The Bins

Thursdays around here. Bin collection day. Loads of folk put theirs out the night before. Not me. Up early. Wheel ‘em out then. Less chance of some nobhead knocking them over. Or the wind.

Thursday last week. Bins out, like normal. Working from home. In a Google Meet, but hear the ruckus outside. _Aha! _I think. The bin men. Grab ‘em after this.

Meeting ends. Out I go. One bin. The other? Gone.

Balls.

My neighbour is out there on the path.

—Your bin missing?

—Yeah. Yours?

—Yep.

—Up the road, d’yer think?

—Let’s see.

Trudge up the road. Me in flip-flops. Him in slippers.

—Split up.

—Good idea.

He goes up one side. Me the other. Checking numbers.

—Aha!

—Got yours?

—Yep.

Slippers slapping the pavement as he heads back down. I’m still looking. Find it eventually. Twenty doors up.

—What are you doing up here? I say to it.

The bin didn’t answer. If it could, it’d have said: Fuck knows.

Dragged it back in. Told Mary later.

—Did you find ours?

Giving me the look. The one reserved for small children with chocolate on their faces.

—I did, yeah.

—Right. No problem then.

—Yeah, but it was bloody miles away—

—Miles?

—Well. A good few houses up.

—Did you get it as soon as they’d collected?

—Er. Well—

—You didn’t, did you?

—I was in a meeting.

—Right.

Back to her mug of tea. Eye-roll. Full force. Yep, well-earned.

Next week? Screw the meetings. I’m standing guard by the gate.