Today, the dog-of-small-brain and I walked our favourite route. He did his usual routine of winding up the guard dogs at the house of the end of the road, which, incidentally, has a sign warning ‘do not enter guard dogs’: surely I‘m not the only one who finds that a disturbing thought? Anyway, we walked on, down the path, and into the field next to the fishing pond.
I was picking my way through soggy grass when I spotted something; an empty sweet-corn tin and a plastic bottle. Grrr, I thought, those pesky townie fishermen tossing their rubbish over the fence, how dare they? So I did what any self-respecting do-gooder would do, and threw the offending items back over the fence. Yes, I could have taken them home and recycled them in my bin, but that would have meant carrying them for the duration of our walk, and in that respect, I am on the same level as whoever dumped them there in the first place.
And while I’ve been sitting here, staring into space and trying to think of a story to write, a man walked past my house, picking up litter. There is an entire army of volunteers who patrol the lanes around here, clearing up everything from bottles to porno magazines (there was one lying by the road on another of our walks for a few weeks, I kid you not.) Hurrah for these volunteers, what a good job they do, I said to one of them once, while we were chewing the fat over what a nice day it was. ‘You should join us,’ he said. So I made an excuse, and scuttled off. I should really. We all should help. But I showed my colours this morning when I threw the fishermen’s rubbish back over the fence. It’s so much easier to leave it to someone else.