Yesterday evening, in a saintly and environmentally-conscious sort of way, and to pass the time usefully while my pasta was simmering (mmm, pasta...), I decided to break down a couple of boxes which had held pouches of cat food.
Unimpressed at being treated in this cavalier fashion, one of the boxes attacked me with its pointiest (er, that may
not be a proper word) corner. It took a gouge out of my finger: one of those ones which produces a neat little roll of displaced skin which you then have to pull off and discard. "Ow, flip!", I may have said, in my characteristically restrained and profanity-avoiding way. "That smarts a bit."
Anyway, I got on with making my dinner*. I was brave. And quite possibly inspirational. I even managed to forget about my Hideous Injury. Until 5.30 this morning. When it woke me up.
They don't warn you about how high-risk recycling is, do they?
*The North-South Divide. This reminds me of a residential training event I had the unalloyed joy of attending many years ago. The purpose of which, if memory serves, was to improve the working relationship between Liverpool staff and their Southend colleagues by bringing them together and compelling them to take part in not-at-all risible team-building exercises.
Someone in Liverpool made the arrangements. Arrangements which, apparently, included the instruction to arrive in time for dinner.
(You can see where I'm going with this, can't you? There's a horrible inevitability about the whole thing...)
So the Liverpool contingent arrived in time for dinner. That is, we arrived in time for the meal which most Northerners refer to as "dinner". The one in the middle of the day. The one which yer average poncy Southerner (or, indeed, poncy middle-class Northerner, such as yours truly) would refer to as, "lunch".
And the people from Southend? Oh, they arrived in time for dinner.
Still, it gave us the opportunity to familiarise ourselves fully with the entertainment possibilities inherent in a characterless motel in the middle of nowhere. Entertainment possibilities which, if memory serves, began and ended with the machine in the foyer which would reluctantly disgorge a handful of mediocre chocolates if you fed a wholly-disproportionate quantity of coins into its gaping maw.