Middle Class Problems: Our recycling reveals to all and sundry what we've eaten, drunk, and plain had enough of

Must the neighbours know that while we adored the organic salad they brought around, we sullied it with an extra-large pizza of dubious provenance?

We have a song for Monday night at home. To be fair, I have a song for Monday night. Really it's less a song, more a refrain. "Bin Night, yes, it's Bin Night, oh Bin Night," in a loop. Somehow, it makes gathering the rubbish from around the house less dull.

But Tuesday morning is not only the time for refuse collection. It's also the time at which the recycling to be picked up. I do not have a song for this.

Why? It's not just that "recycling" falls less easily into the rhythm of a ditty. It's that recycling is not something I have to gather – it's something that we place in the green box, which sits in our vestibule, throughout the week. Diligent, we are, in saving the Earth. Diligent and, also, mildly embarrassed.

Embarrassed because unlike the bin bags (black, industrial strength, tied at the top), our recycling sits there, once the lid has invariably blown off/been set askew by the crows, and brazenly reveals to all and sundry what we've eaten, drunk, bought and plain had enough of.

Must the neighbours know that while we adored the organic salad they brought around, we sullied it with an extra-large pizza of dubious provenance (ie not Waitrose)? Must local friends be made aware that we still order goods from companies that don't pay their share of tax, even if we tut at their name in public? Does the personal trainer who lives two doors down really have to know how much booze we down?

This is the price we must pay, I tell myself, and hurriedly cover the lot with newspapers, hoping that they won't fly away.

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