“We can’t prosecute for being annoying…”

'There was a fine art to knowing when not to care. Penny Thornton stood on the boundary between garden gnomes and structural encroachment, trying to divine whether Mrs Wibberley’s extension actually extended at all, or if the tape measure had simply curled its way into hysteria.

‘I’ve told her, haven’t I?’ said Mrs Lazenby, peering through her neighbour’s privet hedge like a hawk in floral fleece. ‘That shed’s in the wrong place. It’s where my rhododendron used to be. Killed it dead, didn’t it?’

Penny nodded diplomatically and jotted something in her notebook. It read: “Rhododendron revenge. Potential civil war. Proceed with caution. Bring biscuits next time.”

She took a step back, dodging a goose who seemed keen to enforce the boundary with alarming aggression.

‘It’s always been my view,’ Penny told the bird, ‘that nobody wins when the planners are called in to separate the compost from the conspiracy.’

The goose honked.

Enforcement, as Penny saw it, was an art of quiet negotiation, salted liberally with common sense and a near-mystical ability to determine whether the complaint came from a place of genuine concern or a deep and abiding hatred of windchimes.

She’d once been called to investigate an alleged ‘hostile gazebo’ only to find it was made entirely of bunting and goodwill. Another time, a man had built a trebuchet to defend his caravan site from bats — which, she learned, were not attacking, merely nesting. She left with a complimentary bat box and a strong desire to write it all down.

Planning enforcement was not, in Penny’s mind, about the letter of the law so much as its punctuation. She liked semi-colons; they left room for interpretation. And interpretation was half the job.

It was, of course, also about knowing when to walk away.

‘We can’t prosecute for being annoying,’ she’d told Alistair once, after Mrs Winders wrote a ten-page complaint about a neighbour’s decorative well. ‘If we could, we’d have to take action against most of the parish council.’

That day, she refused to issue a notice. Instead, she wrote a letter inviting both parties to a tea-and-cake mediation session at the village hall. The well remained. Peace, surprisingly, prevailed.

Some would call it soft. Penny called it sustainable planning.”

Planning with purpose, not penalties

A few words about Penny Thornton and the brilliant women in planning who inspired her

I’ve spent more than 35 years in and around the world of rural planning. It’s a world full of detail, complexity, occasional madness and, above all, people.

When I started writing the Alistair Finch series — fictional, funny accounts of life in a town planning office in North Yorkshire — I knew I wanted to include the women who really held the whole thing together. Penny Thornton is one of them.

She’s fictional, yes, but rooted firmly in the real. She’s the kind of enforcement officer I’ve worked with: practical, resilient, wry, and not afraid to walk away from a complaint if she senses it’s more about neighbourly vengeance than genuine harm. She knows when to act and when to have a cup of tea and let the dust settle. That’s not weakness — it’s wisdom. And I think we could use a bit more of it these days.

Why enforcement matters (and why it's not what you think)

Planning enforcement is often misunderstood. It's seen as dry, rule-bound and inflexible. The reality, especially in rural areas, is far more nuanced. The job is about relationships as much as regulations. It’s about understanding context, recognising intent, and — occasionally — facing down a goose in defence of good judgement.

When Penny visits Mrs Lazenby and Mrs Wibberley to assess a minor encroachment, she isn’t just there to measure sheds. She’s there to defuse a local cold war with tact, humour and the ability to tell the difference between genuine harm and a missing rhododendron. That’s what enforcement should be about: sorting out the real issues and leaving the rest well alone.

Celebrating women in planning

Penny’s character gave me a way to celebrate the many women I’ve worked with in planning over the years. Not in a tokenistic way — but as real professionals doing difficult jobs with skill and care.

Women in planning often find themselves balancing sharp technical ability with emotional intelligence. It’s not an either/or. The best planners I’ve worked with are the ones who can see the planning system as a tool to help communities thrive — not just a mechanism for control.

Penny embodies that. She’s assertive without being aggressive. She knows when a boundary issue is worth pursuing — and when it’s time to close the file and go home. That kind of judgement is gold dust in any planning team.

What’s changed, and what’s been lost

Planning enforcement has become more structured and standardised. There are clearer frameworks now. Fewer discretionary decisions. On balance, that’s a good thing. It ensures fairness, transparency, consistency.

But in doing so, we’ve lost something too — the human response. The site visit followed by a gentle conversation rather than an immediate formal notice. The ability to recognise when a rule has technically been broken, but nothing needs to be done. Penny’s world had more of that. It wasn’t perfect, but it worked — and it was, I think, a happier time.

Why I wrote the book

Penny’s Story is part of the Alistair Finch series — fictional tales of life inside a rural planning department. They’re written with affection, satire, and more than a little truth. Penny’s tale stands slightly apart. It’s a tribute, really — to the officers who turn up, listen, assess, and walk the line between helpful and heavy-handed.

I’ve seen how women in enforcement, in particular, often carry that responsibility without much recognition. The job can be thankless. Sometimes you’re too lenient. Sometimes too tough. You can’t win.

But you can do it with integrity. And a sense of humour.

And that’s what Penny does.

One last thought

If you work in planning — or used to — I think you’ll recognise the world of this book. If you’ve ever dealt with a complaint about a gazebo, or had to explain to a resident why their ornamental well doesn’t require listed building consent, you’ll feel right at home.

And if you haven’t — but you’re curious about the quiet absurdity of life behind the planning desk — you might find it surprisingly relatable. It’s not just a story about enforcement. It’s about common sense, human judgement, and the importance of knowing when to intervene — and when to let things lie.

Penny wouldn’t call herself a hero.

But she probably deserves a plaque in a village hall somewhere.

Penny’s Story is available now on Amazon.

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