This week it is the rubbish collectors who are on strike.
Striking about pay, more I presume, or less hours, or more hours, or more benefits, or less government interference, or something like that.
So, as a result, the rubbish has piled up, the wheelie bins are filled and it has pilled up around them, the mountain growing bigger and bigger until it has engulfed the bins themselves, hiding them under this stinking mound of waist.
And then the wind came, blowing down off the Alps, it picked up the waiting rubbish and scattered it, all over the streets, the pavements, in shop doors, everywhere until the city is covered in this disgusting confetti.
Suddenly, you become hyper aware of what you though out, how much and how it, very quickly adds up. All that in just two weeks, how much in a month, a year, how much waist does someone produce in a lifetime? And where does it go?
I look at some of the stuff lying on the street. It is surprising what people throw out, toys, clothes, bags of pasta, rubbish or treasure, it really depends.
Couldn’t some of that be recycled, the paper and cardboard? Should we not compost our potato peelings and apple cores? Surly there must be a second use for that mound of plastic packaging that makes up most of my rubbish after I have separated out everything else. We need a solution and we need it fast before we drown under all this waist.
Would it be all allowed today if it had just been invented?