It is madness (I have decided) to have a 50 litre cylinder of rotting rubbish sitting in our kitchen. STUPID BIN. There I said. No flowery lead-in today, just hard facts. I am a man on a mission. The bin stinks. It gets in my way. My foolish children drum on it INCESSANTLY and I am the only one who cleans it. And so, it has come to pass that I have made the decision to do away with the kitchen bin. I am man, hear me roar. I am very popular.
In all honesty, the main reason for binning the bin, is my genuine concern for my wife’s health – just to be serious for a moment. It appears as though, and I write this with a tear in my eye, that my wife is having violent seizures whenever she attempts to put anything in the bin. Teabags in particular. Admittedly, I have never seen this happen first hand and from what it seems, wifey has no recollections of anything untoward. (I suspect blackouts on her part). The only evidence of these ‘episodes’ actually taking place, is the shower of ****** tea splatter and general foodstuffs that adorn my kitchen walls. If you frequented my kitchen at your leisure, you would be forgiven for thinking a Tesco Metro had exploded in there.
A different kind of bin.
And so in a bid to cater for my wife’s epilepsy we now have two 5 litre, smart, cleanable plastic containers (like these) on the work surface by the sink that are emptied into the outdoor bin at the bottom of the garden. AND, they are lined with used carrier bags, so I am an Environmentalist as WELL as an Innovator.
Voila! We have gained space in the kitchen, the stains on my walls are days old (i.e there are no new ones) and the ‘bins’ are now emptied on a daily basis rather then every few days, so it is much more hygienic. Result.
I say they are emptied ‘daily’ – with a family of four we actually have to empty the ‘bins’ on average up to 140 times a day, but this is a small price for my wife to pay with two children whilst I am at work all day. I assume that she is pleased to have the opportunity to exercise? The only downside I have found thus far is that when I am at home, I have to answer the telephone A LOT on her behalf and have this conversation with people that I really don’t wish to talk to.
Me: “Can she call you back, she’s at the bottom of the garden?”
Them: “It’s pitch black and raining?”
Me: “I’ll tell her you called”.
Now when concocting this genius idea, of course my intention was not to set my wife on an endless trajectory to the bottom of the garden and back. I am not a monster, just a super hygienic helpful person. I even spoke these very reassuring words.
Me: “Leave any full bags by the back door and I’ll take them down when I get home from work”
Her: *look of incredulity*
*It transpires that were my suggested method of emptying to take effect, by the time I got home from work the back door would be inaccessible due to a festering mountain of part digested food and dirty nappies. The cat would be (by my design) unable to access his flap due to vast stockpiles of bleurgh that had been either in or through my children. To avoid a visit from Environmental Health therefore, Wifey must don my trainers and trudge. Hourly she would have you believe. I may install a pedometer. The number of steps there and back is 24. I could calculate her honesty.
The bin man.
So in a bid to appease my wife (and stop her squashing down the back of my trainers when she wears them like clogs to make her pilgrimage – LAZY) I empty the binnettes as frequently as is humanly possible when I am in residence. Sometimes I even empty them before they need emptying, just to make sure that were I to drop down dead unexpectedly, from say a lump hammer to the back of the head, or a bread knife rammed up my jacksie when I was bent over tutting at the state of the back of my trainers, Wifey would not have to worry about emptying the bins – for at least half an hour.
This valiant effort on my part though has backfired slightly, resulting in me being forever relived of bin emptying duties. (!) You really couldn’t make this up. Yesterday I embarked on The Journey (as it is now referred to in our house) watched lovingly by my wife from the kitchen window. As I neared the half way mark, my foot slipped on a particularly mossy paving stone and I ended up on my backside, after my own personal rendition of the opening credits of a Harold Lloyd film. Surrounded by a scattering of rubbish I sat rubbing my bottom, as my wife came tearing down the garden to ensure I was okay. I was fine. I am fine.
Upshot is though, Wifey was SO terrified at the mere thought of me on crutches for 4 months again (after laying down my crutches but weeks ago) that I have been banned from the garden. Banned from The Journey. I have been set free.
Bin towers are the future.
If the worst comes to the worst and there is a revolt of some sort, I may buy a third or even a fourth binette and devise some sort of intricate and complex system of stacking, swapping and switching, to lessen the frequency of The Journey. We will see. I am a practical man. A problem solver.
So friends, this post ends with me having a cleaner kitchen; more floor space; no more incessant bin drumming; cleaner walls and a wife who I hardly see, but who has the walking legs of donkey. I think my work here is done for today.
Peace and Love.
N.B. – Check out this Top 10 list of Blogs to watch in 2013 – Guy at the top looks like a mover and a shaker huh?
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