I love our garbage collectors. That they manage to collect bins from the impossibly hilly one-lane section of street I live in really is nothing short of a miracle. But I guess that's their job.
That they always put my elderly neighbour's bin away is, arguably, also their job.
What is unquestionably not their job is stopping to check on 84-year-old Margaret and that's why I love them.
A few weeks back there was a commotion outside the house on bin collection day. The truck was beeping and carrying on and I assumed someone had, once again, parked in a way that made collecting the bins from the dead end section of the street impossible. But the beeping and yelling continued so I went to investigate.
Turns out that when the bin men return Margaret's bin to under her house she always waves and thanks them.
This day she was perched in her normal spot by the window on the front veranda but was motionless. Nothing. When the beeping and yelling still failed to get a response they stopped the truck and went to investigate.Turns out she had taken out her hearing aids and fallen asleep. Mouth open, catching flies, looking dead to the world. When she realised what had happened she gave the bin collectors a mini Mars Bar for their efforts.
What a shame the move from the old bins to the wheelie bins means there's no longer a practical way to carry out the age-old tradition of leaving out a bottle of beer for the rubbish man at Christmas.
