting for a delivery from France today.  It's all them buggers in the council offices over the road.  Anything else I can get you?"

"Make it two Carlsberg Special Brews," said King Bobby. (The author wishes to make it clear that this is a work of fiction).

Bobby's Severance & Remuneration celebration at the Plough Inn turned out to be quite a party, finishing in the early hours. Dippy, Flam, Two Wheels and Biomech all came to wish the King all the best in his well-cushioned retirement. Even Simon Brown turned up and recited all 22 verses of 'The Good Ship Venus', accompanied by Ubique on the bugle. Net receipts after exiting the Plough Lane Lubyanka were just under £165K, but after the knees-up this was reduced to circa £163K.

In The Barrels the next morning, we heard on Radio Hereford & Worcester that the Crown Prosecution Service's action for damage to the dance floor of the Saxon Hall had been dropped, because documents relating to the incident had been accidentally shredded by Hoople.

Bobby was busy studying holiday brochures. "Hey, d'you realise that with my savings me and the missus could rent a villa with a swimming pool on Gozo for three months? The fishing out there's supposed to be brilliant. You could even come and visit us if you wanted to."

I suddenly sounded like Vince Cable. "Don't you think you ought to be thinking about investing some of the money, Bobby?"

"Let's talk about in on Gozo, shall we?" he said, pouring me another Carlsberg Special Brew.

................................................................................................................

I caught up with him a few days later, fishing the Wye with Dippy Hippy below the re-branded Jesse Norman Cycle Bridge. As Dippy wryly observed: "It's like giving him the keys to the city; only trouble is this council's so broke they can't afford to have the bloody keys cut!" All around, the bank was festooned with villa brochures. Two barbel rods were tethered by the river's edge, one fitted with a state-of-the-art Shimano reel.

I gently steered the subject away from villa holidays towards 'fiscal prudence' (as the lugubrious Mr Cable would have put it), pulling from my coat pocket a copy of the Hereford Times. Beneath their lead story about three shale gas sites being identified in the county, there was a news item headlined: 'Council Turners to go under the hammer.'

"I see the council is having another of its 'fire sales'. Fancy going along? You never know, there could be one or two bargains to be picked up."

Bobby and I arranged to meet in the lounge of the Green Dragon an hour before the sale to go through the catalogue. Jenny, the hotel's long-serving waitress, informed us that the new management had banned the sale of Carlsberg Special Brews before 10.00am. We settled for coffee.

I'd marked three items for Bobby to peruse. "Lot 84: a charcoal self-portrait by Brian Hatton. Wasn't he the militant left-winger from Liverpool?"

"That was Derek Hatton. Brian Hatton was a Hereford war artist. Killed in the First World War."

"And what's this you've marked: Lot 97 - former Mayoral limousine? Where the heck am I going to park a 1954 Austin Princess? We're double-yellowed all down our street and the missus uses the garage for drying pumpkin seeds. Hey up - Lot 110 looks promising: 'The entire Left Bank complex. Guide price: £150,000.' What d'you reckon, mate? Make a tidy skittle alley. I could even fish from the car park at the back!" We agreed we would bid for Lot 110.

The ballroom was packed with well over 200 people. Seated at the green baize table on the stage was Crudwells' auctioneer, flanked by a rather nervous-looking Leader Councillor Johnson and Councillor Patricia Morgan, in a garish lavender and emerald green outfit. She'd even had her hair streaked purple and green. The auctioneer wore a green plaid sports jacket, a Cathedral Old Boys tie and half-moon specs. In pride of place behind them hung one of the five Turner oil paintings.

Things moved along rapidly, though there were precious few bargains. A copper coalscuttle from the Mayor's Parlour fetched £135 and even the Town Hall doormat went for £60. After a wooden bus shelter at Lyonshall failed to reach its reserve, I nudged Bobby. "Should be us next."

We held our breath. Bidding was sluggish and stuck at £78,000. "Seems like a snip, mate," I whispered and up went Bobby's hand. "Thank you, sir. £80,000 from the floor. Are we all done?" Bang went the gavel. "Sold to the gent in the black Barbour fishing hat."

