Burghers, citizens, blokes, dudes and gentlefolk of Devonport! The Speculator brings more good news.
Like all good communities with an English heritage, matters of a scatological nature have been uppermost in your recent thoughts. Thomas Crapper would have been proud to have heard the tireless trumpeting of toilet-related tribulations that have been vented at community meetings all over our fair peninsula.
Well, the tide has turned. The Speculator is delighted to attach a document that outlines in detail, how our little rooms will fare in the build-up to the RWC.
There will be scrubbing. There will be painting. There will be demolition. But most importantly, there will be a doubling of the cleaning roster.
After this bathroom blitz, oh honest ratepayers of Devonport, you will want to spend all your pennies at once. You will rush to the rest rooms to see the gleaming white walls, the state of the art hand rinsers, the remote-sensing blow-dryers. You will marvel at the simple pleasure of being seated behind a door that locks, or indeed, occupying a cubicle with a door at all. Your twitching snout will be arrested by the mellifluous smells of honey-scented Dettol, lovingly (and regularly) applied to all the flat surfaces by a smiling and beneficent attendant, who will beatifically guide you to a vacant cubicle while minding your parasol.
This, people of Devonport, is the Flushing Meadow upon which we shall tread; a urinalinary Utopia that methane-producing mammals from far and wide shall trek to; a pilgrimage down Lake Rd, our own road to Damascus, our own Santiago de Compost. We are indeed blessed.
As is our destiny, we Devonport mavericks can buck the trend. We can at last, go back into the closet.