The Green Bin
This is about losing the plot, and later will involve a big lorry
One day I was just completely sick of it, so I went outside and got into the green bin.
Round my way it’s brown for bottles, blue for cardboard and black for plastics. The green bin is for biodegradable waste, and so that’s where I put myself.
With the lid shut, sitting on a spongy cushion of grass cuttings with my knees to my chest, I squeezed my phone from my pocket and thumbed my way to the council’s website, searching for the list of ‘things that can go in your green wheelie bin’.
Garden trimmings, fruit and vegetable peel, meat including bone…
I should be fine, I reasoned.
The short list of ‘things that cannot go in your bin’ included only soil, which I am not, and branches ‘larger than 10cm in diameter, or thicker than your wrist’.
It said nothing about actual human wrists, or the size thereof.
Nothing about ankles or thighs, or heads; and nothing about my innards – my lungs and pancreas, and the miles of blue, pink and white wires that I have, and all the other wet mush that’s packed in between that’s also me.
And certainly nothing about my soul, and what I should hope to do with that.
At the bottom of the list was offal, which I thought would probably cover all of the above, but not wanting to inconvenience anybody at the recycling plant I pressed the link to contact the help desk, and waited patiently on my shredded lawn as the sound of a reedy, on-hold clarinet echoed around the dark, narrow space.
Are you going to Scarborough Fair? Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme…
“Hello. You’re through to Stockport Metropolitan Borough Council Recycling Centre. This is Kelly speaking.”
“Hi, Kelly!” I said. “I was just wondering, can I put a body in my green bin?”
In the silence that followed, I pictured a young woman sitting at a white desk wearing a polo shirt the same colour teal as the masthead of the website, with the council crest stitched in white thread on the chest.
“Erm, sorry but is that a joke?”
A lanyard round her neck with a staff ID card.
“Nope.”
Dark hair, possibly.
“Do you mean a human body – like, a person?”
I assumed that she’d heard it all before, and wouldn’t have time for nonsense.
“Yes, that’s correct,” I replied. “A human person.”
There was a shuffling of paper and the click of a tongue.
“Yeah, no you can’t do that.”
Now it was my turn to be quiet.
“Sir, are you saying that you’ve actually…”
She trailed off, unwilling to say it out loud, or to find out.
“Oh god, no,” I exclaimed, suddenly understanding her unease. “I’m so sorry, I should’ve said!”
She laughed, relieved.
“I meant for me. Can I dispose of my own body that way?”
She stopped laughing.
“Because, I was thinking like, maybe under meat and bone that might be ok?” I continued, hopefully. “Do you think that might be…”
“Erm, no.” she interrupted. “No, that’s absolutely not okay.”
“Okay, see I’m glad I called,” I said. “It’s just, that’s not actually clear from your website.”
Two clicks of the tongue.
“Well, what’s on the website is based on a series of reasonable assumptions around the kinds of things people might think to recycle. So, it’s no surprise that…”
“I’m sorry but is there maybe someone else I can speak to?” I asked, sensing her hostility. “It feels like we’re not really getting anywhere.”
Another tongue click, and then her voice brightened.
“Sure, okay. There’s a colleague of mine, Andy…”
“Great!”
“…it’s normally his job to peel labels off tin cans that…”
“Oh.”
“…”
“……”
“But no, I’m sorry sir, there’s nobody who will give you a different answer.”
“Okay, well…”
I’d already decided I was going to stay in the bin, I just needed to end the call as quickly as possible.
“Thanks, Kelly.” I said. “You’ve been…”
“Are you telling me you’re actually sitting in your green bin now?” she cut in.
I flushed, and could for the first time hear the hum of other voices in the background of the call, and what sounded like laughter.
“Erm, no, no. I’m calling from…”
“Because, you do sound very echoey.”
There was definitely laughter.
“Sir,” Kelly said, more gently. “Please could you tell me where you are, sir?”
“I’m not going to do that, sorry,” I said, more quietly, aware now of the depth and sound of my voice, amplified and sonorous, and silly, like I were speaking through a traffic cone.
“Do you live in the Stockport area, sir?” Kelly continued. “Because we can send somebody out to you, just to talk…”
I ended the call.
My day hadn’t actually been that bad, so far as bad days go. Maybe on the whole it had been a bit nothingy, but that’s fine, right? That’s most days.