êt-a-manger and bottled water. “You only live once, but not your glass.” Okay, perhaps even a British government department wouldn't pay for that one. I don't count them, the bottles that is. Not any more. Occasionally, someone I know drives past and they count for me anyway, before they make an entirely predictable joke. I always say I don't take the bottles to the bank every day, but that is a lie.
In summertime, when the LED thermometers outside the chemists' show 43°C, it can take 15 minutes to walk a few hundred yards. Of course, when it's so hot you're going to the rubbish bins at least once a day. Usually someone fly tips half a knocked-down house around your carefully tidied waste disposal area at least once a week. In Spring or on a dry winter's day you might try to smarten up the disaster of old guttering, broken bricks and bags of cement that have turned to solid bolsters of concrete: not in the Summer.
We used to pay a toothless old fellow 10 Euros to tidy round once a week. If it took him twenty minutes, bully for him: if it took a couple of hours, bully for us on our small and ageing urbanización. Inevitably, at one of those interminable meetings for the Community of Owners, it was decided that we were wasting our money. Well at least we had a very tidy six months.
There. That's the last. I enjoy dropping these bottles in whether the bank is full or empty. The shattered glass plays a different arpeggio of notes every time. The sun is high in the sky, and it must be over the yardarm somewhere. I think I'll have a beer when I get home.