"Now, ladies and gentlemen, we move on to one of the highlights of today's sale. Lot 110: the award-winning Left Bank complex. May I start the bidding at £100,000?"

An ashen-faced Bobby turned to me. "So what've I just bought?"

I hurriedly consulted the catalogue. "Errm...Lot 109: a redundant 4-acre smallholding near Much Marcle. Not cultivated since 1987."

"A smallholding? What do I want with a bloody smallholding?" he wailed. I looked at my shoes and wished a hole would appear in the ballroom floor to swallow me up. As we slunk out, Cllr Morgan gave Bobby a big grin.

"So that's what's known as fiscal prudence, is it?" asked Bobby as we cracked open our first Special Brews of the day in the Queens Arms. "With buyer's commission and the poxy VAT, I'm now £121,000 worse off than when I got up this morning for my first ciggie! There's barely £40K left in the bloody kitty, and the missus has gone down to Cardiff to buy her outfits for Gozo!"

After another brace of Carlsbergs we decided we'd better go and take a look at the smallholding. The Tom Tom on Bobby's car was on the blink and we tried to locate the site via the map in the auction catalogue. An evil freezing mist was coming down and we got hopelessly lost outside Ledbury. We stopped to ask directions from an old boy sitting smoking outside a pub. "Straight on towards Rudhall til you gits to the brook. Then look for a rusty fingerpost pointing to Blackshaw's Bottom. It's up there."

We drove on, silently wondering whether this was an unfortunate portent.

Marked by a Crudwells signboard (the number 109 would forever be my nemesis), we found Bobby's plot tucked away in a fetid hollow. 'Not cultivated since 1987' was a wild understatement: you couldn't see the soil for brambles and ground elder. He'd also inherited three matresses, five fridges and a washing machine. "I've bought a bloody tip! The missus is not going to be at all happy," he muttered, kicking a rusty oil drum.

Just then we heard the sound of a vehicle coming along the track. It was a gigantic black Quasimodo 4x4 with smoked glass windows, and a dazzling array of spotlights across its roof like one of Eddie Stobart's lorries.

Two oriental gents climbed out. They were wearing identical Mao jackets, blue denim slacks, rimless glasses and yellow hard hats. They bowed in unison. "We are from Shang Shen Surveying. Who is the owner of this land please?"

"I am," said Bobby suspiciously.

"We miss auction at Gleen Dragon due to satnav malfrunction. It take us to Hertford instead of Hereford. We had intended to bid for this site."

A little bell rang in my brain, sending me a text message which read: 'Hey up, we might just be onto a winner her.' To his great credit, Bobby spotted the same 'window' and started playing hard-to-get.

"'Fraid its not for sale, mate. Me and the missus is planning to cultivate...err...pumpkins here. It's always been her dream. In fact she's down in Cardiff Market right now buying pumpkin seeds." He looked at me for confirmation and I nodded sagely.

"Our seismorrogists say epicentre of shale gas reserves is HERE!" He pointed dramatically at a clump of ground elder. "You not heard of fracking?"

Bobby shook his head slowly. "The missus ain't going to be happy. She's set her heart on a pumpkin farm."

"What is pumpkin, please?"

"Deep-fried battered pumpkin and chips, covered with nettle and pig's trotter marmalade. Old Herefordshire delicay. Not 'eard of it?"

"We are offrised by board of directors of Xiang Zao Fracking to make you a gerrous offer for the re-sale of your land. What you say to £150,000?"

"'Fraid you'll need to do better than that, mate," said Bobby with commendable sangfroid.

One of the surveyors pulled a mobile phone from his pocket, tapped in a number, then walked down the track, waving the other arm and screaming in Chinese. He suddenly wheeled round and strode back up to Bobby.

"175,000?"

Bobby screwed up his face and shook his head. "Nah, sorry mate."

"£200,000! Final offer!"

