I must first plead guilty to an error. I have referred to bin personnel as Uberbinfuhrer and so on, downwards through the ranks. They should correctly be called Oberbin etc. You will perhaps excuse this freudian lapse in my judgement as "Uber" means "above" and those in charge of refuse collection seem to regard themselves as above us mere council tax paying mortals.
Monday was Evil Bin Day again. This week was recycling bin day which is always a source of even more stress than usual. Gentlemen of a certain age ought not to be subjected to this on a weekly basis. Having reluctantly left the warmth of a sprung edge divan with 4 drawers at the same time as the central heating kicked in I shivered my way downstairs and began the usual scramble to assemble the various bins, boxes and sacks and position them precisely by 7.30am as per the Oberbinfuhrer's diktat. Having accomplished that I readied myself in ambush. Now at this time of year this is no easy task as sunrise is somewhat later than it is in the summer months. Since I pay my electricity bills timeously and I am loath to sit in the dark, drawing back the curtains would give the Oberbinfuhrerherren a clear view of Kojak while I would have limited sight of them. I compromise by drawing back the curtains a little way, casting enough light so the outside eye can see that I am up and alert (to their eyes anyway) without indicating my whereabouts. By happy circumstance Chez Kojak is sited so I can espy, from my comfy workstation chair, the various Oberbinwagons as they reverse into my court. Depending on the noise level of whatever is on Breakfast Television News I can also hear the reversing alert - probably the only useful thing that has come out of Health & Safety legislation. I am thus aware of their several arrivals and ready to leap out and confront them should my bins stray. Anyway, I digress yet again. On Monday I had scarce retired to the slowly warming house when the first collection arrived, seconds after 7.30. I know that staff cuts in these difficult times mean that schedules are tight but this hour must be evilly designed to catch unwary and sleepy-eyed citizens before their wits are fully about them. I am unwilling to cast any scrap of mercy in the direction of the Sturmbinabteilung but I am considerate enough to realise that by missing a few early bins they stand more chance of achieving their targets. My slightly concealed presence has generally been sufficient to ensure the satisfactory return of my various recycling containers. Nonetheless I distinctly spotted yet another rapid readjustment in the intended trajectory of the green box once my presence had been clocked. Hostilities, dear reader, are far from over...
Being still assailed by the chesty remnants of a flu-type virus I have confined myself to Chez Kojak as far as possible. Hunger has forced me to make occasional forays into the outdoor world and so it was on Tuesday that I found myself, late in the day, running perilously short of milk. A trip to a nearby supermarket was thus demanded. Messrs Morrison & Co. have charitably kept their store open until 8pm so I wrapped up warmly and armed myself with both a shopping bag and alacrity as it was approaching that hour.The fickle finger of fate struck yet again as predictably the telephone rang. Now I am one of those persons who learned good manners, sometimes forcibly, at my mother's knee and I cannot lightly ignore a telephone call unless circumstances render it physically impossible. So it was that my arrival at Chez Morrison & Co's emporium coincided with the store closure. Muttering curses and heaping opprobrium on the feckless phone caller I reflected that all was not lost as there was a small late opening shop in the village. I had of course underestimated Fate's fickle digit. The vengeful harpy had ordained that there was not a single place to park my car within a bus ride of the shop. Being a law-abiding person I choose to ignore the local Highway Code which appears to indicate that you can park on pavements, street corners, double yellow lines and even on one occasion, a pedestrian crossing as long as you (a) put on your hazard lights and/or (b) don't get caught. And so it was that I had to go even further west, almost to the shores of the Irish Sea to visit Mr Tesco's all-night establishment. Parking places abound there, the only risk being not able to remember where you parked in the first place. I have to admit to being suitably embarrassed there on more than one occasion. I have long since learned that confining myself to a shopping basket is not a good idea as it almost always guarantees that I will unexpectedly require several essential and very heavy purchases that I cannot possibly leave for another day. It follows that a shopping trolley demands a substantial load. And that, dear reader, is how a 2 litre carton of milk cost me over £26.
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