I’m Putting on My Nicest Boxers Today!

It’s 9.00 a.m. on Monday morning. It’s raining hard. I’m outside the back door, coat on, hood up. I’ve got the blue recycling bin tipped up at a 45-degree angle and my head and shoulders are deep inside it.

I’m trying to retrieve a letter from Belfast City Hall that arrived on Saturday. I need the name of the person who sent it.

The letter got binned before I had time to note it. It’s not important who binned it. There are two people in this house. It could have been either of us. This isn’t the time to point fingers.

Big clue: no fingers could be pointed at me if this was, indeed, the precise moment to extend digits in an accusatory manner.

Bin Collection

I want to speak to the guy who sent the letter. To put him right on a few things. His letter outlined changes his department proposes to make to our wheelie bin collection schedule.

Blue bins, brown bins, black bins — they’re all going to be collected on different days, in different weeks, from the start of next month.

Spare us the details, please. No one in history ever won a Pulitzer by writing about their wheelie bin collection timetable.

Here’s my view: if they really want to improve the bin service, why don’t they just make sure the effing bin lorries turn up on the effing day they’re effing supposed to?

No Show

Take that blue bin I’ve just been rummaging around in.

(Yes, I’m back in the kitchen now. I got the letter, yes. No, I won’t forget — I’m washing my hands right now, as it happens.)

It should’ve been lifted on Thursday. The lorry didn’t turn up. I’ve now brought the bin back from the front gate because I’ve stuff to put in it.

And that’s been happening more and more frequently. The various bin days arrive and the good people of this street wheel their bins down to the front of their driveways. The lorry doesn’t show up. Often it arrives a day or three late. Occasionally it doesn’t show at all.

Most of the neighbours give up after the third day and pull their bins back down their driveway.

And, inevitably, the lorry drives into the street early next morning.

Ben-Hur

When that happens, all hell breaks loose. Doors are flung open up and down the street. People wearing odd clothing appear on their driveways and run to their wheelie bins. Dogs that have followed them out the door bark and yelp at the excitement of it all.

The sound of little wheels bouncing off tarmac fills the air as bins are steered like chariots down driveways. If charioteers had worn pyjamas, tee-shirts and beach shorts, it would be exactly like a scene from Ben-Hur.

Bin-Hur, surely, ha, ha!

A fortnight ago, I was caught up in the panic. I pushed that bin out to the gate in my bare feet and boxer shorts.

I hope none of the neighbours saw me. They weren’t my nicest boxers.

Phone Options

I dial the number on the letter. A voice tells me there are six options. I hear the first four clear as a bell. Then I get distracted by the cat, drenched to the bone, demanding entrance from the other side of the back door. I miss some of option five but choose it anyway. It sounded in the right ballpark.

Wrong ballpark.

I get talking to a young woman in Pest Control. She’s very helpful. If they are recording this call for training and monitoring purposes, they could use this one in the module ‘How to Make Customers Feel Valued.’

Her manner quickly changes when she realises I’m not ringing about rats, mice or wild pigeons. She becomes abrupt, like she wants me out of her life. Pronto.

‘How to Make Callers Feel Worthless,’ I think, for that one. Or just edit the last bit out.

Bins and Banns

She patches me through to Births, Marriages and Deaths. I can see where she went wrong. I said bins, she heard banns. Easy mistake to make, especially when you’re hellbent on shoving someone out of your life.

Eventually, I get put through to the right department. Somebody says “Hello, Bins and Recycling, can I help…” then I get cut off.

I don’t have the heart to try again. Resilience has never been my strong suit. Quitting is my strong suit. Giving up at the first setback is the only suit hanging in my wardrobe.

I decide to send a stinging email instead. I sit down and open my laptop. I start typing.

Then I hear it. The unmistakable rumbling sound of a bin lorry turning into the street. Seconds later, doors open, dogs bark. The sound of wheels rattling over tarmac.

I rush to put on the shoes I’ve kicked off. To gather the wet coat I’ve slung across a chair. Then I’m out the door. I grab the handles of the blue bin and turn it towards the driveway.

At least I’ve got my shoes and pants on today.

I push my chariot quickly towards the gate.

Bin-Hur rides again!