I can never resist a trip to the rubbish dump

I was back at the tip on Sunday. I cannot help it. What art galleries or rock concerts or online porn are to some, Derby-shire County Council’s dump at Rowsley is to me. I can’t keep away. Any excuse will do, and on Sunday it was a bit of cardboard and a broken fan heater. Yes, yes, I know, they could have been saved up until there was enough rubbish to fill the bed of my old pickup truck, but … well, the stuff was already in the back and I was driving down the A6 anyway and the pull as I came within the magnetic field of this state-of-the-art recycling centre was just too much to resist. An invisible hand nudged mine into an indicate–left tweak on the lever, and we peeled off down the service road, my rubbish and I.

The place was packed with addicts. The boot of the smart BMW in front of me opened to reveal nothing but four old flower pots, and the chap emerging from the driver’s seat caught my gaze and looked guiltily away. We tipoholics recognise each other. The staff greet some of us by name.

My brain was buzzing with questions and doubts. Should I cut the plug off from the cable in case it was useful to someone? Ought I really to have removed the 13-amp fuse from the plug, for future use? Should I alert the always helpful staff to the fact that the heater was broken, lest some poor punter take it away to heat his home?

Did it matter that there were some leaflets jammed into the flattened cardboard box and that these technically should have gone into the container marked ‘Paper’ rather than up the ramp signposted ‘Cardboard’? Did it matter (this was more serious) that one brochure was inside a padded envelope with plastic in its lining? I lingered there longer than I should have, turning all these enquiries over in my mind and wondering whether it would look silly to ask; finally I tore myself away and drove off.