"Done!" shouted Bobby, shaking the man's hand vigourously and desptaching his i-phone irretrievably into the brambles.

.............................................................................................................

Two days later Bobby and I walked out of my solicitors in Bridge Street and headed for the Black Lion. He'd signed a 50-year lease with the Chinese, with the land reverting to his grandchildren. After the Saxon Hall debacle and our expulsion from Plough Lane, his finances were now in the black once more to the tune of £240K. Even George Osborne would have admired our entrepreneurial skills.

As we stepped into the saloon bar, ready to celebrate with a couple of Special Brews, a motley group of bobble-hatted marchers came across the Old Bridge. Their banner read: 'MUCH MARCLE SHALE GAS: NO FRACKING WAY!'

The author wishes to make it clear that this is a work of fiction.

In response to our Rebecca who rightly claims that those that moan are fools, this is my response and its not an attack on Rebecca....

I will never stop moaning. Ever! They could whisk me away from my humble dwelling and fly me away to some exotic south sea island and I'd moan all the way there.

They could deliver me to my beach side hut that contained lovely living quarters that were fit to be used by the great and the good and I'd moan about it. Why, because I love moaning. I'll moan and groan about anything and everything.

I could be woken in the morning by dozens of scantily dressed woman who all cried, 'be ours tonight. We can't keep our hands off you' and still I'd moan. These temptresses could be laden with barrows full of super strength lager, hand rolled cigarettes and the finest clams ever recovered from the sea bed and still I'd moan, shouting, 'clear off you harbingers of doom, I'll be damned if I get thrush from you lot'.

Im relentless. These women could sit stroking my thinning bloody hair, washing the sand grit from between my toes and shove clams in my fat face whenever I shouted, 'give me a clam you wanton strumpet', and still, relentlessly and unabated I'd moan and groan my way through the entire delightful experience.

I could be sat in my hut nibbling upon a family bucket of the finest pork Scratchings and there might be a tap, tap, tap on my beach hut door and when it was opened it was Angelina Jolie and I'd tell her, 'clear off Angelina, go bother bloody Brad Pitt Im mixing some ground bait to go fishing you'll not get me to engage in acts of love. Clear off and don't come bloody back'.

At night time after wolfing back a handful of diazepam and psilocybin mushrooms these temptresses could gather around my bed wassailing and singing in pitch perfect tones, Paper bloody Laces rock classic, 'Billy Dont Be A Hero', and I'd tell them, 'clear off. We're trying to get some sleep round here. Go sing your bloody song to that sulking Jolie who clearly isn't used to being told to Sod Off'.

I'll moan about anything and everything and rather than be ashamed of my propensity to moan and bloody groan, I celebrate it and I'll be damned if I stop.

Mark my words, in years to come, the entire population of Hereford will celebrate my service to ranting and raving about this, that and the other, and say, ' Whilst he was a simple man with an extraordinary low intelligence quotient, he was consistent upon two things. Firstly, he refused to catch thrush and secondly he repeatedly warned that the new development would all end in tears'.

And so, to conclude this mindless pigswill and utter codswallop, I say lets hurtle up to Brockington House, gather up our Council Cabinet and transport them all up to Haugh Woods where they'll be rolled around in stinging nettles. That'll teach them a lesson. I wouldn't want to be rolled around in nettles and I strongly doubt that being rolled around in nettles is something that they'd be particularly pleased to participate in. Who would? You'd be an odd sort if you did want that.

There, I've said it. That's just a tiny slice of what's going on within my skull and there's plenty more where that came from.

I'll tell you what irritates me. These Lottery winners, who, having scooped the best part of fifty bloody million quid, emerge from their potting shed and say, 'it won't change me, these new Wellington Boots are my only extravagance and I feel greedy for splashing out on them'.

Then give me your winning bloody ticket. I'd know exactly what to do if I won the best part of fifty million quid. Why buy the bloody ticket in the first place? Bloody hell!

