We have a pied-à-terre in Soho, which is convenient when I am in London, even if the street outside our tiny house is sometimes a little raucous at night. The neighbourhood is lively and fun, but my visits come with the difficulty that, in Soho, so far as I can tell, there is nowhere to dispose of your rubbish.
I saw recently that Bristol City Council wants to limit collection of its wheelie bins to once a month. In much of Britain, it is already fortnightly. But at least they have wheelie bins. Westminster doesn’t allow wheelie bins in Soho; the pavements are too narrow. I assume this is the case also in other constrained neighbourhoods.
Our shiny new Labour-controlled Westminster City Council seems to have given up collecting rubbish. It employs an army of officials to stop anyone from putting out their bin bags in unauthorised places. These come with fixed penalty notices. It’s a good business for the council. Yet there is still rubbish is everywhere, but there’s nowhere to put your own.
In France, where I spend most of my time, rubbish is collected three times a week: biodegradable waste on Wednesday, recyclables on Thursday, general waste on Friday. Perhaps I should bring my Soho rubbish back to France with me – although Ryanair would charge me extra.
With hundreds of licensed premises, Soho produces plenty of waste, and this is collected by private contractors, who do a reasonable job, although there is always spare for the rat community – the best nourished in London. Westminster has recently launched a campaign against rats, but perhaps the solution is to actually collect residents’ rubbish. Otherwise, the rats are doing the job that the council won’t.
This leaves the residents of Soho with a problem. We are not numerous but do exist – a few thousand tucked into flats and townhouses amid the sea of bars, boutiques and shops selling biscuits for £5.
We got a fixed penalty notice for fly-tipping because we’d left an envelope with our address in the bag
I used to sneak my rubbish into a council litter bin on the street, furtively looking around to avoid being busted by one of the Westminster rangers. This worked well until the council started replacing its big-mouth litter bins with letterbox bins that don’t admit a plastic sack of rubbish, and are designed to discourage all but the tiniest morsels of waste. There are still a few big-mouth bins around, but they are vanishing quickly.
A call to Westminster City Council is like trying to make an appointment with a GP. Wait, wait, wait. Press hash to end your life now. Eventually, a council officer deigns to answer and spins the story that rubbish can be left in authorised sacks on the pavement, where it is collected daily.
Well, the last time we tried this, we got a fixed penalty notice for fly-tipping because we’d left an envelope with our address in the bag, which had been opened and examined by a council official. I’ve learned my lesson and bought a paper shredder from Ryman on Wardour Street.
I apologise for drawing attention to this situation in a world menaced by an approaching asteroid, tariffs, wars, etc. ‘Where there’s muck, there’s brass,’ said my grandmother, a Yorkshirewoman. Not in Soho, there isn’t. All advice gratefully received.
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