The Courier, the council and the Halifax bank have all made the inquiry in the past year.
For me, one thing stands above all others.
I can see why people would want to knock down the flyover or get a move on with Broad Street. And I sympathise with those who want to get rid of the middle managers and PR officers sucking the council tax from our pockets.
But these things pale in comparison.
Of far greater importance, point number one on the Drury Manifesto, would be dealing with the town's pigeon population.
Just when was it a flying rodent conned its way into the public heart as a furry ball of fluff to be fed and fussed? How was it ever agreed that instead of slapping Asbo's on those who throw bread to them, there should be an area of town – by the bus station – dedicated to the activity? And, the biggest question of all, who was it who decided that area should be right where I walk every day? Some middle management type, no doubt
They smell me coming, I swear. The pigeons, not the middle managers.
Every morning, they smell me. And they fly low, always flapping in my face. I may be paranoid but I'm sure they've timed their bowel movements to coincide with my arrival.
Intense hatred. That's all I feel for pigeons.
By which, of course, I actually mean crippling white fear.
They're my Room 101 creature. Don't even put me in there. I'm no hero. I'll tell you anything you want to know.
It's not something I'm proud of. Cowering behind my six-year-old cousin was a particular low.
But I have excuses. I know what them pigeons are thinking. I know they're remembering a time, locked in their DNA for millennia, when they were dinosaurs. They're remembering how their descendents ruled the Earth and they're plotting their rise once more.
Spies infiltrating our societies.
Conspiratorial? Wait until the H5N1 virus mutates to human form and then see if you don't think birds can be deadly weapons.
These creatures are a menace. They contribute nothing to our town. They don't pay taxes, they don't make music, they don't run shops, they don't write books, they don't drive buses and they don't look hot in eyeliner and neckscarves. They can't even be bothered to do middle management jobs.
Lazy and arrogant, spending their days swaggering about.
We need rid.
Forget woolly liberal arguments about animal rights. Let's get the right animal. And that's a falcon. Set a couple of them up there among them. See if they're still swaggering then.
The only place for pigeons is pie
I'll have a bottle of ketchup with mine.
That's how you improve Halifax.