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| My Bed by Tracey Emin. From Wikipedia |
It was rubbish, but – annoying! the sort of rubbish that wouldn’t sell. As every Forsyte knows, rubbish that sells is not rubbish at all – far from it.
John Galsworthy - The Forsyte Saga
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| My Bed by Tracey Emin. From Wikipedia |
2 comments:
I make frequent trips to our local tip (or "Household Waste Recycling Centre") because the local authority only collect bins every fortnight now.
We patrons are frequently met by pleasant Roma gentlemen who want to go through the black plastic rubbish sacks before they are hefted over the parapet into the bunker below. And why not? It's recycling, isn't it?
Last year, I tried to explain to one persistent chap that there was unlikely to be anything of interest in the bag I was ready to throw. Used cat litter, disposable nappies, and food waste, etc. But he's the expert, and a big muscular one at that, barring my way. So I handed it over and watched him rip it open for a good rummage.
His comment as he kicked it aside was "That's a load of fuckin' rubbish, mate!".
SV - I had a similar experience with a rug with too much cat piss in it to be worth salvaging. But the guy at the tip insisted in taking it off to wherever they deal with such problems.
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