| Private enterprise is the thing. We
went to a party on the river earlier this summer. The host {{U}}(31) {{/U}} is old enough to know better, served a lunch made with his home-made wine. As I was driving, I was {{U}}(32) {{/U}} to decline, but my wife politely took a glass and subsequently fell upstairs. The wound {{U}}(33) {{/U}} weekly dressing by the district nurse, a talkative soul who enjoyed the social {{U}}(34) {{/U}} of her work. She stayed for most of the afternoon, admiring things and gossiping about village life. At about the {{U}}(35) {{/U}} time I called in the regional crime officer, to advise me on how to make the house reasonably secure against the child criminals who commit most of the {{U}}(36) {{/U}} in these parts. He, {{U}}(37) {{/U}} , was a companionable soul and made an afternoon of it. And why is it that when I write to a public utility {{U}}(38) {{/U}} as the gas board. I get a printed card to tell they received my letter and will shortly act on it? The money spent on printing, typing, filling in and stamping these cards {{U}}(39) {{/U}} add up to a very large sum indeed, when spread over all these industries. No commercial house sends such acknowledgements. Money. {{U}}(40) {{/U}} it reaches a public service, loses the value that was stamped on it by the trouble to get it. |