Complete Rubbish - Sunday

‘Oh deep joy.’ I say, visibly drooping.

‘What?’  Questions my wife. ‘It’s only a bit of gardening. It will make a change for you to do some hands-on work.’

I’ve been press-ganged into shrubbery cutting on my weekend off. Working alternate Saturdays for a lifetime, hasn’t been my greatest love but it does mean I’ve often managed to swerve some of those traditional manly jobs involving wrenches, power tools and remembering whether it is righty-tighty, lefty-loosey - or the other way round.

‘Anyway I do a lot of hands-on.’ I grumble.

‘Not that I’ve noticed.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Let’s just get cutting.’ Says my wife. ‘We can do a couple of trips to the tip over the weekend, then.’

And that’s why I was complaining. Now I’m all for penguins not choking on plastic bottle tops and I’m right there with the next man in ensuring Polar Bears don’t run out of ice - as long as they remain on someone else’s continent. But the misery of a trip to the Municipal Tip is unsurpassed. Overnight, when people began to recycle and separate rubbish into different colour-coded bins, the staff at the local tip became neo-Nazis. I believe the French call the town dump a dechetterie, which seems about right, as it’s a shitty experience.

I see the little Hitlers, in hi-viz jackets watching me even as I open the car tailgate. They also watch little old ladies struggling with bin bags bigger than they are, but never move a muscle to help. I’m guessing health and safety - or bone idleness.

‘What you got there?’ Demands a particularly ratty-looking operative, as I struggle with a defunct set of full-length blinds we no longer need. Yes, my wife has decided that as we are going to the dump, not only are we going to dispose of the thorny-cuttings that have made my arms look like I’ve gone twelve rounds with a tetchy tiger, but we can ditch all the other detritus clogging up the garage that never houses a car.

‘Metal.’ I say, heading for the appropriate giant bin. I’ve identified it as the most likely deposit-point, as its not general waste, green biodegradable garden mater, paper, cardboard, or approved plastic suitable for processing (check local providers for re-cycling suitability).

‘Nah mate.’ Says the camp guard, holding up his hand like a scruffy traffic policeman. ‘That’s got fabric.’

Yes it has. Well done Sherlock. Those are the bits that keep the sunlight out and helped the product  get its name.

‘So, general waste?’ I say, not entirely confidently.

He looks at me as if I’m the one smelling of rotting fish.

‘Not with metal on it.’ Counters captain Haddock disdainfully.

‘So you had to detach each fabric panel before you could dump them separately’ Laughs my wife as I tell the tale. ‘Maybe he just realised you were an estate agent, saw the sticker in the car window.'

‘I took that out.’ I tell her grumpily.

‘Probably just as well.’ She says giggling. ‘Nobody loves an estate agent - oh, apart from me.’ She adds hurriedly, and not entirely convincingly.

‘It’s not funny.’ I snipe. ‘They were even checking the green bags to see what sort of cuttings I was ditching.’

‘You’ll know what do to tomorrow then.’ She says slyly. ‘There’s two more big bags of garden waste to go.’

There’s a queue right out to the road on Sunday and I can feel my temperature rising. After ten minutes of gridlock I decide to sweep into a space outside the gates and walk the bags in.

‘No mate.’ Calls an angry voice as I unload. Well he’s wrong already, I’m no mate of his.

‘Can’t do that,’ says the SS trainee. ‘Got to drive in.’

‘You’re not serious?’ I spit back angrily. And the jobsworth points to a camera on a pole. ‘We’re watching you. Evidence.’

After the event, I think of a vitriol-laced diatribe demanding if I now have to sort deciduous, from evergreen before using the appropriate garden waste bin. But in actuality, I do a three-point turn and rejoin the queue. At the back.

You can see why people fly-tip.

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Fly Me To The Moon - Friday

‘Much happening?’ I ask trainee F, as I return to the office. It’s a double-edged question. I want the good news, but there’s an equal amount of unwanted tidings in property. The worst being a sale falling through. I’m guessing on-line agents aren’t that bothered if a deal collapses as they get paid irrespective of result. But the traditional, full-service-agent, gets diddly-squat, nada, zip, if a sale doesn’t proceed to completion.

‘Drone salesman called in to see you.’ Announces F, with a soppy smile.

‘What was he selling?’ I ask frowning.

‘I told you.’

‘You told me he was boring, and talked too much.’ I answer shirtily. ‘But then I’ve said before, selling isn’t telling. You remember the two ears, one mouth rule?’

F looks at me bemused. He has the attention span of a cerebrally-challenged goldfish, so I realise he may not remember the old sales’ adage that you must listen twice as much as you speak. As ever negotiator S comes to the rescue.

‘He meant a salesman that sells drones. Those hovering things that you mount a camera on.’ She enlightens, gently.

Now I realise it’s me who is the fool, it’s not a new phenomenon but it smarts every time.

‘You told him I’m not interested.’ I say to F.

‘Not exactly…..’

‘Tell me he’s not coming back?’ I ask groaning.

‘Well he was in town anyway, seeing one of our competitors.’

‘He wasn’t.’

‘He said he was.’

‘How many times, have I told you?’ I demand wearily. ‘Don’t believe most of what a salesman tells you. He’s on commission.’

Reprimand issued, mostly to cover my embarrassment at misunderstanding a drone salesman, I head for the message book to see what fresh hell has been inked in there for me. The salesman is, having a coffee, somewhere up the high street and will be back shortly. The truth is I can’t make purchasing decisions any more. It’s all been re-allocated to head office, where some jobsworth constantly renegotiates our supplier contracts, presumably for free lunches and crap branded pens that break in your pocket and leak ink over your suit. Invariably, we end up with a more complicated purchasing system and a national supplier who is half as efficient as the local business that preceded them, was.

‘I think it would be great.’ Says F gushingly, as I return to a spare desk and nurse a cup of tea, no sugar - I’m on a diet again.

‘Don’t you need a special licence to fly them?’ I ask flatly. ‘To stop people taking out an Airbus on final approach.’

‘They take the footage for you, I think.’ Says F. ‘Or maybe there’s a training course?’

Terrific. Another patronising teacher who tells because they can’t sell, is all I need. And sending F, as the youngest, supposedly most tech-savvy staff member isn't going to work. He still hasn’t mastered the colour printer. The clown causes more jams than a broken-down lorry on the by-pass.

Many of these, drop-in as they are passing salesman, have vanished as more and more business is awarded centrally. Others have died a death, as their product suffers the law of Darwin, rendering them extinct. Time was, I was plagued by map salesman trying to flog you overpriced handouts for lost punters, which they’d lifted - sometimes with dubious legality - from a Ordnance survey sheet. If you showed interest, they wanted names and numbers of all your local business contacts, to try and flog them advertising space in the margins of the expensive street plan. Google maps finished that, thankfully.

‘Why would I want aerial views of half the shite-holes we are trying to flog?’ I ask sourly. ‘It’s not going to help unload an ex-council house someone bought at a knock-down price with right-to-buy, by showing they have a load of spent white goods in the back garden and haven't cut the lawn for three months.’ 

Then in he comes, with a bad suit, sickly grin and an over-sized briefcase.

‘Have I got something you are really going to want.’ He begins gushingly.

You haven’t.

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