Life in the Wheelybin
Our computer seems to have Alzheimer's. It had trouble with a fan not cutting in, and whilst overheating it lost some of its faculties. Some days it's fine, some days it can't remember where it last put its spectacles. It certainly can't remember the time, so it looks like I do all my blogging / emailing at 4am. Next it will forget the name of the Prime Minister.
This is yet another glitch in the long line of electrical failures in our household. In the 16 years we have been married Richard and I have been through a staggering number of fridges, freezers, washing machines, irons, kettles and alarm clocks. We seem to carry an electrical Bermuda Triangle with us wherever we go.
The new Bristol rubbish collection scheme is taxing me, as well. Whilst I applaud the council for sorting out kerbside recycling collections, there are too many rules and regs for my liking. Food goes in the brown bin, but not garden waste. You have to pay extra for that. Cardboard will be collected, but only if it's loose - no tidying it into bags or boxes or they won't collect it. If it blows all over the road, however, they will pick it up. Wheelybins will be emptied fortnightly, and no sneaking extra bags on top of them. And plastic will be recycled, but only if you drive to a recycling centre with it.
So - our house is the one with the cloud of flies over the brown bin; the pile of garden waste awaiting transfer to the tip cos' we haven't room for a green wheelybin; and the mountain of cardboard, complete with eggboxes blowing down the street. And our car's the one with a bootful of plastic bottles.