It would have been yesterday were it not for the bank holiday.
Out with Maisie;
Black bins and green boxes lining the streets ready for collection.
My own black bag, morning gift from doggie; do I or don’t I?
fortnightly when the men come to take away our stuff – rubbish, detritus, waste, I encounter the same question.
Do I or don’t I pop Maisie’s bag in their bin or, should I wait for the municipal one?
Do I risk approaching the bin of a house where a person might walk out, or spy me from behind the Venetians – spot me messing with their mess; opening their bin and adding to their stuff?
Do I wait for an out of the way bin, one hidden at the end of a drive, behind a wall where I am unlikely to be seen?
And, who does this stuff belong to anyway? After all, residents are clearly showing that they no longer want it – does that mean that possession slips?
Rubbish can be strangely private and revealing.
What we throw out can tell much about us –
There is a family along the road that drinks one 2l carton of full-fat milk each day (and every week I worry about their lipids); another likes Chardonnay. Another is tidy; ordered.
Empty computer, hoover and play-thing boxes, folded flattened.
Nappies, pizza boxes and empty tomato tins.
I pass a man with a Labrador; our dogs attempt a mutual pounce;
He is in his early sixties, grey hair, slim, distinguished.
We each hold our dog on taught leads.
I hear him popping his poop in one of the bins.
At least I am not alone.