JANET and I love to recycle, but we can’t quite agree on which items are most important in the process.
She’s a traditionalist who diligently deposits plastic, paper, glass, garden waste, etc, in the appropriate bins. Furthermore, she gets a terrific buzz out of cleaning up the environment around Wombwell Lane.
Me? I’m always too busy to pick up other people’s garbage. Janet says, “Look how pleasant the weather is. Let’s walk on the Pennine Trail and blow a few cobwebs away.” “Sounds good” I reply, slipping on my hoodie against the slight autumn chill.
Then I realise I’ve been literally hoodwinked because once I’m togged up and in the yard, she opens the garden shed and gets out the litter-picker and some large purple bags. “I thought we were going for a walk?” “We are. It’s a litter-picking walk,” she announces.
“That’s unfair.” “Would you have come if I’d mentioned litter-picking?” “Probably not.” “I rest my case” she says, and pretends to lower an imaginary suitcase to the floor. I once tried to work out how much rubbish Janet had recycled over the past ten years. At one full bag per day, seven days a week, it came to... a heck of a lot. And I’m only too pleased to give her a well-deserved pat on the back. I, on the other hand, get much more excited when I see old cars restored or popular songs improved, or even great anecdotes remodelled and retold.
Example: It’s December 1961 and the Russian - Yuri Gagarin – has become world famous by being the first human in space. The TV pundits tell us this might, one day, lead to a man walking on the moon. As if! This evening, my parents have organised a Xmas party at our house, for us and the Wainwright family – Uncle Selwyn, Auntie Rene and our younger cousins, Pete and Paul. After having lots of fun, it’s late and all of us kids are sent to bed.
Our Pete and Paul sleep, temporarily, on a mattress in my parents’ bedroom. My nine-year-old sister, Pauline and I, are in the back bedroom in two separate divans. The Wainwright kids are fast on, but my sister and I are fighting over who should have Dad’s greatcoat as an extra blanket.
Pauline’s a couple of years older than me, so frequently wins in a fight. I shout at the top of my voice, “Mam! Mam! Our Pauline’s pinched t’greatcoat off my bed.” Mam races upstairs and I can tell she’s very cross. “For goodness sake! Stop showing us up, will you? We don’t want your auntie and uncle knowing we use a greatcoat instead of proper blankets.
They’ll think we’re peasants. This better not happen again but if it does, just shout that blanket’s fallen off t’bed, or summat.” I spread the greatcoat back on my divan, but soon my sister and I are playing tug-of-war with it, once again. Then disaster! The ageing coat is torn into two parts! I go to the top of the stairs and shout, “Mam! mam!” “What’s wrong now?” “It’s our Pauline, mam. She’s pulled t’sleeve off t’blanket!” There’s a case for recycling good tales, as well as domestic refuse…
