Some people buy sports cars when they have a midlife crisis. Others cut off all their hair. Me? I seem to have developed a debilitating obsession with urban sanitation. Over the past couple of years, I have become unhealthily preoccupied with the fact that an alarming number of grown adults seem incapable of disposing of their rubbish properly. There are people in my Philadelphia neighbourhood who will bag up their dog’s excrement and then just leave the little poop bag on the pavement for the rest of us to admire. And don’t get me started on the people who dump untied bags of recycling on the street days before it’s supposed to be collected, resulting in it inevitably blowing around the neighbourhood. (If you’re wondering why the rubbish is loose, it’s because the US, the land of innovation, has been slow to embrace the wheelie bin.)
Do I sound like an irritable middle-aged woman on the verge of demanding to speak to the manager? Oh, I’m just getting started! Here’s the thing: I’m a very enthusiastic rule-follower – assuming the rules are sensible and non-tyrannical. You need rules, both codified and unspoken, in order for society to operate smoothly. Rules about when and how you put your rubbish out. Rules about how you’re not supposed to indiscriminately kill civilians in wars. Rules about how you can’t park your car on the pavement, blocking anyone using a wheelchair or pram from getting by. That sort of thing. And while Philadelphia is a wonderful city, it is rife with low-level lawlessness. Drivers here will barrel through red lights, and routinely park on the pavement or block the pedestrian crossing. People litter mindlessly.
