“The last Blog of our litter picking adventure was pure Spin. The Before. This Blog reveals the real pick – and most importantly the After!
It started depressingly tame.
We went off in pairs. Sort of. We were an odd number and so I got “paired” with Prue and Martyn.
That didn’t last long.
Whilst I kept stopping and stooping over to pick up the fag ends that had been dropped on the ground – and over which Martyn had just walked, completely ignoring them, I was soon left behind. Martyn is quite tall and has poor eyesight, so I graciously assumed he couldn’t see them – rather than thinking the more natural thought that he wasn’t even looking!?!?
I didn’t know where the others were because I had been left behind- deserted by my erstwhile colleagues. As well as not noticing the presence of fag ends on the ground, they didn’t notice the absence of their esteemed and valued colleague.
By the way that’s me.
I travailed on my own down the left bank of the Exe (not the Seine) and crossed over the bouncing bridge and walked down the central section.
I was becoming increasingly impressed with how tidy my fellow Exonians were.
Two distinctly empty bin bags were in my feeble clutches.
I say two bin bags but THE PLAN was for one of the pair to carry the bags whilst the other picked up the litter. Hmmm! Some plan when there is only ONE of you. Not that I minded or grumbled or muttered.
I have never been one to hold a grudge.
HOWEVER- that was all about to change.
No – none of my supportive team came to the rescue. None were to be seen.
No – I stumbled into the woods where my tidy Exonian neighbours did clearly not frequent.
Within 10 minutes both of my bags were stuffed full of the yukky detritus left by my not-so-tidy Exonian neighbours!
I then realised that I had to walk over a mile back to The Quay carrying the equivalent of the entire Exeter weekly rubbish collection.
On my return journey I was unsure as to whether my body had shrunk by 1 foot or my arms had elongated by the same amount. Probably half of each. Passers-by smiled pitifully at me, or simply tried hard to ignore me. One kindly gentleman said “Well done”. Or it might have been “You’ve been done”. I couldn’t hear much above the noise of my heavy breathing, the bags dragging along the ground and my own gentle whimpering.
For the last 500 yards I was gradually catching up with Carl, who was jauntily ambling along carrying no more than a plastic litter picker. Not once did he look round to see what was sounding like a steam engine behind him and save me from the onset of senile exhaustion.
Finally I made it back to the Quay House and my jolly colleagues.
Please refer to the After photo.
A distinct contrast to the Before photo.
Finally pity was bestowed upon me and Ferhaan and Ian carried my two bin bags of rancid and smelly booty back to the office.
However, I was pleased that due recognition was given to this, your grubby Blog Correspondent.
The assembled group of colleagues all said
“Simon – you’re the winner”.
……or it might have been
“Simon – what’s for dinner?”
