No sooner is the weekend over then it is Wednesday. Wednesday in these here parts is dustbin day and always a day tinged with danger and excitement.

You see, they empty my bins about one week in three. This is not due to some great ecologically sound practice on behalf of Plymouth City Council, this is because they just forget. My little home is tucked down in the corner of a quiet cul-de-sac at the bottom of 22 steps and well they bloody know it.

11 O’clock comes round and the road is full of noise, bustle and excitement. Now the sad bit.

For several months now, I have taken to opening the front door and bobbing up and down on my step, hands clasped behind my back, waiting until one of said trashbods sees me. This usually works and they nip down and grab my bags. I usually nod and say good morning. Indeed, if I had a cap, I would doff it.

After the third time I did this, a crushing realisation descended upon my broad shoulders. At the age of 37, I have skipped a generation and turned into my grandad.

Categories: Age
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