pumpkinstrokemarrow

So I thought it was time to see how such things were done in Devon. One difference was that all the signage was expressed in terms of recycling centre rather than waste transfer station, let alone tip or dump. The next difference was that no-one cared who I was. I suppose with Exeter being in the heart of Devon, it was not that likely that there would be many alien freeloaders. A much smaller facility than ours at Epsom but much more friendly. Attendants really helpful, first thing in the morning anyway. So a C-max full of assorted rubbish, some of it none to savoury, disposed of in about ten minutes. All terribly wasteful: a lot of the stuff had a fair bit of life in it desite having no resale value. I suppose we are all too rich these days to want hand-me-downs. But the attendants did say that they did their best to find good homes for the rubbish. I dare say they have K-factors about how well they do.

The day before, I had had occasion to talk to a furniture dealer, who having explained that all FIL's perfectly decent brown wood furniture was rubbish (bar one peice) as far as he was concerned and that I would have to pay him well to take it away. He went on to explain that if he took it to the waste transfer station - this being another entrance to what I now know as the recycling centre - he had to pay for the privilege and then whole lot just went to landfill. No nice attendants sorting it all out. Just sling it in the heap and the loader will squish it all into large dustbins for onward transmission to landfill. One day we will have a more coherent approach to all this eco-lark.

When younger, I might have recycled some of the timber into bookcases. Only using hand tools. But while I have the books, I don't have the energy any more. Plus BH might take a dim view as we have a long standing agreement on the shelf metres I am allowed and I have been at max. for some time. So pondering what to do on the furniture front.

The one thing he claimed he could sell was an entirely ordinary chest of drawers. Oak finished, nothing fancy. All the other stuff - some nice cupboards and sideboards - of no interest at all. I suppose as well as having too much money, we also have too much stuff. Furniture built in the twenties and thirties just can't cope with it all. Must have giant fitted wardrobes - which make a room seem a lot smaller - but do pack the stuff in big time.

Having been brought up to wash bottles and jars before recycling them, I tried to wash a more or less full but ancient bottle of gravy browning. Pity, because the ancient gear was much stronger and cheaper than the stuff you get now. The other catch was that I probably used more energy in hot water and detergent cleaning the thing than I saved by recycling it. Plus brown splashes got into all sorts of odd places, some of which I cleaned up.

The dead flies also deserve a mention. There must have been twenty or thirty of them lying about the house, with more expiring as I went. Must be a time of year thing.

Wound up the day with a visit to the pub opposite. By mistake started on Tribute. A perfectly good beer, but a mistake as it is quite widely available in London, unlike the Otter which they also had but which is not. Then onto a special of the day, cottage pie. Which came scalding hot in a shiny white boat with some mixed veg. to the side. Cottage pie decent, although not improved by there being too much butter in or on the potato. I had been told the day before that butter is a good way to tart up reheated potato but it did not do the cottage pie any favours for me. Cottage pie should taste of mutton (or possibly beef) dripping, not butter. I then wondered about the route to my plate. Did the things come off the lorry in the white boats and then, some time later, go direct from freezer to microwave? Or was there one drum of brown stuff and one drum of white stuff, with the pie actually being assembled to order, prior to insertion in the microwave? In which case calling it a special of the day might actually mean something, for a change, my being firmly of the opinion that special of the day is just a marketing ploy. Doesn't mean any more than home cooking. Finished off the meal with Doombar. Another perfectly good beer which is widely available in London.

Must have been good stuff because I became convinced that the beach with ducks in the picture on the wall opposite was covered in pampas grass. Didn't like to inspect it too closely.