My front door opens straight onto the pavement, I don’t have any outside space at all. My front door is next to a bus stop and the bus stop has a bin adjacent to it.
So, why do people drop their loathsome chicken bones on the ground outside MY FRONT DOOR? Why don’t they put them in the bin just a metre away? I can stand at my front door and throw stuff into the bin, and I’m really, really bad at throwing! Yes, I’ve tried, I know it’s a bit sad, but madness and frustration have driven me to it.
Cigarette butts, dog ends, call them what you will, are another thing that people seem incapable of PUTTING IN THE BIN! Why do they think it’s ok to throw their saliva covered rubbish on the floor, and more importantly, why do they think it’s ok to do so outside MY FRONT DOOR!
Why, you may ask, am I getting so antsy about this litter, why do I feel the need to go on a rant? I’ll tell you why… All these spit covered bits of paper and chicken bones find their way under MY FRONT DOOR and into my hall, which is not only revolting and annoying, but it means I have to sweep or hoover and I hate doing housework, but most of all, I hate vacuuming!
I think I get this from my mum, who also hated doing housework; in fact she used to have a cleaner. Even when she was on benefits she’d rather go without food than do housework, and believe you me, she loved to eat!
Anyway, back to the cleaning… I keep a stiff broom by my front door, so that on days like today, when I go to leave the house and there is a plethora of debris just waiting for the chance to make it’s way under my front door, I can sweep it away from the building and into the gutter. If I’m lucky, there will be people waiting by the bus stop and I can brush it over their feet, in the hope that they’ll tell everyone about the crazy, middle-aged woman who lives by the bus stop and maniacally sweeps chicken bones over their box fresh sneakers.
However, sometimes I’m too late and the detritus invades my home and I have to release Henry from captivity and set him to work. You’d be amazed by what he can consume through his hungry, long trunk. Dog ends, drinks straw wrappers, leaves, hair from the barbers next door and chicken bones, all get sucked into Henry’s cavernous belly as he clatters and lumbers his way along the hall towards my front door. Once his work is done, and he is full, it’s back into isolation for my cheerful, mechanical friend, until the next time his services are required.
So, my advice, should you find yourself in a similar situation, is to move somewhere that is not near a fried chicken shop and a bus stop!
Consulting Hannah 