Just when I thought the junk mail on my doormat couldn’t get any more pointless, a record-breakingly worthless form of advertising has begun to pour in. It’s from my local Labour council showing off the inventive new ways it has found of spending my money. The other day I got a leaflet telling me about a ‘community action fund’ which has been mysteriously allocated a quarter of a million pounds — apparently it just fell out of the sky — to spend on three local projects and I get to choose. Whoopee.
Would I like to spend the money on…drum roll…: improved shower facilities at The Darby and Joan Club; building a children’s ‘wet play area’; installing a ‘pop-up urinal’ (they seem to be obsessed with niche plumbing); refurbishing a café; upgrading a BMX track; or putting up some more street signs. It didn’t say what would be on the signs. Possibly they would point out where the pop-up urinals and wet play areas are for those strange enough to want to use them.
The leaflet proudly boasts: ‘Your borough, your budget, your choice!’ So I crossed out all the options and wrote: ‘How about something off my council tax if you’re flashing (my) money around?’ I don’t expect my form to be counted, although if I wasn’t already on the official register for troublemakers I now will be. In ten years time, I’ll be trying to adopt a Ukrainian orphan and Brixton town hall will rule that I’m not a suitable parent because I was once involved in an incident of abusive questionnaire-filling.
The other way they’re diligently spending money is by sending round an army of green advisers who knock on my door incessantly offering to explain how recycling works. (You can see the advert, can’t you? ‘Wanted: Community recycling facilitators. Flexible hours. £45K and generous pension package.’)
‘Ask me anything! Absolutely anything!’ said one perky little woman grasping a clipboard the other day.
‘All right, then,’ I said. ‘Can I put leftover cat food in my composting bag?’
She looked crestfallen. ‘Cat food. Hmm…You mean, like tinned…er…meat…that you…’
‘Give to cats. Yes.’
‘Cat food. Er. No, I don’t think I know about cat food…let me think…I suppose it’s organic matter…compostable…you would think…hmm…gosh! Cat food, that’s a new one…’
I calculated that this could quite easily go on all day. After all, why should she not hang around on my doorstep working a bit of environmental-facilitation overtime. So I tried another question. ‘How about nut shells? Where do they go?’
‘Nut shells!…crikey!…hmm…nut shells. You mean, shells from er…’
‘Nuts. That’s right.’
‘Yes, things like Brazil nuts and pecans…’
We were about to go through all the nuts. ‘Just nuts in general,’ I said, trying to focus her mind on a single concept.
‘Well, they are food, technically…although the thing is, they’re quite hard…’
There was no pulling the organic wool over this one’s eyes. Nothing got past her.
‘I tell you what,’ she said. ‘I’ll note all this down and get back to you. Now. Can I ask you if there is anything you would like us to add to your recycling service? Anything at all.’
My recycling service currently consists of three different-coloured and variously sized bins and four different-coloured bags. I cannot think of any other combination of bag or box shape or shade I fancy having outside my front door so I said, ‘I would like the scheme to be incentivised so I get some money back for all the waste I’m sorting. I mean, the council does sell it, right? I do the work. You make the money. What about something for me? We’re in a recession, you know.’
This made her smile widely and nod and then speak very slowly as if she were making herself understood to someone who was registered insane. ‘Yes, I see. Yes, that’s a good one. Incentives meaning…’
‘Money off. My council tax.’
‘Right. So you mean, money off your council tax if you recycle rather than fines if you don’t?’
She was catching on quick. ‘Well, I can see how that would be attractive. Perhaps if I just make a note of that…’ And she very ostentatiously pretended to write something down on her clipboard. I leaned forward and saw that she was making a series of squiggles. Possibly they were code for ‘troublemaker at number 34’. I’m pretty sure I’m on that register.
‘I’ve got to go now,’ she said very deliberately as if addressing a Jehovah’s Witness with swine flu.
‘No, don’t go,’ I said. ‘I want you to stay and tell me more about recycling. Please stay. I sense there’s so much to learn…’ But she was gone. Not to worry. There’ll be another community-action co-ordinator along any second. q
Melissa Kite is deputy political editor of the Sunday Telegraph.
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