Recycling has reached downtown suburbia. Now we have a bin for bottles and tins, and one for things that stink.
I'm all for saving the planet I use it quite regularly, after all but going green has come at a terrible cost.
Neighbours can see how many bottles of booze we get through in a fortnight. One wag has dubbed our abode Hangover House.
Gripped by paranoia, Ive started scribbling pathetic notes and sticking them to the offending bin. The last one said: We had a bit of a party.
Another stated: These are not all ours. Someones dropping their empties in our bin.
The truth is very different. I go out in the dead of night with a sackful of clinking wine bottles and plant them in recycling receptacles along the length and breadth of the main street. I look on the deception as going green without going red with embarrassment.
Widow Trickett, aged 84, put out a chutney jar, lemon curd pot and empty vinegar vessel. The binmen collected 14 empty bottles of claret from her house, which really started tongues wagging.
My, cried one nosey neighbour, looking at the gleaming stash of empties at the bottom of our drive, someone has been enjoying themselves.
I drink to forget, I told the resident, that's the problem I've forgotten to put the bottles out for the last two months.
Getting through that much plonk has its benefits, though, I added. We've saved enough corks to floor the kitchen.
You're obviously quite a wine buff, he laughed, still eyeing the glass mountain with amazement, What's your favourite kind? Fifteen percent, I told him.
Chile is producing some surprisingly cheeky whites at the moment, he said. You want to try some.
Too far to travel, I muttered. Threshers is closer. He beat a hasty retreat. I'd like to think we're more than doing our bit for recycling. Last year the parish church launched an appeal to raise funds for a new stained glass window.
Last week the vicar informed me I was only two crates away from providing all the raw materials, but would it be possible to start buying booze in yellow and red bottles.
As a show of gratitude one of the window images is going to be me slumped under a tree with some heavenly entity pouring a stiff one.
Displaying our bottles to the whole community has made the wife and I seriously reconsider our drinking habits.
We now buy wine in those boxes with taps on. I make sure I remove the tap before I put out the cardboard!
It's no coincidence that the most strapping binman, a surly cove called Wayne, has been given the task of collecting our overloaded boxes.
Wayne's become so annoyed by the arduous task hes started to exact revenge.
The council decreed all tins and jars must be cleaned before placed in the recycling containers.
Yesterday Wayne banged on our door, thrust a Marmite pot into my hand and grumbled: You've missed a bit.
What's more, he stood over me at the kitchen sink while I washed it.
I'm not the only critic of the new refuse system. Clements, the faithful old retainer who tends Chateau Lockley's manicured lawns, has demanded to know in which bin he should place dead things.
What sort of dead things? asked a clearly concerned council official.
The usual, drawled the rustic, rats, mice, squirrels, ducks, pigeons, crows, toads, the odd hedgehog...the usual things you pick up while walking and stuff in your pockets.
The gobsmacked civil servant couldnt tell him!
What's your bloody game? shrieked the young man in football shorts, leaping off the seat next to me in the Bell Inns crammed bar.
He just stroked my leg, he protested to his girlfriend, pointing an accusing finger at Yours Truly. This highly embarrassing and very public moment would take some explaining away.
While supping a pint of best bitter and reading my newspaper, I gave Sykes, the publican's black Labrador, some tender love and affection.
I now realised, to my horror, it was not Sykes who I was gently stroking. It was the rather large gentleman with a shaved head and tattoos, standing menacingly over me. Not since eating a bowl of pot pourri have I committed such a public faux pas. Burped perfume for weeks, I did.
I'm most dreadfully sorry, I blurted in a bid to defuse the potentially violent altercation, I thought you were a Labrador...or rather your leg.
He should shoulder some responsibility for wearing shorts. Men probably mistakenly stroke him all the time.
Do I feel like a bloody Labrador? bellowed the angry drinker.
I thought I was stroking his ear or nose, I explained, hot with the thought of how that mitigation would sound in a court of law.
Why didn't you get off your seat sooner, Gary? demanded the blonde girlfriend. He was patting your knee for three minutes?
Good point.
I thought he might be blind, stuttered the bloke.
You don't mind blind men fondling you, then? she asked, a tad shocked.
She accused me of being the only gay in the village, which isn't true: that's Melvin and he was at a salsa class with his mother.
Didn't you realise? demanded the enraged visitor.
On reflection, I thought it was strange he didn't try to grab my scratchings or lick my ear. Best he jumped up when he did, though: I was about to tickle his belly.
Come on, grab your coat, he ordered his piece of arm candy, we're off.
Why? protested the girlfriend. The bloke's said it was a mistake.
Maybe, admitted her partner, but someone's just walked in with a sausage dog. God knows where he's going to put his hands next.
A man in Alabama knocks on his best friend's door. Is Jim in? he asks. Jim's wife says no, he's gone to pick cotton.
Jim's best friend returns next day. You've missed him, the wife apologises, he's out picking cotton again.
The following day, the friend is informed Jim is again out. He's picking cotton, I'm afraid, said the wife.
On the fourth day, the friend knocks on the door and is met by Jim's ashen-faced wife. He's dead, she sobs, we've buried him in the back garden.
The shocked pal is taken to the grand monument to his dear, departed buddy. In gold letters on the black marble headstone is the
Epitaph: Jim. Gone, but not for cotton.
I RECEIVED a rare compliment for my driving today. Someone left a note on the windscreen which said: Parking Fine.
A Yorkshireman takes his cat to the vets. Is it a tom? asks the vet. No, it's in this basket, says the Yorkshireman.
When it rains cats and dogs are you in danger of stepping in a poodle?
Comment 
