A trip to the tip all boxed off – now where can I buy a hoe?
IT’S fair to say I’ve been inactive these last few months. Not that I was ever over-active before then, but sciatica, wheelchair and spinal surgery immobilised me completely. Whilst in recuperation I have attempted to avoid any activity of a strenuous nature. Particularly after I discovered I could fall over my own feet: once in the garden and twice on the stairs, fortunately on the ascent rather descent, so I only fell on my face rather than going bum over bosom out of the front door.
So I was nonplussed when my wife suggested we go on a trip. Except I misheard her. What she said was, go to the tip.
The idea formulated as she kicked seven bells out of a perfectly harmless cardboard box in the garden shed. Normally she wouldn’t kick anything with malice aforethought, but the box happened to be the last in an industrial stack of packaging in which online shopping had been delivered.
Because of lockdown, it had all been consigned to the shed which was now full to overflowing. There were enough boxes to build a reasonable facsimile of the pyramid of Giza. Anything at the far end of the shed could be dismissed as gifts for the afterlife as we had little chance of reaching them in this.
Among those unreacheable items were long abandoned gardening implements and Maria wanted a hoe to dig up weeds near the garden fence, which is why she had been kicking the box before saying: “It’s about time we took this lot to the tip.”
Which was not a bad idea and a bit of a day out. It was only cardboard and this was a trip that was justifiable in lockdown without having to drive 60 miles to test my eyesight.
Kirklees recycling centres had reopened and the Meltham facility was just over the hill.
I hadn’t taken into account how long and arduous it is to flatten a pyramid of boxes using scissors, a Stanley knife, brute strength and Maria jumping on them.
I pushed the rear seats of the car flat and we filled the back with packaging for everything from goalposts (child size) to TV (man size). All cavities had been utilised and there was still cardboard left in the shed. But we had made a start, like the prisoners in Stalag Luft 3 with Steve McQueen. The drive to Meltham recycling centre was pleasant, we followed the directions of strategically placed staff and eventually gained entrance.
The number of parking spaces had been reduced to allow social distancing and only one person from each vehicle was allowed to get out and dump it.
Maria said: “I’ll do it. I don’t want you damaging your back again.”
I like to think she was concerned for my welfare and not because I was a flaming nuisance when in a wheelchair, but I declined her offer. I had flattened the stuff and would dispose of it myself. The job was accomplished with only a slight strain in my back.
It may have been a small step on the road to recovery but, on the return journey, I had a sense of accomplishment at completing a job that entailed more than bashing the keys of a computer.
Back in the safety of our self-isolation, we
There were enough
boxes to build a reasonable facsimile of
the pyramid of Giza
carefully moved what was left of the pyramid in the shed, in search of garden implements.
Sadly there was no happy ending. As the last piece was lifted away, we saw a rusty spade, a fork with bent prongs and a pair of shears but no ho, ho, ho ending. No hoe at all, in fact.
Still, I’d enjoyed a pleasant trip out and when we do get a hoe, it will be from the Honley DIY shop, and not mail order.