It’s “green” bin day today – recycling.
This day has traditionally been one of my least favourite chores as a drinker – taking out the glass recycling. I call it the clink of shame. Although clink is probably the wrong word. What’s a good word for “glass avalanche”? I remember a few years back (before the kids), we were still disposing of the evidence of our Christmas excesses at this point in January – and one year where we had to concede and just do a run to the tip.
Even on normal recycling mornings though, I’d wonder whether our efforts to deal with recycling might wake a neighbour, scare a cat or lead to one of our kids asking “what’s that, mummy?”. I’d worry about how many neighbours would notice the overflowing crate outside. I’d look at the contents of other peoples’ crates, thinking, “Which one of us is normal?”. I’d get a huge surge of relief any time I spotted another overflowing crate. “Oh, it’s fine. They’re doing it too. It’s all good.”
This morning, I feel genuinely good; positively saintly. Our lidless crate (the lid blew away one day when it was balanced atop the glass mountain, never to be seen again) sits proudly on the pavement displaying its contents – a jam jar. I know, I know. I didn’t need to put it out but, come on, wouldn’t you?
