Every so often the demands of life get so overwhelming that the most basic and necessary function of a Monday night gets overlooked. And then we’re glad we sleep in the front room because the sound of the truck “BRRRRRRRR SCREETCH BEEP-BEEP-BEEP CRUNCH CRUNCH CRUNCH” (Thank you Steve Light, ‘Trucks Go’) wakes us up with a jolt of most alarming recognition and we do a quick calculation and a fast, very fast game of thumb wars to determine who between us will have to do the GARBAGE BIN DASH OF SHAME. Which involves, anywhere between 5 and 7am, leaving the house in pyjamas and gumboots to wheel the noisy, neighbour-alerting garbage bin across concrete driveway smattered with random piles of gravel left from the last big unfinished project, CRUNCH, across the street and up the kerb on the other side, ROAR CRUNCH LOOK AT THIS IDIOT CLANK CRUNCH ROAR, and then, the wait.
Listening hard for the return of the truck, the pyjama’d ninny enjoys the morning. Makes a show, in case anyone is watching, of the shameless, totally intended morning stroll, I don’t care what I’m wearing, I like my pink polka dotted pyjama pants, even if I hadn’t forgotten the bins I would probably be out here anyway enjoying the fragrance of pre-sun environs, the charming fresh-aired *breathe deepy* chill, the dew-kissed ground covering and the droplet-laden greenery. Oh glorious nature. Hold head high, enjoy enjoy. Truck comes, empties bin, and then, THE RETURN DASH, more shameful still for the fact that the neighbours, alerted by all the kerfuffle, are standing at their windows pointing, laughing, and WARM. Because it’s fricken cold outside, the grass is wet, the trees are soggy, the air hurts to breathe and the empty bin is goddam loud pulling back over the street, back to the warmth, safety, and MARKED building called home.
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