We have a refuse collection service here that is more complicated than string theory.
The basic idea is Cotswold District Council ‘recycles’ (I put it in quotes because there have been a few stories about how the recyclable material is merely shipped off to China in container ships where small children bury the aforementioned material in landfills with tiny buckets and spades) everything…except plastic.
So, you have a green bin for food and garden waste (organic material) which is collected weekly and then a black bin (non-recyclable stuff) which is collected fortnightly along with black boxes (glass and newspapers) and a blue bag (cardboard). Clear?
The reason I am writing this garbage (oh yeah! I still’s got it…) is that I hate bin day. In fact, I hate bins. I hate the whole disgusting operation. I like dumps, though. Dumps are great. Fully of crazy stuff and crazy people throwing crazy stuff out and then seeing some other crazy person’s crazy stuff and then putting it in their crazy cars and driving back to their crazy houses (maybe overused the word crazy a touch…). But bin day sucks…because:
- I hate lugging the big wheelie bins down the drive and round the front of the house because they’re heavy and they smell. The green wheelie bin has grass cuttings and food waste and I try not to look in there because it’s a nasty, seething, moving fugue of maggots and fruit flies. Also, because the local moggies use our garden as a litter tray (I smite them), we lob those in there as well (not the cats – obviously – but given half a chance…). I cleaned it out a while back because it smelt like the pit of Gomorrah. I didn’t have bleach, so I had to use a reckless mixture of Windolene, Flash and Toilet Duck; I’m lucky I didn’t create some kind of chemical explosive. When I poured this detrious down the drain, I thought DS was going to start swearing like Samuel L Jackson in Pulp Fiction – the smell was that bad. I nearly barfed.
- Our bin men are arseholes. If I were to put just a tiny little bit too much rubbish in our black wheelie bin (as we do: we have a baby still in nappies) then instead of lobbing everything into the garbage truck they will take the time to take the black bag out of the bin, write a label telling me I overfilled it and stick it on the black bin bag. This makes me so mad that I want to – one day – sit inside the wheelie bin wearing a Scream mask, leap out at them and give them a coronary on a dark winter’s morning. The sons of whores. So, I have to climb on top of the bin – like a lunatic – and jump up and down on it to get as much rubbish in as possible.
- I am not a ninja. Because of the aforementioned capacity challenged nature of our wheelie bins, I sometimes have to wait until the dead of night and creep around our neighbours bins like a demented inversion-theory paparazzi and put our overflow into their bins. I can’t believe that I have been reduced to this.
What I want is a chute that goes to a big bin (and I don’t care if it’s on wheels or not) that everything goes into. I pay council tax, they can sort it out – why do I have to be Stig of the Dump?