Fridays are Trash Day here at Roseholme Cottage. Tam and I, bein' no more dilatory than any other girl gunbloggers and not particularly desirous of bein' the Food Messiahs of the local raccoon an' possum posse, had left the setting-out of trash until the morn.
Of course the whine and grunt of air brakes and diesel was heard early this ayem, and of course it was an all-hand-on-deck scramble to get the refuse in its heavy bins and cans around to the front, me in sandals and a coat hastily thrown over my bathrobe, hair damp and unbrushed.
What we found in front, like lost blimps moored along our narrow residential bywater, was not one, not two but three massive trash trucks, two headed one direction and one 'tother, with the crews out and...arguing? Over which crew gets to pick up our trash? W00t?
Now that right there is a work ethic!
...But I swan, if they'd've formed up inta' groups and began fingersnappin' an' hummin' riffs from West Side Story, I'd'a called it a day, 'cos it would be a Sure Sign Of The End.
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