Visiting the Household Waste Recycling Centre should be a chore… yet isn’t. Even when it’s Saturday and you’re queuing to get in.
I’ve been coming to such places all my life. In the 70’s and 80’s they were called Tips.. Council Tips. ‘Can we come, Dad’ we’d ask, as he was hitching a trailer full of rubble and garden waste to his Cortina or Morris Ital.
Not much health and safety those days. Kids didn’t have to stay in the car, for one. I recall those tips being smaller, less demarcated. And instead of the current helpful staff in hi-vis orange, there was usually a solitary, surly bloke in a donkey jacket. His job was to man the gate – but he’d quickly come over for a nose if he thought you had something of value.
The Council Tips were done up years ago. Although they still seem to smell the same. But there are now friendly staff members ready to answer the inevitable ‘where does this go, mate?’ questions.
Luckily, the modernisation hasn’t removed the charm. Everyone shares the same purpose. Disposal. Watching your fellow tippers appeals to a curious mind. You find yourself quietly wondering, for example, why that chap is slinging that wheelbarrow when there’s clearly years of life left in it.
The tip is a place you want to linger. Fair enough. By the time you’ve queued up and reverse parked… you feel you’ve earned the right to take it slowly. To enjoy it. Perhaps see what the next lot are getting rid of, before you leave.
The old Range Rover feels lighter on departure. So do you. You’re smiling as you drive past the queue coming in. Maybe even nodding your head. Satisfied that the car has been load carrying for once… part of her repertoire. It’s good to exercise that now and then.
Good exercise for me also. I’ll be back next week.
Andrew Greenhalgh 