That it should come to this. I suddenly realised I was bent double over my wheelie bin, my head inside it, riffling for rogue bits of plastic or cardboard thrown in by neighbours or passing drunks, or passing drunk neighbours. ‘I’m a civilised person, reduced to the status of a bum!’ I screamed in outrage when I realised what I was doing.
If you had written a sci-fi novel in the Sixties you could not have predicted that the year 2011 would see law-abiding, middle-class people riffling desperately through garbage.
But as macabre as it sounds, it’s actually worth doing for the amount of money I could save. Despite government promises to change the law, it’s still a £1,000 fine for not recycling in my area right now. And as far as I can see, there is no way the council can know who is recycling and who isn’t so the possibilities for getting fined are limitless.
I share a bin with my upstairs neighbours. The council cannot tell which orange sacks left on the pavement by the bin are mine and which are the girls’ upstairs. Any rogue items in any bin or orange bag left near my house could land me with a fine.
My rubbish obsession is now such that I spend unbelievable amounts of time worrying about waste products and where they should go. I am particularly anxious about whether soiled newspaper from the inside of the rabbit litter tray should be put in the orange bags or the black bin.
Imagine getting a £1,000 fine for throwing a wee-stained copy of the Tooting Guardian in the wrong bin? It would be too unbearable. It might make me lose it completely. In years to come when people visit me in The Cedars Home for the Permanently Bewildered, they will say, ‘What was it that finally tipped her over the edge did you say? A rabbit dropping in a recycling sack?’
Don’t laugh. It could happen. A friend of mine recently had his wheelie bin rejected for collection on the grounds that there was a piece of cardboard in it. As such, I am leaving nothing to chance. I have decided I must do everything I can to protect myself.
So I rang Lambeth Council’s refuse department to ask for advice. I told the girl there the full extent of my concerns. ‘What’s your name?’ she asked suspiciously. I panicked. ‘Why do you need my name?’ I said, imagining the Waste Support Officer revving up his little moped and already on his way. ‘What’s your name?’ she repeated with ruthless force. ‘Agh, ugh, oh dear, Melissa, er…Smith.’
‘Do you tie your orange bags shut?’ ‘Y-es…’ ‘Well, then, you have nothing to worry about.’ ‘But I put them out with my neighbours’ bags. How do you know which ones are which?’ There was a long silence.
‘Don’t you put your orange bags out with your bin?’ ‘Yes, but I share a bin with the same neighbours. And anyway drunks are always chucking beer cans in the bin. How am I to protect myself?’
Another long silence. In the end, I broke it. ‘I’m going to get fined, aren’t I?’
‘If it does come to that you will have to argue your case.’
‘Oh, God no, argue with Lambeth? I’m dead.’ Long silence. ‘Why don’t you write your concerns in an email?’ ‘To who?’ ‘To Streetcare.’ ‘But you are Streetcare.’ ‘Yes.’ ‘So your advice to me is to write to you for advice.’ ‘Yes.’ ‘But you don’t know.’
Long silence. ‘I could ask a colleague.’ ‘Oh, please do.’ She went away for a long time and when she came back she said, ‘If you have any further problems with people throwing things in your bin you must report it to us.’
This was getting worse. They wanted me to shop my neighbours. ‘Look,’ I said, nearly hysterical, ‘do you know what I did this morning? I went through my wheelie bin with my bare hands.’
‘Goodness,’ she said, ‘it’s a shame you had to do that. That’s a horrible job.’
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘it is.’ ‘Awful,’ she went on, hinting that she might be showing her humanity, but then she said, ‘If you have to do that again, be advised to wear household gloves. You must not go through your bin with bare hands.’ I was going to get fined for flouting hygiene laws now.
I felt like Patrick McGoohan in The Prisoner: I wanted to shout, ‘I am not a wheelie bin! I am a free man!’
Indeed, I did grow ever more tragic in my pleading, and after a while she did start to sound quite concerned. I don’t think she will help me avoid a fine, but I suspect she may come to The Cedars to visit me.
Melissa Kite is deputy political editor of the Sunday Telegraph.
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