London is not bad for recycling. We have a weekly collection which will whisk away away cuttings, plastics, cardboard, glass, paper, tin.
I tend to throw in everything but the kitchen sink and am probably the one causing the entire industry to come screeching to a halt. OK, who threw in the shoe?
It means our massive regular garbage, or rubbish bin as they say here, is nearly empty. Though, of course, every blue moon, I do throw something in that should be in recycling but I just couldn’t be bothered to wash out.
Oh, the guilt.
We have so much recycling from all the excess packaging (not to mention our consumer habits) that we’ve had to get two extra recycling boxes. And still the stuff overflows. It’s turning our front garden into a dump.
We put peelings in a small pail on the kitchen counter and toss them into a compost bin in the back garden. My husband’s idea. And you can hear the ear splitting screech every time I have to go out with the little pail and lift the compost lid and find the oh-god-aren’t-we-gross fat, pale, orangey slugs lined around the rim.
If it’s dark, I don’t go out because I have a fear of a hand rising from the horrible slime and pulling me in.
I’m thinking of writing a screenplay about it. Called Compost: No one will hear you when you scream (and you’ll get a real mouthful).
photo by Iain Farrell (flickr)