My dearest readers, it is with great regret that I find myself writing the last blog post for what may be a very long time. That’s right, I’ve sinned and there’s a distinct possibility that I may be arrested and carted off to the nearest prison.
What have I done?
Why, I failed to adequately sort my recyclable garbage from my general household waste of course. Yep, and my refuse collector, technicians, or 
should that be Gestapo Officers? Anyway, they refused to take away the contents of my beautiful wheelie bins because I failed to declare, or, more specifically, failed to empty the contents of my black bin bags into them which I now know is tantamount to refusing to declare at border control. After all, I may well be trying to conceal spent plutonium rods in my black sacks.
So, I was tagged! that’s right, for my crime, my wheelie bins were orphaned, abandoned on the side of the road and slapped with two cardboard tags, each sporting angry black gashes in the relevant check box, informing my dumb ass what exactly I had to done to displease the garbage gods; my rubbish contained black refuse sacks!
I remember, as a child, spending some time with my aunty and cousins on their farm just a few miles outside a small village in the south of Italy. During that time I learned, not unlike something reminiscent of Ann Frank’s diary, that it paid to grease the palm of local authority from time with the odd chicken or lamb. Such blatant bribery wasn’t uncommon back then and most likely isn’t still now but little did I know that I may have to resort to the same practice just to get my bins emptied on a weekly basis, because the terror of being left with the fermenting fruits of my gluttonous existence to fester for an extra week is simply unbearable!
Okay, so maybe I’m trivialising a very serious issue (am I?) but come on, Draconian truck warriors, don’t you think you should lighten up just a tad? After all, you’d already branded those poor wheelie bins with your black mark. Surely it would have been much more community spirited if you’d left your mark , you know, a bit like Zorro, as a warning for next time but at least lifted the contents this time. No? Is it really going to take the odd sacrificial chicken every now and then?
I guess things could be worse, I could be a ‘subject’ of Darlington Borough Council whom have proudly decreed that they’ll slap a fine on any impudent who might put his or her rubbish out on the wrong day of the week or ‘too early’. That’s right, rubbish must be put out a maximum of 2 hours before collection on the day of collection. After all, nobody wants to see those ghastly wheelie bins for a few minutes longer than they need to, do they?
I guess those sheriffs are still smarting from the fact that, earlier this year, the government banned local councils from imposing fines, sometimes in excess of £1,000, on residents who unwittingly placed the wrong type of garbage in the wrong receptacle. The penalties were scrapped when it was found that they exceeded those imposed for shoplifting and other similar crimes. Blimey, there’s me thinking that local authorities wanted to be seen as ‘supportive’ and ‘encouraging’ of people to recycle correctly, I didn’t realise we paid them over a thousand pounds a year in council tax to bully us.
Welcome to the ‘binquisition’.
This new Orwellian state goes hand in hand with the ever growing number of CCTV on many street corners, or the prolific use of mobile devices. Now, it doesn’t matter where you are, there’s a distinct possibly that you’re being watched, either by a local authority sponsored eye in the sky, the lens of a stranger or even the back boring eyes of your neighbour as they consider that lid on your bin which is conspicuously pointing skywards, indicating, shock of all horrors, that you you’ve ‘overfilled’! That’s right, don’t even bother casually leaning against it in an effort to push the contents in, you know you’ve already tried to do that, and it’s too late anyway, your friendly neighbourhood ‘collaborator’ is already dialling the local authorities to report you before you even have a chance to wash your hands.
We all know the importance of recycling. God knows we’ve had it brain washed into us for years. And, there’s no doubt that, but for the few who have made it their life’s ambition to educate the rest of us ‘green ignoramuses’, we’d all now be wallowing in landfill. By the few, I’m also referring to those greens (yes you know who you are) who work tirelessly for the green cause by regularly visiting their neighbours and educating them on the importance of joining the green alliance and subtly pointing out to them that residence will be met with austere measures.
Sorry. The story just sounds so familiar and I keep veering towards it.
The reality is that our landfills are, well, full, the ozone layer is still, well, thin, although we don’t hear that much about it these days, I guess it has gone a bit out of fashion since there’s only so long you can bang on about ‘a hole’. Regardless, studies do show that 60% to 75% of garbage in landfills can be recycled. That means that if everybody recycled, we’d have 60% to 75% less garbage in them craters which means we’d need that much less land for garbage disposal. And when considered from that perspective most people will feel inclined to do something about it. But there are ways and ‘ways’ of getting people to join your cause. I’m not sure giving the refuse Gestapo unilateral powers not to do their job whilst imposing additional fines on bonifide tax payers is it.
But you can be the judge of that.
Happy recycling!
whole infrastructure is based on telephony services; they’re able to monitor the quality of all of our calls and, where necessary, take action. All calls are now routed through the cloud and automatically to our laptops or mobile phones. Moreover, with all the money we saved in changing our business practice and dispensing with our own infrastructure, I decided to splash out on some decent Bluetooth headsets which means we no longer have to sit at our laptops to take calls, we’re free to pace (much to my delight) around the room during lengthy telephone calls, and guess what, the quality is excellent.
make the event, I donned my costume (third time lucky, the first two did not fit!) and transformed myself into JonVolta who was clearly modelled on the famous John Travolta although, with wig, I ended up looking more like Elvis (in his worse and plumpier years).
Whilst there’s ‘some’ truth to that last statement, the above are just quirks of my character which ultimately define me, and I’m not alone. Each and everyone of us has, over time, developed a ritual or rituals of some form or another without evening knowing it. Be that a leg twitch or deriving pleasure from plucking one’s pubic hair. Yes, I did write ‘pubic’ and I did write ‘hair’. It seems that there are people out there who actually get a lot of pleasure from ‘plucking’ their pubic hair. Yep, I can almost see you creasing your face in disgust and perhaps even, self conciously, crossing your legs. Apparently a young, attractive ( because that’s relevant) 20 year old man from Sheffield enjoys nothing more than coming home after a hard day’s work and locking himself away in his ‘plucking room’ and hunting down those pesky hairs. And I dare say there are many more like him. Meanwhile, there’s an 18 year old Essex girl who absolutely can’t be without her dummy. Even when she’s out shopping, she has to lock herself in the changing rooms for a quick suck between credit card swipes. Apparently, it makes her feel really good and she sometimes finds herself jealous of passing babies in prams. Then there’s the woman who absolutely adores stale food with a particular partiality to turned up at the corners ‘crusty on top’ sandwiches, 3 day old orange juice (with a thin layer of dust), and tough as old boots Jaffa Cakes, there’s the man who collected belly button fluff and and I’m not even going to linger on the woman who loves to squeeze spots so much, her dream is to be locked in a room with a group of pubescent teenagers. Now that does sound wrong on many levels!
If you have OCD, seeking help is the most important thing you can do. Left untreated, the symptoms of OCD may not improve. In some cases they will get worse. Without treatment, nearly half of people with OCD still have symptoms 30 years later. OCD can be treated with psychotherapy (known as Cognitive Behavioural Therapy) and medication, such as antidepressants and the outlook is quite good. Some people achieve a complete cure, and even where a cure is not achievable, treatment can equal a reduction in the symptoms equalling a far better quality of life. E.g. not spending the best part of the day thinking about the obsessions and feeding the compulsion.
