They say there’s a fine line between sanity and madness. That line is gossamer thin. We're a cigarette paper away from losing it. It just takes a sequence of mini misfortunes. This week, I reached my limit. And, it’s as mundane as it is maddening: not one, but two missed bin collections.
Two weeks without a recycling pickup was enough to send me loop the loop. Up all night, jittering with anger and fear or confusing mix of both.
Besdies the almost immediate mental health side-effects, it is genuinely horrifying how quickly the evidence stacks up. The wine bottles alone made it look like I’d thrown a couple of hen dos. But no, thats just me on a normal week.
Week one was bad enough. The recycling was already full, and I had even more to put out because I’d hosted a Burns Night dinner. I’d kept back the whisky bottle and the Irn-Bru, telling myself it was fine. I only needed to wait a couple of days and I could add them once the bin had been emptied.
Then Monday came. Bin day. The best day of the week. As I leave for work before they come I had to wait a little bit longer.
Ashamedly, walking back home from my evening commute I was giddy at the thought of seeing an empty bin. It's the little things in life. And then my stomach sank. It was still there. Still stuffed. Still heaving. And worst than before.
After the first missed collection, I tried to be reasonable. I told myself it was a blip. Seven day of trying to keep it together, store what I can in garden, wait it out. By week two, I wasn’t taking any chances. I made sure the recycling was out on the road and not overflowing, I even held back the excess so there was no excuse to leave it behind.
And it still wasn’t taken. Thats when the flytippers caught wind of it. Like they could smell the sweet stale stench of rubbish collecting in the air. A pile started to build beside the bin. Bags of old clothes and a duvet. It spread out until it took over the pavement completely, turning the space outside my home into an obstacle course. Neighbours must have assumed it must be mine. That I was one of those people.
And that, it turns out, was my limit. It didn’t take a dramatic catastrophe. Just two missed collections.
Enough was enough. I fired off an email to the council, pleading for an explanation and, more importantly, an end to a situation that was rapidly spiralling. What next: an old sofa? Rats? Wombles?
Credit where it’s due, the problem was resolved quickly. It turns out neighbours had been putting recycling in bags rather than leaving it loose, which is why the crews didn’t collect it. But even so, a simple note on the bin explaining the issue would have done the job. It’s common practice, and it would have saved everyone a lot of hassle.
Sanity has been restored but I found my tipping point - a big green wheeliebin.
A Haringey Council spokesperson said: “The recycling wasn’t collected because the shared bin is contaminated.
“It’s council policy that the resident must remove non-recyclable items before collection to ensure the entire recycling vehicle isn’t contaminated too.
“We’ll also be reminding residents at all properties who share the bin about our waste and recycling services and how they can dispose of their rubbish safely, securely and successfully.”
