As middle age creeps along, I am continually finding new, and less interesting, ways to measure the passing of time. For much of my 20s and all of my 30s I lived on a street with a food market and after a couple of years of burritos and Turkish flatbreads, I realised the greatest advantage was the refuse collection. Every day was bin day.
I took this freedom and wild abandon for waste completely for granted. I didn’t have to plan or think or tear cardboard boxes to shreds. Just toss a plastic bag on the street before 5pm and it was whisked away. I was truly alive. Now it’s a Sunday evening ritual: peer down the street – is it recycling or garden waste? That time again, eh, Frank? Feels like it was only last week we were dragging the yellow bin on to the curb. Do you have space in your green bin, Janet? I’ve been doing some pruning. There we all are, wheel them out and wait for the 6am trash-truck Monday morning chorus. Another week closer to death.
