Yesterday the blessed council replaced our stolen recycling bin. Why someone would steal one when they are so readily available is beyond me. I mean it only took us five emails and two months to get ours replaced. (deep breaths, calm, calm)
So I woke from my stuffed nose slumbers to find a bewildered Irish fellow on my doorstep waving a green plastic box at me. Better him than the prostitutes who had been there the previous night scattering Pringles and fag buts all over the steps.
‘Oh, love, sorry to wake you. You’ve ordered this, love? Is that right, love?’ he says staring at the glass window above the door.
‘Oh yes, someone stole ours. Brilliant thanks for bringing it…’
He looks at the box in his hands.
‘It’s just that I can’t give you this, love, as it’s someone else’s.’ He shows me the number seven clearly written in Tipex on side of the box. He had taken someone else’s box to replace ours – my mind literally boggles. Does he provide continuous employment for himself in this way?
‘Love, I’ll be back in a minute. Sorry to wake you, love.’
So five minutes later he reappears with a new box.
‘Love, here you go, love.’ He gazes up at the ceiling.
‘Thanks’ I say and close the door.
Then I become a fraction more awake and realise I’m wearing a t-shirt and my fairly short (a la James Bond in the seventies) dressing gown. I imagine him going down the stairs crunching through the sour cream and chive crisps mumbling, ‘love… love…. love.’
That was starting to remind me of Kafka, until the short dressing gown. Don’t think he ususally went in for them.