Where’s Your Bin?

I was at a mate’s house once and wanted to throw something away. As I recall, he had a terrible habit of leaving random bits of rubbish on all his chairs, and I could never find a place to throw it. “Where’s your bin?” I asked.

“I’s been nowhere, where’s you been?” he replied.

I was very taken with this – if a little surprised at the manic laughter of my friend, and his shouting “Yes! Oh God, yes! At last!” after he said it – and was determined to use it at every opportunity. I would invite people to my home, random strangers sometimes if no one else was available, having left bits of scrap paper, empty yoghurt pots – anything I could dredge out of the bin that wouldn’t stain – on all my chairs. Wanting to sit, my visitors would ask me what to do with these random objects, and I’d reply “Aw, just throw it away,” having carefully hidden the bin. I would then await their response with eager anticipation.

“Okay,” they would say. “Where shall I put it?” or “I can’t see a bin” or “Where’s your rubbish receptacle?” Never “Where’s your bin?”

Finally, after years of doing this, someone said “Where’s your bin?” I got really excited, and yelled, “No! She went of her own accord!”

When I realised what I’d done, I burst into tears. My visitor tried to help in his confusion, but I was inconsolable.

Now, gentle reader, you are burdened as I have been burdened for all these years and you, too, must suffer. Ah! The joy of Schadenfreude.


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