It’s only about fifteen minutes by road from my flat to Wandsworth dump, and now I’ve got a car I’m not afraid to use it. There was a load of junk that was too big to throw in the bin. I made two trips to the dump and now I’ve got even more space in my lovely flat.
Of course the dump doesn’t call itself the dump, due to the modern trend of avoiding anything that might be considered to be in any way offensive. “I work at the municipal household waste and recycling centre”. “Oh you work at the dump!” “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t use that vocabulary, it triggers me.”
I had three great big sheets of glass, but they can’t recycle them, despite all the signs telling us how “committed” they are to recycling things. “Just throw them in household waste.” says the bloke, repeatedly trying to give me a leaflet that says the same as they’ve got written on all the walls, because I’m clearly an idiot for asking. Recycle sheets of clean glass? Pshaw. Pull the other one… They can’t recycle anything that doesn’t fit in a transparent plastic bag, like the ones they collect outside your house. The bags likely get shipped off to Denmark or somewhere at vast expense and then thrown in landfill by some Dane in a green hat saying “Recyclodane”. We haven’t the facilities to sort them properly here, and nor do they I suspect but if we show a transaction on a piece of paper then it looks like we are trying so TICK and back we go to clubbing that orang-utan.
Now I’ve thrown things away, I’m going to get more things to replace them. The cycle of crap. I’m going to IKEA to get tomorrow’s junk today. My friend needs an induction hob and i “need” a load of stuff. Lights and an extractor fan. And candles. And a little wall unit. And smoked salmon. It’ll all get used for a bit and then end up in landfill along with the guts of this dying planet. But if it makes things marginally more convenient then it’s worth it, no?
Yeah so, we didn’t get back from IKEA until almost 11pm. I cooked a late night Nasi Goreng and now it’s red wine and conversation. In a bag by my foot there is a shelving unit that I’d better bloody use.
Also a load of candies that i fully intend to burn. Also a lamp so it’s easier to read books in bed. And too many lightbulbs. All this disposable stuff. IKEA, homogenising houses worldwide. I’m surprised nobody has told me to boycott them yet. They’re huge. Surely they’re bludgeoning babies to death or making glue out of puppies or something. Doubtless there’ll be a petition before long. But I’m as bad as anyone else. I just threw red wine all over my trouser leg. “You should take them off, change them, right now. Put them in the machine with some white wine or salt.” “Nah, it’s fine they were only £10 in Primark.” And so the world burns.
Hell, she was probably just trying to get me to take my trousers off. And who can blame her? But what sort of maniac recommends throwing wine on trousers? Anyway those tiny hands make such usefule replaceable clothes.