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We knew there might be a flap on when the grey wheelie-bins appeared in our street. Next day there were the green ones; the day after, some red boxes that looked like they could handle themselves.

Then there were the instruction leaflets. That’s when things started to get really messy, and we knew all the idle talk was true. The council had entered into hostilities against waste and every household was expected to do its duty.

We’re all refuseniks now – well, apart from my wife that is, who apparently “doesn’t do rubbish”. Not that this has stopped her issuing eco-directives from some moral high ground that’s off-limits to other ranks. I keep forgetting to draw on my car boot-full of used plastic bags on arrival at the supermarket. I live in constant dread of a spot search.

Meanwhile, if our four walls had ears they’d be eavesdropping on querulous debates about which bit of discarded packaging or uneaten food goes into which colour-coded receptacle. There’s a parade every Wednesday, anticipated with mounting edginess about getting it wrong. They shoot horses, don’t they? So why not rate-payers?

I never thought I’d say this, but I miss my weekend environmentalist excursions to the local tip; even being subjected to those Gestapo-type interrogations skip-side when trying to fool the yellow-caps that I could tell the difference between PET and HDPE. No point in going there now that every house is the local tip in microcosm.

Instead, dumping is done in solitary confinement to conserve carbon-miles. It’s been rumoured that if you generate more waste than the bins can accommodate, you have to eat what’s left. We’re hiding stuff in the attic.

Dump for victory
The recycling and refuse collection service leaflet (read, memorise and dispose of in the red box) has been more demoralising than motivational. Did anyone ever imagine the anguish in not knowing what to do with a spent yoghurt carton?

The constant to-ing and fro-ing with leftover food scraps is seriously causing us to think about bringing the green bin indoors. The leaflet says you can be issued with a kitchen food caddy (constructed of rigid plastic incidentally), but supplies ran out. Someone said they’d got one on eBay; otherwise, it looks like it could be September.

If our street is anything to go by, the public response has split into three unequally divided camps: those who could have been born to spend whatever leisure time they have in segregating garbage (10%); the conscientious objectors who are convinced it’s not their responsibility (30%); and the people who don’t seem to know or care that there’s a war on. I vacillate between all three, often subject to the state of
the weather.

They do say that if we all did our bit, were all to pull together, then this’ll soon be over and we could have saved the planet by Christmas. Personally, I’m saying nothing other than it’s a bloody long way to Tipperary.