I rather like this planet. I think we should all be doing our bit to preserve it. I recycle as much as I can. Actually, strictly speaking, I recycle as much as my so-called Recycling centre will allow. Which isn't a lot.
Actually, maybe it is a lot. But the things that I generally want to get rid of, like old bits of plasterboard or dried up tins of paint which I kept in case I needed to touch up a bit of wall at some later date but never did and actually didn't put the lid on properly so it got a two inch skin on it and is all but useless now anyway, they refuse to accept, in a rather patronizing manner which makes me feel like a cross between a naughty school girl and a criminal mastermind. We're not allowed to accept it, they inform me without a hint of apology or remorse. It says it on the gate, they add, like that should make me feel better. It doesn't.
You have to go to a main recycling centre, they tell me. Where's that then, I say. Sixteen miles away, they reply. What! I reply with indignation. There is another one, they add. Where? I say. Fifty two miles away. You Are Joking, I bellow in disbelief. They stare at me in a way that tells me they're not. Other people are now looking at me. Possibly in admiration or else in fear. I don't blame them. If I saw a ranting mad woman brandishing three 12 inch square pieces of plasterboard, I too might feel alarmed.
I feel a sense of fury and despair.
I am so angry I could cry. So I do. I just wanted to put my pathetic little scraps of plasterboard in the waste to landfill bin. That's all. It's not too much to ask is it? I do consider punching the most patronising of them, but I don't suppose that's allowed either.
The despair quickly follows. Where will it end, I wonder, in a possibly overly dramatic fashion. I am reminded of a book my son had when he was small - Mrs Lather's Laundry. One day, she gets so fed up with doing everyone's laundry, she puts up a sign on the door - we wash anything except laundry.
I expect that next time I go to the recycling centre there will be a new sign on the gate; We Recycle Anything Except Your Rubbish.
You read it it here first.
Actually, maybe it is a lot. But the things that I generally want to get rid of, like old bits of plasterboard or dried up tins of paint which I kept in case I needed to touch up a bit of wall at some later date but never did and actually didn't put the lid on properly so it got a two inch skin on it and is all but useless now anyway, they refuse to accept, in a rather patronizing manner which makes me feel like a cross between a naughty school girl and a criminal mastermind. We're not allowed to accept it, they inform me without a hint of apology or remorse. It says it on the gate, they add, like that should make me feel better. It doesn't.
You have to go to a main recycling centre, they tell me. Where's that then, I say. Sixteen miles away, they reply. What! I reply with indignation. There is another one, they add. Where? I say. Fifty two miles away. You Are Joking, I bellow in disbelief. They stare at me in a way that tells me they're not. Other people are now looking at me. Possibly in admiration or else in fear. I don't blame them. If I saw a ranting mad woman brandishing three 12 inch square pieces of plasterboard, I too might feel alarmed.
I feel a sense of fury and despair.
I am so angry I could cry. So I do. I just wanted to put my pathetic little scraps of plasterboard in the waste to landfill bin. That's all. It's not too much to ask is it? I do consider punching the most patronising of them, but I don't suppose that's allowed either.
The despair quickly follows. Where will it end, I wonder, in a possibly overly dramatic fashion. I am reminded of a book my son had when he was small - Mrs Lather's Laundry. One day, she gets so fed up with doing everyone's laundry, she puts up a sign on the door - we wash anything except laundry.
I expect that next time I go to the recycling centre there will be a new sign on the gate; We Recycle Anything Except Your Rubbish.
You read it it here first.