First thing I'd do if I suddenly became fabulously wealthy would be to send the wife on an exotic world cruise. Two years long. The sort of cruise and period of separation that gives someone like me the opportunity to do all the wicked and debauched things that someone with an imagination would like to do if they could avoid getting hit in the face with a frying pan because they've come home late and because of ale, are unable to string together a coherent sentence to avoid being hit in the face with a frying pan.

For starters, after the bloody Captain had phoned me to confirm the wife was afloat upon international waters, I'd get into that kitchen, get that bloody frying pan out and I'd say, 'you've hit me in the face for the last time' and I'd throw it in a skip. That'd be liberating. That'd be a life changing feeling for a start. Why wouldn't you be pleased to see the backend of a kitchen object that's hit you in the face as often as my bloody wife's frying pan?'

Then, completely satisfied that the Captain wasn't a bloody liar and my tormentor wasn't about to pop through the door shouting, 'where have you collapsed my darling?', I'd race into Town and buy an expensive suit of clothes. The sort of garments that, when adorned upon some other fool, you mutter, 'goodness what a wonderful suit of clothes'.

Then, dressed in these wonderfully created garments I'd strut through High Town. Women, hitherto, happy and contented in their lives of domesticity, would suddenly gather around me chanting, 'what a lovely suit of clothes. You are irresistible. Let us become yours whenever you want us'. And, after establishing whether or not they owned a frying pan, I'd give them the nod as they joined me slavishly carrying out tasks that I couldn't be bothered to carry out. Carrying me cans of Lager, rolling me cigarettes and brushing me teeth.

There's other things I'd do with this money and when I feel more like it I'll probably revisit this normal thought process and talk further about what I'd do if I became fabulously wealthy.

I have been reading all about the up and coming Oval regeneration starting in the next few months. Is it me or did they recently put all new windows and generally upgrade/revamp all the the flats? If this is the case why did they spend all this money if they are all being knocked down shortly?

Check out the minutes in the following report.

A bridge is for cars to drive over

Rocket science is landing men on the moon

And if you're logging onto a computer in the House of Commons, prepare to wait 7 minutes! 

No wonder the UK economy is in a mess

http://www.google.co.uk/url?q=http://www.publications.parliament.uk/pa/cm201314/cmselect/cmpubacc/137/137.pdf&sa=U&ei=2hS_Uo25O6PY7Abn5oGAAw&ved=0CC4QFjAC&usg=AFQjCNEw7L8LBBjAVjgjMcgOLoBIyupHzA

I'll fire off a few emails.

 

Indeed, most of the entrances are ridiculously small, I clip my wheel on the edge every time because the turning room is so small. The car park itself is far too cramp as well, but I think the biggest issue is the entrance/exit. Sacrifice 2 spaces, move a foot of hedge, I'd do it myself! It's not like they need those 2 spaces, A: They are rarely used because they are the last spaces in the entire carpark, B: If you get in, you need to do a 180 turn within the total width of 2 cars to get out (as it's right next to the exit) and C: Half the people park on Perserance Road....

 

 

.... which leads me on to, how do we go about getting double yellows on the junction ends of Perseverance Road? Again I was nearly hit by an oncoming car on the wrong side of the road yesterday... Glenda?

Any luck with your emails? Did you get any response? What about CVP any luck with B&M?

Some good news for once...

Council CCTV successfully bids for funding

 

 

20 December 2013

Herefordshire Council is delighted to have been successful in bidding for funding to continue its CCTV service across the county.

The funding has been awarded by the West Mercia Police and Crime Commissioner Bill Longmore, after the council submitted an application in October.  The council will receive £84,000 in each of the next three financial years.

Additional funding of £20,000 has also been secured for the current financial year.

Shane Hancock, Herefordshire Council’s service manager parking and CCTV, said: “We are delighted to have been awarded such a substantial amount of funding from the West Mercia Police and Crime Commissioner.  This will allow the council to not only secure a new three year monitoring contract, but also to continue real time proactive monitoring of our 40 cameras across the county.

“It is a clear indication that the commissioner values the CCTV service provided for residents and partner organisations, such as West Mercia Police.”