I am there so often that the man who runs the recyclables aisle knows my name – and he is seriously unimpressed with my offerings
Y
ou know a lot of things have gone wrong for you when the guy at the municipal dump knows your name. It basically means you’re bereaved or getting divorced – because if you’re just a regular, organised person who goes to the dump a lot, you’re in and out of there like a ghost.
So anyway, I wouldn’t call it a friendship, between me and the guy in the recyclable items aisle; it’s more of a Tom and Jerry thing. I try to leave stuff where it might find a new home, and he tries to get me to put it in landfill. I say, “But sir, it’s a brand new commode, there are people who’d bite your hand off for one of these,” and he says, “Give it back to the NHS,” and I say, “Do you think I haven’t tried that?”. And he shakes his head, and I put it in landfill, but then wait until his back is turned and run back with three Zimmer frames.
We rarely clash, but probably our longest discussions have been about tech. The devices in question are all 15 years old and yet as good as new, because somebody (my late mother) engaged with it long enough to throw away its box and all relevant paperwork, but never figured out how to use it.
