Keira Knightley is my bin man

I made a surprise and welcome discovery this afternoon -- some pills leftover from the last time I was on the surgery merry-go-round. Quite a lot of pills actually. Back then I was still in my naïve 'let's get off these things as soon as possible' phase, believing that painkillers were the Devil's Smarties. This time I'm more inclined towards the 'Oh dear God, make it go away NOW!' way of thinking.

Not content with the general discomfort of having someone root about inside my nose with a carving knife, and hacking out vital sections of throat, I decided to throw my back out on Friday as well. Luckily it's not bin day till Monday, so it's still sitting by the side of the road, alongside the wheely bin. Which probably means it's got about as much chance of being picked up by the dustbin men (or 'Scaffies' as we call them up here) as a fat spotty bloke with greasy hair and an 'I Love Blake's Seven!' T-shirt does of being picked up by Keira Knightley.

Our local council, in a fit of its infinite wisdom, has decided to restrict rubbish collection to once a fortnight, instead of once a week. This, they tell us with perfectly straight faces, is to 'save the environment'. Bollocks. This is to save them money. With fortnightly collections they have half as many bins to collect in any given week -- the volume of shite being thrown out remains constant, only now it needs to be stamped down into the wheely bins by the time anyone comes to collect it. And they'll only collect from wheely bins too, none of those nasty garbage cans so beloved of Top Cat for us! And the wheely bin has to have a sticker on it from the council, or you're stuffed.

BUT, they did give us a special blue-lidded wheely bin to put our paper for recycling in. That gets picked up once a month. So whereas before to perpetrate identity theft a naughty individual would have to root through a bin-bag full of old coffee grounds, snotty hankies, mouldy chicken carcases and nappies, now he's got a whole month to dig through a nice clean pile of bank statements and junk mail in a specially marked bin, to make it easy for him to spot.

Being paranoid I've freecycled a shredder from my parents, who for some strange reason had a spare one. We've not used it yet, but it's there, ready to accommodate anything that might give a potential scammer access to our identities. Like all the crap from credit card companies insist on sending us every week. "Congratulations Mr McBridge, you've been selected to participate in our platinum-coloured credit card with optional picture of a rabid penguin sexually violating a yak on it. At only 375% APR and nothing to pay till you've forgotten all about it and are probably a bit stretched that month!"

Anyway, these pills I found are bloody great. Not as great as the ones my mother gave back to the pharmacist at Boots a few weeks ago -- vintage morphine and assorted heart medicine that my late grandmother was taking following a heart op. She doesn't need them any more, being as she no longer with us. Or anyone else come to that. Now I'm not needing any warfarin as we've got a cat to keep down the rodent population, but the morphine would have come in bloody handy this weekend.

And in the interests of leading a full and varied life, some bastard at INoGITCH has given me their cold as well. Every time I sneeze, blood clots fly out. I can make really pretty patterns on handkerchiefs -- just be glad I don't have a scanner or I'd post them. Maybe I should save them all, just in case I get a shot at the turner art prize. I could pin them all out on a collection of empty tins of Tenants Export and call it, 'Blood Snot and Beers'. It'll offend loads of people, and I'll be rolling in artistic kudos and big fat cheques. Then Keira Knightley will be desperate to come collect my household waste.

See: never throw anything away. You know it makes sense.