My dirty little secret? I sneak my rubbish into my neighbours’ bins
My heart leaps as I catch sight of it on the other side of the road. there, just a few steps from my house, is my idea of nirvana — a just-emptied wheelie bin. I furtively walk towards it, checking left then right, trying to be nonchalant, not wanting to seem overly excited for fear a neighbour may notice.
I adopt a disinterested look as I peer inside, imagining all the glorious ways in which it could be filled — the broken trellis at the back of the garden, the cracked plant pots, the old paddling pool gathering mould, the ancient television crammed into my bedroom wardrobe . . .
after darkness falls and the children are in bed, I keep going to the front window to check the bin hasn’t been moved and that it’s not just a figment of my wild imagination. Noticing my jack-in-the-box jitteriness, my husband Colin asks what is going on.
I lower my voice. ‘there’s an empty bin,’ I say. ‘Out there.’
he rolls his eyes and starts shaking his head. ‘No, Lauren, you can’t do it. Just leave it alone.’ ‘But all our stuff . . .’ he fixes me with a stern glare. I go upstairs and bury myself under the duvet, knowing he is right.
you see, I am obsessed with bin space. Some people covet friends’ wives or cars. I covet room in their wheelie bins.
My North London council picks up general waste once a fortnight, recycling and food once a week — but it just isn’t enough.
I could order another bin as some of my neighbours have done, but there’s barely enough space at the front of my house as it is. I want the entrance to my home to be warm and welcoming, not an industrial eyesore.
So by the time collection day arrives, my bin is spilling over. ONCe, I came home after the school drop- off to discover the entire street had been emptied of rubbish but my bin was still full. after a couple of paracetamol and a lie down, I phoned the council, who informed me that bins deemed to be overstuffed may not be emptied.
I had to store the excess rubbish in my garden, where the resident mice, rats and foxes had a ball until the next collection.
to say it was a traumatic time is an understatement.
Still, I know that stuffing another person’s bin with my rubbish is just as wrong — morally and legally — as leaving it in a park or by the side of the road. and I must resist, however much I long to do so. But I have a confession to make . . .
at the start of the year, after a house renovation that left my hallway overflowing with broken toys, empty paint cans and goodness knows what from the shed, I called my friend Natalie, who lives around the corner. ‘I have a huge request,’ I said hesitantly. ‘Sure, fire away,’ she said. ‘ Can I dump some stuff in your bin?’
She clammed up immediately, her tone quickly becoming efficient, dismissive.
‘er, no, sorry. I’m always decluttering and it’s full.’ and she put the phone down.
For days, that detritus in the hallway taunted me; scraping my ankle as I brushed past it, and once even causing me to trip and smash my nose into the letterbox. eventually, in the dead of night, I decided to take matters in my own hands.
I grabbed as many bags as would fit under my arms and scampered up the street, dumping the lot in the two roomy bins of a house a few doors up, then dashing back home, heart hammering loudly.
the next day I waited for the inevitable repercussion; a banging on the door or furious drill of the doorbell. But nothing came. I’d got away with it. Buoyed by my success, I started to gain courage.
In late March, after hosting a friend’s birthday dinner with eight of my closest friends and my son’s footballthemed birthday party in the same week, I accumulated three extra bin bags filled with celebratory refuse at a time when my bin was already bursting.
at ten o’clock the night before our street’s collection day, I roamed up and down the road, trying to look casual as I soundlessly lifted my neighbours’ bin- lids to see who could easily absorb a bag or three, mentally noting the house numbers of the ones with most room. I waited until close to midnight, when I judged my hard-working neighbours were probably asleep, to do the drop.
I had picked two houses opposite each other at the top of the road, figuring a double strike in close proximity would work better than dragging bin bags from one end of the street to the other. I worked quietly, efficiently, only allowing myself to breathe properly when I was safely back inside my home. and I have to admit — I have done this twice since. Once, when the roof of our shed collapsed after the heavy rainfall this summer and we had to clear a few years’ worth of unsalvageable children’s toys.
and again just two weeks ago, when I had family staying for the weekend and cooked up a storm, accumulating two extra bags of refuse to prove it. So far, I have stuck to my own street and always picked a house with two general waste bins, hoping that, with all that extra space, they won’t hold it against me.
I know I could take my stuff to the tip — there is a recycling centre a 20-minute drive away, but what with the huge queues and the difficulty of getting bulky, often smelly items into my small car. I haven’t yet worked up the energy to go. I’m not alone, either.
Fly-tipping — illegally dumping rubbish — has increased by 20 per cent in the past year, according to a house of Commons report, and now costs local authorities £45.2 million a year.
It is an arrestable offence with a £50,000 maximum fine or five years’ imprisonment, but on days when I can no longer tolerate the sight of the mattress with the spring loose propped up against the wall in the spare room, I think I might be willing to take the risk.
the increase is largely blamed on people moving home more frequently — official figures show 2.6 million households moved last year — and consumer goods becoming cheaper.
No doubt popular tV programmes such as Get your house In Order, Obsessive Compulsive Cleaners and Britain’s Biggest hoarders have played their part, too, by encouraging people to start decluttering. But while the tV production companies have big budgets and big vans that make excess stuff miraculously disappear, in real life your options are more limited.
Certainly, in my urban neighbourhood, which is slowly but surely becoming gentrified, you can’t move for scaffolding and builders’ vans — and along with them, discarded mattresses, baby seats and worn-out sofas.
Once, I even happened upon a breast pump dumped under a tree; try explaining that to a curious eight-year-old.
But such household dumping is difficult to prosecute, with flytippers often working at night. Councils are gradually stepping up their game with CCtV and hidden cameras, some of which use night-vision technology to trap culprits.
the Commons report also advises councils to work with charities who may be willing to collect discarded items free of charge, and encourages retailers of new household goods to dispose of old items as a matter of course for a minimal charge, such as £5.
that’s all well and good if your rubbish is an old dishwasher, not so great if it’s a dozen cracked plant pots or remnants of a garden fence knocked down by the force of two budding footballers.
So my rubbish problem remains. and that bin is still out there. I’m sure no one will notice a teeny weeny mouldy paddling pool, don’t you agree?