A friend of mine surprised me with the vehemence of his love for something. He’s about my age, a highly successful maker of important television and avid consumer of Radio 4 and the Guardian. A keen thinker about things, he likes books and podcasts that are a little too advanced for me. All in all, he didn’t seem the type to say what he said, over a pint in our local. Furthermore, there was even a slightly glazed, far-off look in his eye when he announced, with such great feeling rising from deep in his soul: “I really love going to the dump.” It was only then that I realised I was free to admit to sharing this love. It was a moving, bonding moment between us. One love. For the dump.
My dump visits had hitherto been shrouded in a mist of shame. Throwing things away is bad, not least because buying them in the first place was bad, or at least not entirely necessary, which may amount to the same thing. Also, isn’t it all an exercise in shifting the responsibility for your junk on to someone – everyone? – else? This notion that it is magically being recycled, repurposed, reused is surely a fantasy, not much more than a veneer of righteousness to help those of us who feel guilty about it to feel less guilty about it.
