Tuesday is rubbish day in Enfield. The lorries start rumbling before 7 o'clock, and there are two runs - one for the landfill, and one for the recyclables. Folks put their waste outside on a Monday night in anticipation of the Vultures' arrival. My walk up the hill to catch the bus to work starts at around the same time as the collection. Something, for some reason, depresses me greatly about the bits of trash strewn across the pavement. Not so much the fact of rubbish being on the streets - after all, this is hardly Mumbai or any other ravaged Third World city with populated dumps - it's more the lonely, random quality of the items themselves. It's difficult to describe why, but perhaps a simple list of the things I've seen might convey the sense of desolation I feel.
Empty pack of fusilli pasta
Box of 10 dinner candles
Pack of Ülker wafers
Sachet of Felix premium cat food
Müller Rice pot
The sight of these random articles, ever so slightly soiled, lying on the floor before me, fills me with an intense sense of melancholy.
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