Thursday is bin day, where our responsibility is to put the correct bin at the edge of our property for the dear old bin men to come and empty in to their big truck. By correct, I mean either rubbish or recycling. Black for rubbish, crimson for recycling plus, because we pay £35 per year for the privilege, on bin day we also put out the green garden waste bin as well. Today is a recycling day.
When it comes to bin men, we have a theory, one which we continue to service, even though we do not have any hard evidence to suggest it works, hence why it remains, for now, a theory. Our theory is that we give them a card with a tenner in it every year on the last collection before Christmas, so they can "get themselves a little drink". We believe that this ensures that any of the little transgressions are handled without grumble; late putting it out, over filled bins, bit extra to the side, all the things that someone is County Hall is currently working out how to ban. The only evidence we have that this works is tenuous, based on LO's mother, who gives neither a card, and certainly not money, every year on the last collection before Christmas, and her bins are rather badly dumped back in to the middle of her drive each week, so every time she pulls in to her house, she needs to get out and move it before she can park.
Now, a chap needs his foibles, and maybe this is one of mine, and I also agree that it is akin to, say, a football player who wins a game with one of his socks down, and so plays for the rest of his career with one sock up, one sock down. Now, I have not done the maths, but I doubt he has won every game that he has played in since, however, would you risk it? Regardless of that, we will continue to give the card and the tenner, and continue to get the good service to which we have become accustomed.
My only other bin story is from my student days; to be precise, my just after I was a student days. One of the peripheral characters in my local was a Scouser who in common parlance would probably be described as a rough diamond, but the salt of the earth. That is to say, once you get past his brash exterior, he was actually a pretty regular chap, at least as regular as anyone coming from Liverpool can be. Sure, he mentioned The Beatles and Bill Shankly once in a while, but then you can take the man out of Liverpool....
Anyway, this guy spent some of his misspent youth as a bin man, and his round included some of the wealthier properties in Liverpool. When approaching a bin in one such property, he noticed the curtains twitching and a "posh bird" peeking out at him, a woman whose nose was already wrinkling slightly. Just to punctuate the cultural differences, he secretly took his half eaten Mars Bar from his pocket, and as he lifted the bin lid he pretended to withdraw something from the bin, and subsequently took a bit from his Mars. There was a split second of extra nose-wrinkling before the curtains firmly closed, and doubtless a call was being made to her therapist for some much needed trauma counselling.
I hope you and your bins have a good day.