We’re one of those houses.
You know, the ones that have the garden waste bin so we don’t have to go to the tip with buckets of tree bits or, more realistically, stack up buckets of tree bits in the shed for four months and then begrudgingly go to the tip.
It’s been a great addition for us, and for next door and her rigorous lawn mowing schedule. We’ve been a lot more active in the garden because the ballache of going to the tip has been removed.
But I’ve found a downside to it. A black fly, as Alanis would warble, in the chardony of the bin’s existence.
That being, simply, November.
It’s the last collection of the year on Thursday. I’m happy to not even bother. But bother we must because there’s an inch or so of grass at the bottom, festering away. A leftover gift from mrs next door who still gathers her grass into bags for a bit before bringing them to our bin for disposal. I’m also semi-convinced she rinses her grass in as well because then bin is always a lot heavier than you’d think it would be for grass.
So it needs to go out. But realky, more stuff needs to go in – and be stirred up a bit – to stand a chance of dislodging the majority of this rotting lawn waste.
Which means I need to cut back some stuff. I know what – some trees that grow like weeds on a bit of owned but essentiakky waste ground. The frost won’t even kill them when I’ve done it.
The only problem is it’s too bloody cold to be voluntarily outside gnawing away at wood with clippers. Resenting every non-warm snip, throwing shade at every overgrown git of a branch.
Guess what I’ve got in store for me tomorrow…