Recessionary thrift comes packaged with the gift of time-proof language

EVERYBODY on their way to work in our office last Thursday passed an odd combination of a couch and the broken-up elements of a wooden bed on the footpath, neatly stacked against a fence.

To be picked up by garbage collectors, someone presumed. Since when, someone else asked, does the Corpo pick up couches?

I didn’t get involved in the discussion. I was too busy going back and forth in the rain, nicking the broken bits of wood and stacking them up behind my desk to take home later. They would, I knew, be particularly good for creating a little aerated stack in the wood-burning stove, so that the papier mache briquettes I make out of newspapers would burn better. The only surprise was that I didn’t encounter any competitors. I hadn’t expected to meet anybody eager to remove the couch, but had expected other wood-collectors. There’s a fair few of them around, these impoverished days.