These are strange times and my thoughts have turned to my bin. All things bin related.
We have two bin’s, black (general waste) and blue (recyclable waste, plastics, paper etc). These are emptied by the local council refuse collection department. They collect alternately between the two bins each week.
My sense of smell does not work very well. It’s been a bit of an advantage over the years. I’ve not smelt some homes I’ve had to visit to work in. It is quite shocking the state some people live in.
It’s also a disadvantage, I’ve eaten some things that I’m sure should have been transferred from the fridge to the bin, without a stop past my frying pan on the way. I heard some one say “left overs are what you collect up after a meal. Stick them into plastic containers. Put them in the fridge. Leave them for a couple of days and then put them in the bin.”
I have considered that if it does not have furry spots on it, it must be ok!
There’s also the vegetable tray. Not a place I visit often. Although it has been known for vegetables to come there to die. In fact my relationship with vegetables is so bad I struggled to get rid of the red wiggly line under the word that told me I was spelling it wrong.
Before lockdown my parents would visit, especially if I was working away, they would check on the house. Dad confessed to me “sometimes if we come in and smell anything bad, we check the cupboard next to the fridge. We also go through your fridge throwing out anything that’s passed its best buy date. That’s why you have nothing left in it!”
It seems the greatest offender is potatoe’s. I knock the sprouting bits off and then peel them. The Jury seems to be out on wether this is acceptable or not. I could buy loose potatoes but buying two spuds seems a waste and nearly as expensive as a bag, and a bag is too much for a guy who prefers rice.
I’m not sure if I have a sensitive stomach but I have had to have a few days off due to an upset stomach. I should consider wether it is a result of my food selection choices. Or maybe subconsciously I’m trying to kill myself with my cooking.
It could explain why my bin smells so bad. Even when emptied it smells like there is a rotting corpse inside it. I can smell it! So it must be bad at times. Summer provides a particularly fruity selection of odours.
In my defence I have purchased a tin of Jayes Fluid. I do quite like the pungent smell of this. I can smell that. I’ve tipped out the prevailing inch of water that seems to be permanently in the bottom of the bin, along with those items that stick to the bottom of the bin. Just out of reach when you hang over the edge trying to re-bag into refuse sacks. I’ve grappled with all sorts of implements to scrape these off, from cereal boxes to jets of water from the hose. I don’t know how it sticks like it does but maybe the ministry of defence should investigate for a military grade adhesive.
Anyway! Bin scrubbed and dosed with fluid I now have a visibly clean bin that smells of Jayes with just a background hint of rotting corpse.
My old man’s a dustman (Lonnie Donegan).
Lonnie Donegan was born in Glasgow Scotland and called the king of the skiffle. Skiffle is a mash of folk, Jazz, and blues, with a dash of inventiveness. It’s said the Beatles were a skiffle band to start.
I remember sing this as a kid and always singing. “My old man’s a dust bin.”
Much to the amusement of aunts and uncles.
The song made number one in Spring of 1960. Apparently there was a song sung in World War 1, by the troops. It was called “My father was a fireman.”
Both song enjoy the reference to “gorblimey trousers”. I have it on good authority that it’s Cockney for God blind me. Folk would use contractions of words instead of swearing. To use the lords name in vain was a contravention of the third commandment.
I heard this playing as background music on a coach trip a couple of years ago. I’d forgotten about the jokes in the song (especially the one about the police dog) in my corner seat on the back row of the coach I sat back and smiled at the memory of the song. I quietly sung “my old man’s a dustbin.”