Keith Skipper refers to a wise old head for advice on home rule

Granny Biffin, by a country mile Bronickle End’s oldest and wisest indigenous remnant, knows a crafty rat when she smells one. She’ll have no truck with those likely to be seduced by sweet talk of an Eastern Powerhouse fuelled by the “Mayor formality” of a frantic Dash for Devolution. “This is the biggest pile of arrant nonsense dumped on Norfolk people since that fiery Roman governor Cleverdicius decreed a waste-parchment incinerator would bring untold riches to the Burnham,” declared the self-styled sage of the county’s surviving hinterlands.

“Why should anyone lucky enough to be bred and born here, live, learn, loiter work and spread the odd juicy rumour and load of muck, possibly feel the need to be prodded and patronised by complete strangers who don’t realise ‘jargon’ is what healthy Norfolk natives do before breakfast and can’t tell a sinker from a swimmer when it comes to making proper dumplings!.” Granny Biffin claims a government without ready cash, bright ideas, integrity or any feelings for local pride and identity simply wants to plonk its shortcomings and responsibilities as far away from the capital as possible. They know council taxes will have to rocket all over the country to pay for the privilege of so doubtful a brand of autonomy.

She claims her small home hamlet, with a population of 38, rising to 40 at weekends when that nice couple from Little Dannock pitch their tent behind the church and hold revivalist meetings for those who have lost touch with nature’s beating heart, has relied on gentle evolution to make it what it is today. “We see no point in changing things just because that’s what they do incessantly in Suffolk, Lincolnshire, Essex, Cambridgeshire, West Lothian, Westminster and other foreign parts. We don’t interfere with anyone else and we’d be much obliged if they did the same.

There’s no sense using all those years getting to know each other really well and then having to start all over again.. “We can make a grudge last a lifetime, turn malicious gossip into non-taxable loot to supplement the pension and encourage a bit of poaching if there’s a vowel in the month. We can probe weaknesses and mock affections in public at any of our meetings , inform the vicar he’s talking rot at our one service every six weeks and tell the only teenager about here to get his hair cut.”

That, she trumpets, is Localism, rural democracy at work and nothing to do with the wishy-washy sort handed out under the same label to try and make country people believe they really could have a say in in how many thousands of bland new houses could be plonked on their doorsteps I felt it time to halt this torrent of isolationism and anti- entrepreneurship with a pertinent query of the hour – could not an Eastern Powerhouse and all its potential offerings bring succour and drive even to tiny communities where the parish pump might have run dry? I got a disarmingly old-fashioned scowl: “There you go.

Just like the rest of ’em .Placing rhetoric way ahead of reality and believing more than half of what you read in the papers. We had our own powerhouse round here when Sparky Simmons installed a back-up generator in a shed behind the Victory Hall in case electricity failed during the war. It blew up on a frosty night in 1933″.

I rolled a small grenade into her cosy golden past excursion by suggesting Bronickle End must have been involved in some kind of devolution deal when neighbouring parishes joined forces for big celebrations to tackle mutual problems. She knew I was talking coronations and snowdrifts. “Yes, we did team up with Puckaterry Parva, Muckwash Magna, Lower and Upper Dodman and Little Coughwort to form a Rainbow Dalliance in honour of he 1937 Coronation of His Majesty King George The Sixth. But sharp lessons were learnt and we all went back to our separate ways in 1953,” she countered.

What went wrong?  “Too many committee meetings full of hot air and not enough volunteers to set up and run events on Celandine Meadow like the Dickey Dawdling Marathon and village fete with Drench the Wench, Hunt the Parson and Bowling for the Coypu. There were also very unsettling arguments over who should judge the fancy dress and bonny baby competitions long after it had been agreed the host parish should have the casting vote..”

What about the great white-out of 1947?  “Well, we in Broniclke End had the good sense to stock up and stay indoors most of the time when lanes and lokes were blocked. It’s always been survival of the craftiest out here – and always will be no matter how often those living in ivory towers try to change us “..

Granny Biffin, predictable enough, is ruling herself out of contention for any role of elected mayor in the wake of possible devolution deals for this part of the world.

“I’ll seek no devaluation of my long-held principles” she confirms.