by John Timpson - Wednesday, 26th September 2007 -

“You are,” repeated Alex.

“Okay,” I conceded, “but I’ve got lots to be grumpy about – I’m surrounded by inflexible people who think life is all about rules.”

I had been thwarted by a solicitor. My son Oliver needed representation following a driving offence. Due to incompetent cash control, Oliver was skint, so I paid the legal fees.

I sent the required £1,000 deposit. The final cost was less than expected, but the refund cheque for £323.65 was made out to Oliver. I asked for a cheque made out to me.

“Not possible,” said the accounts manager. “Our regulations state all payments must be to the named client – that’s your son.”

“But it’s my money,” I pleaded.

“Sorry, we can’t break rules. It’s a money laundering guideline. I suggest your son writes to us, authorising us to pay you.”

“Not so easy,” I said. “He’s gone away. Can’t you possibly use some common sense?”

To which she actually replied: “It’s more than my job’s worth.”

I started hating rules at school. I had to carry books with a straight arm and have a cold bath before breakfast. That’s probably why my blood boils when I’m stumped by petty regulations.

When we were opening a new branch in Bolton, the centre manager turned our shop fitters away because they were ten minutes late. Even worse, at Victoria Station we had no electricity for two days because London Transport’s property manager wouldn’t let us change a fuse without his staff being present, although he had no one available.

These people look at life from a completely different angle, as I discovered when discussing the proposed closure of our foster children’s primary school with a bearded man from Cheshire Children’s Services.

“Why close the school?” I asked.

“We have surplus places in Cheshire,” he replied, “and must reduce them to meet government targets, and it costs money to keep those places available. It costs Delamere School £3,950 per pupil; the Cheshire average is £2,900.”

I asked whether I could see the figures. He produced an enormous sheet and pointed to his figure of £3,950. “But that’s the budget,” I said. “It’s not what the school actually spends.”

“Yes, it is,” he said. “It’s the delegated amount calculated by an established formula, according to government guidelines.”

“But if the school spends less to run the school, it won’t cost you as much.”

“Oh, yes, it will,” he said, before giving me an economics lesson.

“It’s like pocket money: if you give your child 50p and they only spend 25p, it still costs you 50p.”

“It wouldn’t,” I said. “I’d cut the pocket money.”

“No,” he replied, “it’s not like business. It’s a legal requirement – we have to spend the money.”

“What if we raised enough money to cover your losses?”

“Won’t make a difference. Cash raised could be spent on extras, but we’d still have to delegate the money according to government guidelines – that’s the rule.”

“I thought you were closing the school to save money,” I said.

“Oh, no,” he responded, “it’s not about money. It’s surplus places.”

“Well,” I said in frustration, “how about knocking part of the school down to eliminate the spare capacity?”

“Now you’re being silly,” he replied.

I should have walked away, but I made one final remark: “Your problem is that you have such inflexible rules. I let my people have the freedom to use their common sense.”

“You can’t tell me that you don’t have strict guidelines,” he replied. “I expect your managers make sure every one follows the rules.”

“I can assure you,” I replied, “it’s more than their jobs are worth.”