I recycle like I plan to live on this earth forever or like I want to save the planet. As to the former, I won’t continue to live even through my offspring because I don’t intend to reproduce; as to the latter, I don’t suffer from a saviour complex, and let’s be realistic. Despite my relentless scepticism, I persist in activities that more optimistic people would call meaningful. Like recycling.
It occurred to me that when you recycle, you ultimately find yourself living on a heap of rubbish. I have an entire cupboard filled with rubbish. There are three shelves, one holding a large basket for plastics, another a basket for paper and the last one is a home to glass bottles. I don’t take my recyclables to the bin until the baskets are full.
Today it was time to drag my hoard of paper out to the bin. The cat showed a great interest in my undertaking as I was moving the contents of the basket in a bag to carry out, but she showed zero interest in assisting me. As I was rummaging through my rubbish, I made the following findings:
- I have a large consumption of boxed tissues. That makes sense. I live in a bedsit, yet I always have three tissue boxes distributed around at strategic locations.
- I seem to live on crisp bread. That’s also about right. The cheap kind comes in plastic bags, but I fancy the fancy kind that comes in boxes.
- I get a lot of junk mail. That’s curious, considering that I have a NO JUNK label on my post box. Council newsletters are apparently not regarded as junk by the postman.
While I didn’t particularly love my dealings with my rubbish, I do like it that now I cohabit with less rubbish than before. I should probably make trips to the bin more often. For the kick out of it, for the entertainment of the cat and for the profit of whoever steals paper from communal bins to sell it for ten cents per kilo.