| Ordinarily spilling stuff on the floor would not call for a £1m
clean-up operation. And, equally, er, ordinarily, you wouldn’t expect someone else
to pay for the clean-up, would you? Ah, my naïve little friend, welcome to Dounreay
World, where nothing is at it seems and nothing makes any fuckin’ sense. |
Apparently they were moving some (inevitably) radioactive waste
about the Caithness plant when an "amount", some 260 litres of the stuff, ended
up on the deck, leading, no doubt, to the wailing of alarms and a lot of brown waste
ending up in people’s underpants. But the point is, the operators of the Caithness
catastrophe-waiting -to-happen are just handing us, |
(that’s "us", as
in the rest of us), the bill for cleaning up the mess. Sensible houskeeping or nuclear
blackmail? You decide. Meanwhile I’m off to spill some gloss paint on the
living-room carpet and just await the tax-payer sending me a big fat cheque to clear up
the mess that I made.
That’ll work, won’t it? |
