There are three things in life that will make you feel old AF:

• Getting called “the lady” instead of “the girl”.
• Realising that leaving your tupperware at work takes up a lot of your brain now.
• Having to worry about bin day.

When I say ‘worry about bin day’ I don’t mean getting to an age where you have to know when bin day is – I mean, that bin day actually affects your inner peace now. You know the feeling when you have an event that clashes with your hair washing schedule? That, but now it’s about your bins.

Now, the reason I bring this up is because I’ve had ongoing beef with the bin men by mine for about 6 weeks now. It started when I put a FEW Plastic Bags in my recycling bin because, honestly, I wasn’t aware that this was considered bad behaviour. You know, what with them being plastic and all. And the bin men lashed a big yellow sticker on my still-full bin, for the whole neighbourhood to see, saying ‘inappropriate content’.

Two weeks later, I had managed to scrub the sticker that branded me a danger to society off and gingerly put my bin out again, in the hope that they might not notice.

They noticed.

Two weeks later, it was blue bin day again, and by this time I’d done the obligatory removal of the plastic bags. I mean, not ALL of them. Just the ones on the top that you could see. I’m only human, after all. And there were month-old, rotting dog food cans in there.

I could use the excuse that I’m five months pregnant and rifling through a dirty wheelie bin isn’t good for me or the baby, but honestly I wouldn’t have done it even if I wasn’t pregnant. I have the gag reflex of a nun and it just wasn’t an option, I’m sorry.

Watching from the window I saw the fella inspecting the contents of my bin, turning round to his colleagues and shaking his head. They were leaving it again.

I bombed out of the house and caught up with them, “Listen I’m sorry I know I’m not meant to put plastic bags in my bin, I’ve learned my lesson. There’s only about two left in there though, can you not just take it this one time, and I’ll buy you all a Wetherspoon’s breakfast to say thanks?”

The fella looked at me like I’d just spat on his nan and said “Sorry, love. We don’t take bribes,” bribes? Jesus Christ I suggested a full English. Not heroin. “We will be monitoring your bin activity from now on.”

MONITORING MY Bin Activity. FUCKING PARDON? I’ll tell you who’s bin activity was never monitored? Ted Bundy’s.

So, here I am. The girl with the 6-week old bin outside her house. The neighbourhood pariah.

The moral of the story? Well, there isn’t one – I should really stop ending with that, because very little I write about has any morals. I guess it’s just another cautionary tale about a girl pretending to be an adult. So, if you are considering buying your own home, make sure you check what you can, and can’t, put in your bins.

Until next time… x

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