Many writers have shared their thoughts with the public:

"There is something delicious about writing the first words of a story. You never quite know where they'll take you." - Beatrix Potter

"The role of a writer is not to say what we all can say, but what we are unable to say." - Anaïs Nin

"Sharing your writing, being enlarged by others' writing, is what makes you feel famous." - Gretchen Bernabei

"Writing is not an amusing occupation. It is a combination of ditch-digging, mountain-climbing, treadmill and childbirth." - Edna Ferber

"Either write something worth reading or do something worth writing." - Ben Franklin

"One must be drenched in words, literally soaked in them, to have the right ones to form themselves into the proper pattern at the right moment." - Hart Crane

"There are three rules for writing. Unfortunately, no one can agree what they are." - W. Somerset Maugham

The Rubbish War

It all seems so long ago now as I sit in front of the fire, fondle my campaign medals, or stroke my beard. For I know that once I ‘dreamed the impossible dream and fought the unbeatable foe!’ Yes, I did it! Now, as I look into my grandson’s innocent eyes, I relented to his constant pleadings to tell him once again, of these past heroic struggles and this is what I told him:

“It all began in the clear freshness of mornings soft mysterious light,” I said, “when two squat Wheely bins stood outside my house, sentinel-like, indeed, standing as upright guardians of all that which is noble and great in our country - civic pride and cleanliness and all that sort of thing. It was a time,” I reminded him, “Like Camelot, when everything was pure and good and where no one stooped to talking rubbish!”

“Never the less,” I started, striking a deeper urgency into my voice, “of when, behind these symbols of purity, lay a more sinister theme. It was of an underground urban terrorist war where civil strength and ingenuity were to be tested to their limits, where one man was pitted against the mighty forces of government.”

“Grandson,” I said looking serious, “It all started like one of Grimm’s Fairy Tales of a mysterious kind. Once upon a time, for it does feel slightly mythological now, some Government leaders in their infinite wisdom decided, no doubt after several reviews and near endless debate, to finally identify what is world’s best practice for disposal of domestic rubbish.”

I continued, “He, she or some amorphous person, or committee of Hobgoblins, decided that my previously capacious multi-tasked 80 Litre metal bins to which I had become quite attached despite the fact they did at times become a bit smelly, must be replaced by diminutive 20 litre plastic wheelie bins!”

“As a result of these changes, I was required to undergo cultural shock therapy. For example, I was now expected to scrounge amongst my household refuse like the poor in Mumbai’s slums, dredging for tiny valuable items, or feeling like those unforgettable images of comedian, Red Skelton, searching for his next dinner in a trash can. There I was, separating papers, food, glass, plastic, and all sorts of mushy, yucky stuff for what I believed in my misanthropic mind, was a new World order of coercive control and subtle subjugation. In effect,” I grumbled, “doing what I believed was Council’s proper role.”

“For you see my dearly beloved,” I said looking at my grandson, “no matter how hard I tried, with six kids, two dogs and a profligate wife who made Marie Antoinette appear frugal, oh, and yes, I forgot to mention my imported European off road People Mover, I couldn’t fit seemingly endless rivers of refuse into these new miniscule receptacles.”

“Never the less, plucky and resourceful as I naturally was, daily I carried out yet another bulging plastic bag, one after another, attempting to carry out the impossible dream, well, perhaps it was impossible dross! For, as you could imagine, to make more room, I was required to fiendishly jump up and down as you can envisage, like the figure of Rumpelstiltskin after being so thwarted. I undertook this practice to ram down previous deposits of rubbish, compacting them in order to make room.”

“My technique for accomplishing these compressions was ingenious,” I explained. “After delicately placing a new bag within the bin and pricking it in a manner to prevent it splitting, or exploding, I likewise maniacally jumped until it too had collapsed like other bags with lots of popping farting, or wheezing out of fetid air or toxic gasses. All the odours of former meals now vented to haunt me like the ghosts in Dickens’s Christmases past.”

“The new regime was bad enough,” I explained, “but, it was made worse as no one else in my house really cared or helped. ‘It’s not my role!’ screeched the wife. ‘I’m too busy with homework!’ wept a child and ‘Anyway it’s not my turn’ or ‘The bin’s too high!’ cried others. Always the teenagers held unimpeachable alibis, so what could I do or say? Even the two dogs, though willing, couldn’t help. While deeply interested in the smelly contents of these bags, my dogs just looked at me with large brown, sorrowful eyes, so that I found myself isolated and alone. It was a very bitter feeling.”

“Then one day the inevitable happened, disaster struck! I forgot Friday was rubbish collection day. In a groggy, soporific stupor I awoke to the roaring noise of rubbish truck’s sounding like General, Heinz Guderian’s Panzers breaking through the Ardennes, accompanied by that hollow clomp, bonk, bonk and bonk: clonk! Of bins being raised, emptied then unceremoniously dumped down again, back onto the nature strip, or mostly the footpath to lie with lids open, like lifeless Gropers with mouths agape.”

