For a few hours, I become a little unhinged and pack numerous black bags with clothes. I then develop a form of blindness which allows me to ignore them for weeks, writes Tric Kearney
PERHAPS I’ve been given this writing gig in order to save you all. Not in a religious way but in a ‘Don’t make the same mistakes as I did’ way. Well, if that is the case here is another lesson from my life.
As I’ve shared before, occasionally I recycle. For a few hours, I become a little unhinged and pack numerous black bags with clothes. I then develop a form of blindness which allows me to ignore them for weeks.
Worryingly, my blindness appears to be contagious, affecting yer man and my children. As time passes the bags begin to leak. It is only when the floor becomes littered with clothes that miraculously my blindness lifts. Horrified at the mess I transfer the bags to my car where they enjoy many drives in my company to everywhere but the recycling centre.
Perhaps it was the fact they’d now begun to leak in my boot, but last week I finally got there. As I dropped each bag into the recycling bin I was struck by how simple a task it is. Resolving to do it more often, I reached into my pockets for the keys. They were empty. I dug deep into my three-inch pockets. Definitely empty. I looked at the giant mouth of the recycling bin. Had that first bag been accompanied by my car keys? Walking with purpose back to the car I danced a jig when I saw them sitting in the ignition. Thank goodness I’d not done it again.
You see myself and Mr Recycling are well acquainted.
We’d first met a few years ago. It was the end of summer and I’d been ignoring the fact school was about to restart until my daughter appeared.
“Mum, this isn’t mine,” she said sporting a school jumper to her knees. For a moment I stared, wondering why she was wearing her older brother’s large uniform which I remembered recycling after he’d completed the Leaving Cert. Turns out I’d recycled the wrong one, a mistake which cost me close to €100.
Recycling mix up number two: A year or so ago this could have caused major marital strife — if yer man had known about it.
Himself’s not great for recycling clothes, believing perhaps that the marriage vow ’til death do us do part’ included the clothes he brought with him. So being a good wife, on occasions, I help. A number of years ago, I went a bit over the top and grabbed a little more than usual, including shoes. As it was a covert operation the whole lot was in the recycling centre before yer man came home from work.
I held my breath for days but no clothes were missed. I began to relax a little until one evening I spied feet sticking out from the cupboard under the stairs, not a place anyone voluntarily visits.
“I can’t find my runners,” he gasped when he emerged for air. It was obviously warm under there as he appeared to be sweating.
“Oh, which ones?” I replied, clearly remembering a white pair with a blue trim disappearing into a black bag recently.
“My new ones.” he said.
With tremendous restraint, I resisted shouting, ‘They were ancient,” and joined in the pointless search.
The following day, I rang my recycling friends who agreed to meet me when they were emptying the bin. Searching other people’s recycling is not the most pleasant of tasks, but, finally, I found the missing shoes. Thanking my recycling pals, I headed for home where I later presented them to himself.
“Look, I found your runners.”
“Oh, they are looking a bit worn aren’t they?” he said. “ I think I’ll buy a new pair tomorrow.”
© Irish Examiner Ltd. All rights reserved