All Ant

When I was a child I was blessed to grow up in a family that cherished books and reading. My earliest memories are of my father reading me a nightly Brer Rabbit story. Fairy tales that now seem to me quite grizzly in nature were standard fare, and cautionary tales were all the go.

Children who told the odd lie were soundly taught a lesson by being eaten by wolves or, as in poor Matilda's case, burned alive in her own home. Aesop could be relied upon to educate the young mind in simple virtues, and in particular I remember the story of The Ants and the Grasshopper. The ants worked industriously all summer while the grasshopper had a jolly good time leaping about and, rather cleverly for a grasshopper, playing his violin.

Come winter the ants ate their stored food and the grasshopper died of hunger. The ants took no pity and were not inclined to share. The moral was clear (and it wasn't about good Christian charity), but I always felt sad for the grasshopper and it has to be said that the violin is a really cool look for a musician*. My whole life I have been far more of a grasshopper than an ant, in just about every aspect I am a reluctant decision maker and poor self-motivator, so my sympathies were with him. But in one respect I am an ant channeler - I like to be well prepared for winter warmth while still in the heat of summer. And yesterday we were well in the heat of summer. There was a pleasant breeze off the sea, but it did not make it into my garage.

The time was right for the great firewood stack of 2016. Usually I have the wood delivered in three or four lots. But after the first trailer load arrived I listened to my inner ant and went for bust - all the wood, one afternoon, ant attack.

One load ...

... becomes five as the stacking begins ...

... and progress is made.

Three and a half hours later I had pulled off my greatest firewood effort ever.

Beauty thy name is firewood stack.

The garage has been tidied, and what's that extra bit of forward planning? Yes, after five years I've finally refilled the emergency water supply.

I was like an ant on acid. And now I can retreat back into my familiar grasshopper self, safe in the knowledge my work is done and Aesop is appeased.

*DISCLAIMER The violin is never a cool look for a child. I have no idea why, but there is some unwritten rule that a child can only play an untuned violin and must always practise only outside supermarkets or other shops, and is never to attempt any recogniseable melody.

Be afraid, be very afraid.

Extreme Gunning*

*For full definition, click here

For about eight years I have had a blue bin that is emptied fortnightly. When I started, the company was called Dimac Bins, but then some clever management sort probably said, "Hey, I've got a cool idea. Lets do absolutely nothing differently than we always have, but change our name to EnviroWaste. It will make us sound cooler and greener." And so they became EnviroWaste.

Then every January we started a little ritual. I would pay 12 months in advance for 26 empties of the bin, fortnightly. I would then ring and say, "I can't remember which week is my week, could you please send me the sticker to go on my bin that gives me all the dates for the year." Then the lady would helpfully say something like, "It's really easy, its every second week." I would then explain that we are not all as lucky as her to be fully immersed in the world of bins and we mere mortals often stupidly quite forget whether the bin was emptied last week or the week before. She would then reluctantly agree to post out the sticker.

I generally would then say how helpful it would be if they would just post out the sticker with the invoice or receipt. She would then say that nobody really wants them. I would say how hard I found that to believe and ask why they printed them if nobody but me wanted them, and we would bid farewell until another year had passed. So this year when the familiar envelope arrived in the post I had no reason to suspect anything would be different. But, alas, it was. That clever management sort had come up with a great new idea.

It went something like this. "Hey, I've got another great idea. Instead of letting people pay 12 months in advance and having all that lovely money in our bank account instead of theirs, lets insist they pay monthly - but only by direct debit. Send them all a form, they'll love it!"

Now, I have never actually seen Dirty Dancing, but I'm familiar with the quote, and I have a similar one myself - Nobody Accesses My Bank Account But Me. So I rang the lady, and asked if they were still happy for me to pay the year ahead as usual, because I wasn't interested in direct debits. I pointed out the advantage of taking a vast amount of money in advance, but she explained that my money in that form just would not be good enough for their company. She very helpfully told when my last bin empty would be, and I didn't even attempt the sticker conversation. Luckily that last date, February 12, has been seared in my brain. So today I did some extreme gunning. For the last time, I have filled that blue bin and bounced and bounced and bounced. I have managed to get in the equivalent of the domestic waste of a small country, plus a tree. I'll miss my bin and the cheery chap who has collected it on the fortnights I remembered to put it out. I won't miss that lady in the office.

Not Even Fair - Rally to the Cause

I am an even person. I was born on an even day, in an even month, in an even year. I am always far happier when my birthday rolls around and takes me to an even age. Odd ages never sound good. 55 sounds old, grey and dull. 56 sounds energetic and full of possibilities. I like even numbers. They are trustworthy, likable, balanced. I live in an even numbered house. Life is good ..... but is it fair?

This evening has been a busy one because it is an even day. I am only allowed to give my parched garden a good watering every second day, on even days of the month. The poor people with odd letter box numbers get the same chance on the odd days. This sounds like a perfectly fair system, taking turn and turn about. A fair system, that is, until the end of the month. Those odd sorts got to water well on Sunday, 31st January and then again on Monday, 1st February! Two consecutive days while my garden stood wilting. I felt irked at the time, but consoled myself that the next time the injustice would occur would be in March when the very worst of summer drought conditions would have passed. But then tonight I recalled that this is a leap year ....

... and we are getting an extra day in February and those jolly oddballs are going to get to double dip again at the February/March changeover. This is not fair! I propose a simple solution - odd numbered letterboxes have odd numbered days, even numbered letterboxes have even numbered days - and here is the trick - then everyone gets the 31st of any month, and once every fourth year the 29th of February, too. Simple solution. Ring your local body politicians, rally the troops, be a part of the change for letterbox parity.