Colin the Cock

The inspector was due at eight. In preparation, Mr Niblet had been awake since five, sweeping mud off mud, forking hay, and trying to make his overalls look ironed. At precisely 7:30, a spotless white van pulled up outside the farm gates and halted with bureaucratic purpose.

The doors swung open like a synchronised swimming display at the Summer Olympics. Two officious types emerged, armed with clipboards, pens, and laminated badges that caught the sun like tactical mirrors. A distinct whiff of dry RDOB policy wafted across the yard, followed by a scent reminiscent of freshly painted passive aggression.

Inspector Eaton Blatherwick led the way. (Eaton was his first name, not coincidentally, the school he attended.) He wasn’t smart, but he was cunning. His pale, stiff body radiated arrogance as he held his clipboard like a sidearm. He looked like a man whose face would crack if he smiled. His name badge read: Inspector E. Blatherwick, Senior Environmental Impact Facilitator, Grade C, Subdivision 5, RDOB Midlands South.

In government circles, he was known as the ‘Big C’; this title had nothing to do with his official position and everything to do with his nose, which resembled the front end of a Concorde jet. It cut through conversation with the force of a seagull ripping open a bag of chips.

His aide, Quintin Jenkins, followed like a soggy sock stuck to a brothel creeper. He carried an extra clipboard, a thermal flask, and a roll of hazard tape. With his ginger hair, freckled face, and sweaty skin, he looked like he’d lost a bet with the sun. His frown suggested his IQ struggled to negotiate terms with room temperature.

As they marched across the yard, they inspected everything: blades of grass, out-of-place feathers, even the angle of cow-dung splatter. A mechanical beep came from a compliance meter. Jenkins licked his pencil and made a definite note.