Today was bin-day. It is the time of the week when all the neighbourhood join in a collective banishment of waste bins from their immediate premises.
We all have at least three bins, wheely bins (makes it sound all Wacky Races) and each take it in turn to flirt with the bin men. I mis-termed them as ‘the dustbin men’ this morning which tells an awful lot about my age.
Today was green bin day. It still is, until they come and empty it, leave it abandoned in the middle of the public pathway and ride on to other bins to conquer. Occasionally they leave a note on the bin warning us of not cross-contaminating the rubbish. This generally gets screwed up and thrown back into the bin for the following week.
Please don’t mistake my actions for a neanderthal who wishes to poison the earth with unwanted waste, plastic bags, tiny micro plastics, and potato peelings. No, I am not one of those, but I am a person who hates unthinking authority. I should never have been a teacher in the first place.
Anyway, as the commonly applied connective would suggest, I am about to move on to far grander concerns: my old suit in the wardrobe.
My old suit has been hanging there for over two years now. Some stitching came loose on the trousers, just by the crotch, which meant that I couldn’t be wearing it again until mended (the trousers and me). So, I hung it up with my spurs and went on to wear apparel that suited my new standing, a shirt and tie with a jumper for the colder months. I now look like a supply-teacher and no longer a corporate communicator.