GAIL MARIE MITCHELL
Recycling I cried at the tip today Sorry, recycling centre as we call it now. And if you’ve got a couple of minutes I’ll tell you how A grown woman who ought to know better Stood there sobbing While people stared. In over fifty years you’d think I’d have learnt That crying isn’t socially acceptable. It’s not the first time I’ve been burnt By my inability to control emotions. There’s no excuse And I’d be lying If I told that this will be the last time That I stand in public crying. I’d worked so hard to be prepared, sorted all the rubbish into piles Researched the website, contacted the council, I thought I knew My wood from my rubble, My waste from my recycling. I had it in the garage all laid out and labelled ‘Scrap metal’, ‘household waste’, ‘electric cables’. But somehow, I’d misunderstood the online instructions The brusque and bossy woman in charge soon put me straight! ‘No! That’s chipboard,’ she said to me! ‘It’s also glass,’ I said Apologetically. ‘Don’t talk to me like that,’ she replied. And that is when I cried. She didn’t know how hard I tried To sort my waste according to the rules Or that, five years ago today, my father died And it was his possessions I was disposing of And I don’t wear a T-shirt with the handy warning 46
