The agony of putting out the bins – in the nude. By Matthew Norman
If there was one thing my front garden didn’t need to underscore the existing aura of dystopian gloom, that thing has come. For years, no one passing could glance towards the house without recognising it as the home of a sad little man who has given up on life. The crisp packets and used Durexes (Durices?) lobbed in from the street, the wild unevenness of the steps to the front door, the browned and desiccated old Christmas trees, the phalanx of wires flapping down from the roof … the clues have not strictly required the decryption services of Bletchley Park. It was with a gruelling sense of inevitability, then, that I recently noted the addition to this wretched montage of an infestation of rats. Although they showed no ambition to enter the house (probably out of fear of what they’d find within), discouraging measures seemed mandated. My metal bins having...
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