When I was a boy, it was pretty easy to make a shilling or two by collecting bottles and taking them back to the corner shop. You could find them on waste tips, beg your mum or your neighbours or just empty the last bit down the sink and by the end of the day you’d have enough for a bag of gobstoppers, aniseed balls or liquorice wood. Some unscrupulous boys would even go round the back of the shop, collect a few returns already in the crate and bring them in the front for the refund. I never did that, honest.
We all collected milk bottle tops and silver foil and took it in to school for collection for some good cause or other (I never could remember which) and a pile of old newspapers would always fetch a few pennies at the scrap merchants.
When the rag and bone man came down the street, we would rush around to find anything that would earn us a goldfish. There’s probably many a mum who lost a perfectly good Sunday outfit when the wardrobes were raided.
We didn’t know the word recycling, it hadn’t been invented yet, but we all knew how to do it. All leftovers had a use. We didn’t need waste disposal units. Scraps went on the compost tip to grow vegetables in the garden. We didn’t have sell by dates, so once food started to taste a bit funny, we fed it to the chickens or the dog.
My wife reminded me how her mother would un-pick an old jumper and re-roll the wool to make something new. Anyone over 50 will remember having to stand still with arms outstretched while the yarn was rolled back into a ball. Admittedly, sometimes one of the sleeves wasn’t quite the same shade as front but it didn’t seem to matter. Ripped sheets were soon mended with cotton and a hole in a sock was darned.
So what changed? According to my wife, who knows nearly everything, we all got rich. We stopped going on caravan holidays in Southend and flew off to the Costa Del Sol for a fortnight. We couldn’t possibly go there with old clothes so we bought a new summer wardrobe and slung last years cast-offs in the bin. We lived in the land of plenty with resources that would never run out. We even discovered natural gas that would keep the homefires burning for the rest of time.
They invented something called a trash compactor, which squashed a month’s waste into a cubic foot with the power of a pile driver, until only Hercules himself could move it to the dustbin. Perfect for the landfill sites, if it could ever be lifted onto the dustcart.
Someone invented the remote control, which saved us from getting off the new couch (bought on the never-never) to change programmes on our 4 channel TV. The switch on the wall was never turned off and that wonderful fading dot in the centre of the screen gave way to an ever-ready, instant source of entertainment. The only thing ever recycled in the land of plenty was Morecambe and Wise every Christmas. Come to think of it, it still is. Records gave way first to the 8 track, then cassettes and then the CD . Never again would we make a plant pot out of an old 78 for Nan’s birthday.
I told Kimberley about 78’s just the other day, she’d never heard of one. By the way, how many grooves were there in a 78?
Well it’s all over now. According to all the world leaders, everyone is poor again. There’s nothing left in the pot. We’ll have to drag out that old mismatched woollen jumper to keep warm, while the thermostat is turned down on the central heating to slightly above freezing level. We’ll all be allotted one 30-watt bulb to carry around from room to room and only switch it on after dusk. High Street Travel agents will all give way to charity shops where we will buy last years fashion items, donated by the few rich people left, for our holiday under canvass in the back garden. Extra recycle bins will soon be provided to sort paper and cardboard into different thickness and colour.
Is there any light at the end of the tunnel? Probably not, we can’t afford to switch it on.
The fact is, we shouldn’t need to be told how to recycle at all, we learned all the lessons years ago. It wasn’t perfect and I hated darned socks, but I’ve finally come to realise that the previous generation actually knew a thing or two. Recycling is plain old-fashioned common sense. ‘Waste not want not was’ was our parents’ motto and it worked. If we are wise, the world won’t suddenly crumble into dust. We’ll find new energy resources, we’ll use the sun and the wind and we’ll stop worrying about getting from Birmingham to London in less than 40 minutes.
In a couple of years or so, all the world leaders will get together and decide we are not poor anymore. We will all stop being depressed about the Euro, but just to keep us on our toes, they will find something else for us to worry about. Did you know for example that the moon moves away from the earth by four inches every year? We are doomed for sure.
And now for the good news.
At every exhibition there is unavoidable waste. Unused brochures and leaflets get dumped, registration badges get discarded and holders get thrown in the bin. Not any more. In 2013, every scrap of card and paper will be put in special containers for recycling. Our contractors now provide reusable wiring looms and our modular systems are designed for many years of use. Even the carpet is mulched down to make wall insulation. We will encourage further use of bright, effective, low energy lighting. With a touch of Grecian 2000 and a box of Phylosan, we should even be able to recycle the organiser for a few more years.
The Next National Funeral Exhibition takes place from June 7 – 9 2013 at Stoneleigh Park, England
This article is reprinted from The Funeral Director Monthly February edition
