Day thirty-one in
the Ephgrave household and Recycling Mountain has reached crisis point.
What was once a
non-threatening testament to the gluttony of Christmas is now structurally
unsound, with no word as to when the bin men will take it away. Contributing to
it is like a cross between dry-stone-walling and an outsized game of Jenga: every
piece of packaging that’s added must surely be the last, and yet it never is,
as there’s always something else to be slotted into a fortuitous gap or
carefully balanced at the summit.
It’s daunting to
be confronted by how much a two-person, two-budgie and one-cat household can
consume in just a week; I don’t know whether to be proud of or depressed by it.
On one hand, it feels good to be giving something back to the planet, and yet I
can’t help but be reminded of just how much other people will throw away; God
forbid anyone should be expected to put in a little effort.
It wouldn’t be so
bad if I knew when this bank holiday-induced madness will be over and I’ll be
able to dismantle my debris monstrosity and fit it in our communal recycling
bin. When the day comes, I’ll be catapulted into a secret Mexican stand-off
with the whole estate; move it or lose it, sister.
