Like a glittering prize

Why isn’t recycling a competitive sport? Yes, I know we shouldn’t need external reward; we are supposed to be motivated solely by a warm self-righteous feeling. That used to work for me; I’d ostentatiously recycle the Guardian, secure in the belief that I was offsetting the hundreds of long-haul flights taken by politicians attending environment conferences in interesting places.
I’m so over that now. The thrill of putting out plastic Matey bubble-bath bottles for its own sake has dulled. Prizes would help reinvigorate the whole process, and create an upswing in the amount and quality of everyone’s recycling, and help save this whole goddamn planet of ours. I’d certainly not have chucked that hard-to-clean Nutella jar in the dustbin if there’d been points at stake.

I suspect that my idea will eventually lead to a major award, presented by David Attenborough. But I’m just going to focus for now on the recycling competition categories I think I’d do well in. Let’s start with those Matey bottles, the ones in the form of a sailor, pirate, or mermaid. Or the rarer parrot. Our house is the world’s archive for those bottles. I have probably singlehandedly made a whole fleet of politicians’ aeroplanes, if planes are made from recycled plastic, how would I know, out of Matey bottles. Yet I just looked in the bathroom and we still have fourteen. I will put them out this week.

I am also a dab hand at getting shot of important papers that look like rubbish. Was it Tolstoy whose maid used his manuscript for kindling? Or Samuel Johnson? I get those long-hand pen guys a bit muddled. But anyway, I am in that maid’s league. Members of my family are always saying, “Has anyone seen that phone bill/homework/decree nisi that I left on the table?” Then they have the cheek to complain as I quietly retrieve said document from the paper box. Only a few times has it been actively too late, the little Trumpton recycling truck being too far away to run after.

The big trophy, of course, will come for my natural talents in the cardboard category. “There’s no more room,” less serious competitors might say, on seeing a bag overflowing with cereal packets. They might even consider a supplementary bag – usually a plastic one from Waitrose, but sometimes a paper bag, as if that makes it better. They have already lost. Stand back, I will say. Let an expert through. One time, we missed a recycling collection, and nonetheless the following week I still managed to cram all the cardboard into the one bag. I squeezed toilet roll tubes into places the bag didn’t even know it had places. When I held the bag upside down and banged its bottom, nothing budged. I reckon that effort alone will make up for any UK politicians who are jetting off to the forthcoming climate change summit in New York.

Beth Miller. Published in Viva Lewes July 2014, and in vivalewes.com. Illustration by Michael Munday.

That's why they call me Second Hand Rose

Isn’t it lovely when the sun comes out? Instead of scurrying, head down under a plastic rain hat, oblivious to my surroundings, I can indulge in my favourite game: nosing in other people’s recycling.

Southover High Street is the best location for this sport. Every fortnight when the boxes come out, there’s a smile on my lips as I amble along, peering in all the gratifyingly open glass recycling bags. Ooh, that’s a really huge bottle of vodka: did it take them all year to finish or was it downed it in one wild blast of a night? And blimey, look at those cheeky little empty sauvignon blancs. Another party I wasn’t invited to.

Ah yes, Southover residents, you’ll think more carefully about making sure the jam jars are on top of the meths bottles in future, won’t you?

The paper and plastics boxes aren’t so intriguing, as they tend to be covered up and you’re not allowed to open them. That wouldn’t be a fun light-hearted amusement; that would be downright creepy, as the magistrate explained to me the other day. But it’s fair game when the weedy little lids get blown away by a breath of wind, as they so often do. Then you can have a good old squint at who’s been sneakily buying Hello! rather than reading it at the doctor’s like the rest of us.

You can even work out how they’ll react to you sniffing round their recycling boxes by the newspapers they’ve chucked out. Guardian: they’ll be cool about it, though they may blame society under their breath. Telegraph: they’ll tell me to clear orf, and threaten to let the dogs out. Daily Mail: they’ll cut off my hands.

Lewes is a cracking place to make sweeping statements about social demographics, purely on the basis of its recycling. Is it true, for instance, that Lewes disposes of more cardboard containers of Duchy Originals Sicilian Butter Shortbread per capita than anywhere else in the world? Can it be correct that Lewes is at the bottom of the league for recycling Special Brew cans? Or are these statistics I have just invented?

The clearest community indicators are on the wondrous Lewes Freecycle website, a snapshot of the hearts and minds of the town’s inhabitants. ‘Offered: Bugaboo pushchair, as used by Gwynneth! Good condition but rice-cake crumbs will need shaking out.’ Or ‘Wanted: Bonfire Society jumper. Any society! We’re not fussy! We just want to join in!’

When Aging Lad moved in with his on-off girlfriend last month, I told them about Freecycle and they furnished the entire flat with other people’s cast-offs. When he moved out again, three weeks later, citing irreconcilable levels of commitment, his girlfriend put him on Freecycle. ‘Offered: Antiquated gigolo, 43. Thinks he’s 25. Low expectations advised. From a non-smoking pet-free flat’. She was inundated and is still sifting through the replies, hoping to find him a bad home. If not, she says, he’ll have to go to landfill.

Beth Miller, 23rd April 2009. Photo by Alex Leith. Published in VivaLewes.com and in Viva Lewes magazine, March 2010.