Sounds sad doesn’t it? A 41 year old man, hiding from the bin men. But it’s true.
See, we’re moving soon. We have a 120 foot garden (one reason we’re moving) which absolutely filled with plants that hate us. Don’t feel bad, we hate them just as much.
In order to get the house into a reasonable state, we declared war on Gardonia, and have been the perpetrators of some hideous sap-filled massacres. Oh the screams. Oh the humanity. And that was just from me.
As a result, our brown bin (the one what we put garden refuse into) had been somewhat … full recently.
Full to the point, in fact, that I’ve actually pulled muscles trying to shift the damn thing. Last night I thought I was going to defecate in my underwear it was that bloody heavy.
And so, every other Friday, I have hidden in shame as I’ve heard the clanking of the bin lorry, the joyous laughter of the bin men as they talk about the kittens they’ve nursed back to health, the wet snap of breaking spines and the piteous screams as the bin topples and crushes them to a bloody jam on the pavement.
Only, it hasn’t actually happened. Not only do they not laugh, they haven’t nursed kittens and, it seems, they’re far more manly than I as they have taken the rubbish every single time and not once have they either pitched a brick through our windows, or left the bin with a ‘Fuck no!’ sticker on it.
Gentlemen (I’m making the assumption that there aren’t any ladies on our route, because if there are they’re all former East German shot putters), I tip my hat to you.