“In a dizzying blur of emerging comprehension that I had forgotten to put out the rubbish, I staggered out of bed, reaching the gate, bin in hand, still pulling onto trousers with the other in a desperate but pathetic attempt to protect modesty. With the gate open I then peered out only to see the rubbish truck’s flashing lights disappearing in the distance. How could they go so quickly? It had only been moments since I had first heard them, or was I really that slow?”

“Dumbstruck, but with alternating fits of rage and self-pity, I considered what I could do next. In my frenzy and forgetting my fly was still open, I ran in a desperate attempt to catch up, but too heavily laden, the wheelie bin couldn’t go as fast. Weeping now, in not too silent frustration and rage, I yelled, ‘Come back! Come back, you Bastards! Come back!’ I cried, for the desperate thought of another week spent compressing rubbish began to enter my mind and the agony was just too much to bear.”

“After one minute of this ignominy, I admitted defeat. I imagined all the street must have been now watching and laughing, looking down their snooty, hyper-organised noses to observe my miserable state, for they had remembered to put out their bins, why couldn’t I? Or why couldn’t someone remind me? Then I looked down to see aghast, that my fly was still wide open, and it was only then that I noticed pungent smells arising. Not my underpants I hoped although they were two days old, yet this smell wasn’t quite like my Jocks or rubbish bins, I thought. ‘Oh no!’ I shrieked in growing desperation, ‘Could it be?’ Yes, it was, the appalling odour of dog pooh wafted up and yes, the deposit now appeared firmly affixed to my thong. ‘Oh,’ I reflected, ‘Perhaps the genesis of a song, the song of a thong with a pong? Was I going mad? Well, maybe next time!’.”

“Regaining some self-control, I spoke to myself sharply, reminding myself that ‘This is bloody total war!’ Shaking my fist at the air, the street and the now vanished rubbish truck, I gained a steely determination like General Douglas McArthur, that I would return despite the odds.”

“Thus, in my diminished state, I retreated to plan my next move. ‘Like any good general,’ I considered, ‘I must turn defeat into victory. This was not a loss, but an opportunity,’ I said, suddenly remembering my Corporation’s inspirational Mission Statement. Yes, even my MBA began to take effect as I realised discipline and transfusion, no! I paused to ponder, perhaps it was some word like that, ah! ‘transparency,’ I remembered, took over.”

“And so, I began to consider with vigour, and I might say, not without some evil intent, my next dawn attack. I remembered and took heart from how Napoleon at Austerlitz, had out witted superior numbers, then I also remembered how Frederick the Great of Germany had defeated Russia, or even Churchill after Dunkirk, where both had regrouped to turn defeat into victory. Later, to take heart, I listened once again to Churchill’s war-time speeches and gained inspiration, never has so much been owed by so many to such pooh! This would be my finest hour, I thought, to fight on the streets, in recycling bins and on the dumping grounds… No, I would never surrender!”

“Later that week a dastardly, but brilliant strategy suddenly stared me in the face, I was shocked, for the solution had been there all along. ‘Be alert but not alarmed,’ I muttered reminding myself of some long forgotten great Australian leader, now, what was his name again…?”

“Why hadn’t I thought of this before? For it dawned upon me, that my house was actually located on a corner of two streets. Thus, in my dim-witted way, it broke upon me like a hot flash of methane gas, that rubbish trucks collected bins in the alternative north-south axis road approximately one hour later than the first point of collection. In my excitement, I began to feel that this was a discovery equivalent to Alan Turing breaking the German Enigma codes, in WW II.”

“My plan of attack was simple. I would strike back at the rubbish terrorists, now, hang on a minute! Wasn’t it I who had become the terrorist? Oh, it doesn’t matter I reconciled, after all, truth is the first casualty of war! By placing my diminutive bins on the first street for collection and as soon as the bin had been emptied, I resolved to strike again, run outside, re-fill the bins again before rushing them like fully equipped storm troopers to a besieged front line. ‘Oh, what sweet victory this would be,’ I muttered.”

“Then next week, as another grey dawn broke upon my battlefield, silently, in full SAS commando dress of shorts and thongs, face blackened with unshaven beard, perspiring and hands all clammy with tension, I waited breathlessly. As soon as first pickup had taken place, I acted by Ramming in new plastic bags, like bags of Cordite into the breech of my 20 Pounders, I thought, and soon rolled out my fully loaded bins to stand expectantly upon the next corner entrance. And so, in this way, my plan went faultlessly into action.”

“That’ll teach them! I smirked victoriously as next week’s load of sentinel bins disgorged their smelly load as unsuspecting Garbos carried off these spoils of war.”

Suddenly, my flashbacks began to fade, and I realised that, apart from trembling with emotion, I was still talking to my grandchild. In all the excitement of retelling, I had forgotten his presence. I smiled down at the dear little face of my grandson whose unblinking, innocent gaze had remained transfixed. Peering down at him, I patted his dear little head, tears welled up in my eyes. “My boy,” I earnestly said, “I hope when you grow up, you’ll never have to face such struggles and be like me!”

“Oh, grandpa,” he smiled lovingly, “When I grow up like you, you’ll be my hero!”

Ah! I sighed and smiled to myself. Now,that WOULD be a load of rubbish!