Parkinson’s Law, written in 1958 by Cyril Northcote Parkinson, is the somewhat tongue-in-cheek theory of how stuff works in government.

I recall coming across it in high school and discovering that instead of it being a series of short essays on management theory, it was a delightfully snarky — as only the British can be — satire on government.

The central principle is: “Work expands so as to fill the time available for its completion.”

For instance, if the only duty for the day is to mail a letter, a government worker can easily spend an hour researching postage regulations, another hour discuss- ing with fellow employees why the regulations aren’t correct, an hour-and-a-half learning how to use a postage machine, then a lunch break and more time with colleagues debating the toughest mail job they ever had.

Then in the afternoon, there is research about where to find the most efficient post office, securing transportation to and from the post office, whether to put on just the correct amount of postage or a bit more and affixing said stamps, delivering the envelop to the post office and declaring a job well done — time to wash up and go home.

Parkinson’s Law spawned many corollaries, including one with a local angle.

One, dubbed the law of triviality, means “The time spent on any item of the agenda will be in inverse proportion to the sum (of money) involved.”

Parkinson gave the example of a committee that must decide on how much to spend on a nuclear reactor, and how much to put in the office coffee fund.

Obviously, no one knows anything about atomic reactors or their costs but it must be a lot so the committee quickly decides to approve it, then moves on to the coffee fund. Everyone knows how much coffee costs and everyone has plenty to share and their own opinions. It becomes too contentious an issue and is postponed for future decisions.

This is the Honolulu Corollary to Parkinson’s Law: The bigger the issue, the less attention is paid; the more manini the issue, the more we scrap.

How long did it take the state Legislature to approve a plan to allow the counties to raise the general excise tax to build a rail transit system? Sixty working days was all.

Were there subcommittees on projected cost analysis; were there committee studies on how best to include public input; did the public get to vote on the specific route, the specific tax rate, how long the tax would last, and who would bear ultimate responsibility? Nope. Essentially the question was “Build ’um or no build ’um,” and 12 years later, it is more than 10 miles of concrete monolith looking for a blank check.

Compare that to a pair of intractable Honolulu dilemmas: the Haiku Stairs and the Waikiki Natatorium War Memorial.

Both projects outlived their intended purposes. The stairs were built during World War II for workers to trudge up the side of the Haiku Valley to fix the Omega radio station. We won the war, the station was no longer needed and the land was transferred to the city of Honolulu’s Board of Water Supply with the state getting some acreage. The stairs were repaired at the urging of former Mayor Jeremy Harris.

Today they are dangerous and a neighborhood sore spot, but the city is unable to do anything except hold meetings with hikers about how much more to spend on environmental studies to figure out what to do.

Although Haiku Stairs has been in the dilemma stage for almost 20 years, the Natatorium has been a dangerous derelict since officials shut it down in 1963.

Briefly this summer it was the private swimming hole for a really cute monk seal pup and her mom, until federal and state officials shooed them away.

The bureaucrats knew enough that it was not safe for any kind of swimmers, but no one knows how to say “pau” — and that’s the Honolulu part of Parkinson’s Law.

Richard Borreca writes on politics on Sundays. Reach him at 808onpolitics@gmail.com.