Warning: bin burglars at large

I have a huge green sticker on my waste paper bin which reads ‘Don’t change my bin!’ and in small type below it ‘Winchester City Council’. The original purpose of this sticker is a complete mystery to me, but I am nevertheless seduced by the vision it conjures: Winchester as a utopia of overflowing dustbins and happy, slovenly citizens.

At the end of each working day the bin is generally only half full due to my habit of missing the ‘intended’ target. The wall behind it, however, has clearly borne the brunt of my inaccuracies with foodstuffs and sputum. It is speckled, dashed, streaked and, bizarrely, never mentioned nor cleaned.

I personally ensure that at the close of each day, the sticker side of the bin is proudly on display, optimistic that the instruction will be followed unswervingly.

Consequently, I am disappointed every morning when the bin has been plundered. As if that setback alone isn’t enough to contend with, another pattern has been noted: the bin has been turned round 180 degrees, thereby hiding the sticker and any confusion it may create.

After wracking my brains for a solution, I am now creating a duplicate sticker for the reverse side of my bin IN BIGGER LETTERS.

Small is the new tall

I decide to spit my silver dollar into the Starbucks coffer this morning and am reminded why this is never a good option. Overpriced watery drinks, dished out by teenagers who can barely string a couple of words of English together. Add a Bob Dylan soundtrack, some sick making wall decals and yesterday’s croissants and the nightmare is complete.

But my real beef is with the deliberately arcane sizing system. I ask for a ‘small’ coffee and am shown a ‘vente’ cup, which looks like something I may struggle to fill during moments of infirmity. I repeat my command, clearer this time and am shown a ‘medium’ cup. I roll my eyes skyward and curl my lips. Universal language: small it is. No flapjack ‘add-on’ tactics are attempted.

Moments later, confusion arises as I unwittingly try and take someone else’s drink – described as ‘small’ – as it is placed on the collection point. Pavlo, busying himself at the frothed milk station, proceeds to inform me that ‘Small’ actually means ‘Tall’ in Starbucks speak. Humiliated, I shake my head at the sheer ludicrousness of the situation. Here I am, being asked to invert my entire understanding of basic learned communication by somebody whose feeble grasp of the English language has been gleaned from a corporate guidelines handbook.

A mere 5′11 small, I am unimpressed by the 6′3 smaller Ukranian currently in charge of my caffeine dispensation. I smile, lean forward and accidentally knock the cup over, sending a slurry-coloured waterfall of hot drink cascading down the work surface and the ‘impulse purchase’ rack. Feigning shock, I jump backwards and try my best to look embarrassed, while at the same time observing the gravitational effect of scalding liquid on biscuit wrappings.

After much fussing, I accept a replacement drink – I hold out for ‘vente,’ of course – which I then deliberately drop right outside the entrance to the shop. Coffee on the run is a filthy trend and a habit not to be encouraged.

3.12pm

Despite its immodest dimensions, I am able to savage most of the kebab within a few minutes. The tomato is far too watery for my tastes though, and I am forced to spit it out in a half-chewed state. It ‘narrowly’ misses my waste basket, of course, and clings to the wall like a huge spider fatality. I shovel some bits of chicken under my desk, nestling them lovingly into some old chip wrappers and also add some filling to the electric fire in the corner for good measure. Hey presto! Quick-release, roasting bird air-freshener. Bootiful.

1.48pm

I’m watching myself on CCTV, spitting through tightened lips on to the kebab shop floor. I observe myself glancing furtively about to see if anyone else has noticed my unhygienic activity. I’m always thrilled when somebody does notice – that initial look of confusion, shock and resignation in a stranger’s eyes is life affirming evidence of my real talents. No such luck today though – a dry run, but a wet floor.

I’ve gone for the chicken donerXL with ’sauce plus’ for lunch. It’s the right thing to do. On my way back to the office I spit flagrantly at a street operative’s trolley bearing the unhealthy slogan ‘Clean Streets’. I chuckle at the irony of it all as my spit slowly trickles down the side of the trolley and hangs suspended a matter of inches away from the pavement where it is destined to become just another lonely mess waiting for a passing shoe – a ‘sole’mate if you like. Clean fucking streets indeed. What utter bullshit. Any fool can see they’re filthy as hell.

5.08pm

Reunion and dejection

The swiss roll has been located. I had put it in the air conditioning unit two days ago and completely forgotten about it. I’m pleased it survived, of course, but I feel oddly deflated at the same time. The thrill is suddenly gone – there’s no evidence after all to suggest my activities are been monitored and it’s just me v nobody all over again. I think I’ll print this entry out and leave it in an envelope addressed to the cleaners on my desk. That may draw their lead.

1.55pm

The sticky-fingered gauntlet is thrown down

Something is very wrong. I turn my back for a day and lo and behold, personal property is snatched from my desk. That would be understandable if the item had been inviting plunder by virtue of its desirability or prominence of display.

But what is so sickening about this event is that the stolen item was of no monetary worth whatsoever, it was purely of sentimental value to me. I had lovingly secreted it behind plastic cups, envelopes and general office detritus towards the back of the ‘dark side’ of my monitor for safe keeping. It’s perplexing that someone should be inquisitive or foolish enough to poke around that part of my desk. It was a quarter of a swiss-roll for Christ’s sake – alone, vulnerable and just three days old.

The confusion and sadness I am experiencing prove to be a catalyst for an exciting truth: somebody is on to me. Perhaps they are monitoring me. Very well, if they wish to make sport, they have found a willing combatant.

2.30pm

I have to concede a small defeat today. I am forced to clean my monitor screen. It’s for practical purposes only – my eyes were becoming strained with the effort of deciphering letters, shapes and colours through the smeared layer of grease. Holding back the tears as I wipe the glass down, I manage to console myself with the knowledge that the monitor casing needn’t be touched. It remains comfortingly filthy – rubbed with mucous and mashed food. The ‘dark side’ of the casing is a moonscape of banana pulp craters which have solidified and browned nicely. Precious bacterial life thrives in this part of the environment despite a lack of sunlight and water – a paean to the inexplicable miracle of existence.

There is also damage to the monitor screen in several places where I have attacked it with scissors and the point of a ballpoint pen in times of need. I have largely stopped doing this and refer to those incidents as ‘the dark old days’ – the days before I discovered the conveniently placed wall to my left and my padded gloves.

3.03pm

Classic subs #1: egg mayo

Just 9 days old and making his daddy so proud.

2.43pm

I was considerate enough to buy my own milk this morning. But using just half a litre of it on breakfast cereals has left me with a dilemma. What should I do with the remainder?

I decide that the most sensible course of action is to tip a good glug of it into a functioning air conditioning unit. I am then overcome with the sudden urge to offer charity to an ailing houseplant in the corner of the office. As I watch the parched soil gulping the milk down into the plant pot, a beautiful image flickers before my eyes: the plant as a full-grown tree, swollen to gargantuan dimensions, its trunk puffed up like some giant, calcium enriched ribcage.

1.50pm

An interesting development: the gent’s toilet has been cordoned off with an old cardboard box and a fire extinguisher. OK, it’s hardly ‘Police line: do not cross’, but I’m still getting off on the danger of it all.