This week alone we’ve reported on the cost-of-living crisis, issues with the school bus system, and people in Shepparton remembering the impact of the Stolen Generations.
We do give local heroes a shout, but I want to praise a very specific type of local legend.
Every street has one — or several — of these heroes: the people who know which bin is due to go out each week.
I like to call these people ‘adults’.
I am not one of these people. My parents (hi Mum) had a leaflet that was sent out to tell people which bin went out each week.
If I ever got one of them, I misplaced it quickly, and as such am reliant on the few people in the street who kept theirs.
You, dear reader, might be able to remember which bin you put out last week.
I can’t remember what colour socks I put on this morning.
I like to imagine the rest of the street peering out under the curtains, like Foo, waiting for someone to take charge.
(I like to imagine everyone does this, simply because I don’t want to think I’m the only person doing it.)
“It’s bin night. But which bin. The street is paralysed, homeowners lurking behind their gates, waiting for someone to make the first move,” reads an ancient Tumblr post.
There’s terror as the sun begins to set with no bin yet moved, because the rubbish truck must be fed in the morning and if it’s fed the wrong bin then it gets mad.
And you don’t want to see the rubbish truck mad.
So, we lurk, waiting for the brave soul to take charge. And to that brave soul who does, I say thank you.
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