This, I am ashamed to say, is my current recycling system. Pretty flowery bag for paper and red string bag for everything else. Hanging on the back of the laundry door, so everytime I go in, I get smacked in the face with a milk bottle or a can of beans. I’m not a happy sausage, but it is becoming more apparent by the day that when it’s raining my orderly world goes to pot.
Tis because I’m nesh. The thought of trailing through the garden to the more sensible recycling boxes in the little shed gives me horrors when it’s raining so I improvise and drive myself nuts in the process. Perhaps turning my venom on the local council would be a more productive way of addressing this issue…
Before recycling was invented, terribly nice (but smelly) men would arrive without fail on a tuesday morning and take away the rubbish. As much rubbish as you felt the urge to throw at them. As many bins as you wanted. Boxes, random carrier bags full of nonsense. Anything really. (Well anything other than naughty husbands and unwanted puppies anyway.) All was well. The people of the local parish were happy. And the responsible amongst us trekked down to the local primary school to put our paper and cardboard in their big blue bin and divided the rest of our worldy goods into baskets we emptied whenever we found ourselves in a supermarket car park recycling centre. It reeked of good citizens patting themselves on the back and throwing middle england dinner parties to congratulate themselves on reducing their carbon footprint, and plainly most of us didn’t understand the wider issues, but one thing for sure is that didn’t make us cross, the way the new system does.
Every house in the land has been issued with the godforsaken eyesore that is the wheelie bin. A standard issue grey one and an on request green one for garden waste. (Though it could be worse- those who live within the walls of Liverpool have got stunningly ugly school skirt purple affairs). Produce anymore rubbish than it takes to fill it and the new hardline bin men just leave it there. Or attach a mean note threatening to put you in rubbish dump prison and pull your hair hard. And trust me this would be ok were it not for the fact that they now only come every two weeks, and the second of the two weeks they arrive at seven in the morning to a dawn chorus of smashing bottles and take away our little blue box full of mixed recycling matter and a very tiny blue plastic bag for every bit of paper that enters our homes.
It’s driving me crazy. Leave food matter in any bin for fourteen days and whether the council assure us it won’t happenor not, even the cleanest of us have had to deal with the nightmare of wiggly white maggots and a face full of flies. In hot weather the bins stink and the amount of plastic I am using to prevent them visiting my wheelie bin in the first place surely defeats the object of being eco-friendly.When it all gets too much I ring my Dad and make him take my rubbish away in his big van, so yep, thats one more step towards being ecologically sound knocked on the head…
Don’t even get me started on how old ladies are meant to drag the enormous big things up their paths. Whats the world coming to, I ask ya, WHATS THE WORLD COMING TO??
Ok rant over, please go about your day and pretend I haven’t just thrown a virtual hissy fit.