There’s a pesky crisp wrapper half-sunk in the mud under brambles. Each time I secure it within the jaws of my litter-picker, another piece tears off. I persist, until all the fragments of coloured foil are in my bin liner. Then I move on.
I’m volunteering with a group at my local park. They perform a range of tasks, but today – my first time – we’re litter-picking. “Aren’t you good?” passersby say, as they walk through the park with their takeaway coffees. Or sometimes: “You’re fighting a losing battle there, love!”
