Trip to the tip is just the ticket
The calming aura of the rubbish tip exerted a strangely tranquillising influence and I trudged home in an inexplicable good humour, which rapidly disappeared during England’s battering at the hands of Ireland in the rugby
NOW there are people whose sense of spiritual wellbeing can only be enhanced by a lengthy yogic retreat in some desolate mountain-top location but, personally, I find a trip to the local rubbish tip a refreshing, and less complicated, mental pick-me-up. I suppose the psychologists would maintain that it is something to do with the sense of order that comes from a bout of de-cluttering your home and getting rid of stuff that has been gathering dust languishing in cupboards under the stairs or rotting in the garden because it won’t fit into a black bin bag. It certainly appeals to that male trait of needing to see some kind of instant result from a long-overdue chore. My pilgrimage at the weekend to seek nourishment for the soul and, at the same time, get rid of a rather grubby computer chair, a broken lawnmower and some interesting bags of garden waste that appeared to be spawning new species of insects did, however, begin rather badly. Getting all this stuff into my car took rather longer than expected and I ended up arriving only to find the gates being pulled shut and an officious man in a highvisibility vest (but, sadly, no clipboard) taking a rather suspicious pleasure in telling me that as I had come six minutes after closing time, I wouldn’t be let in.
Personally, I put this zealous adherence to the rules down to the fact that instead of rubbish tips, we now have “civic amenity sites,” an entirely meaningless bureaucratic title. When did you ever hear anyone say: “Goodness, we must get rid of those civic amenities in the garden?” In other circumstances, I might have embarked on a lengthy rant about council bureaucracy. But the calming aura of the rubbish tip exerted a strangely tranquillising influence and I trudged home in an inexplicable good humour, which rapidly disappeared during England’s battering at the hands of Ireland in the rugby. On Sunday, with the car enveloped in a pungent aroma of rotting plant cuttings, I returned well before closing time for my cathartic spring clean. I’m not sure why clambering up steps to throw stuff into massive skips is such a gratifying experience whereas putting the weekly rubbish out is a chore. Perhaps it is better that it remains an unexplained phenomenon; if we knew why, it would probably lose its appeal. But if you’re feeling a bit down, a trip to the tip is guaranteed to put a spring in your step. Just make sure you know what time it closes.