Lord of the Litter: Fellowship of the Syringe

T'was the first Saturdaye of t'month and that could only mean one thing: picking up other people's crap. Yup. Litter picking was upon us again. Me, Jingo and Robin set off into the thick swirling mists surrounding Princes' Park in Liverpool, armed with bin bags and the aptly named 'litter pickers'. We had a tough record to beat. Last time out we scored 2 condoms, 12 beer cans, 1 syringe and a managed to completely fill about 2 bins bags to bursting point. This time Robin hoped one of them wouldn't burst all over his foot.

Where as last time we excelled on the contraceptive front, this time we floundered. I found the only sexually related bounty of the expedition: one single, lousy durex wrapper. However, what we lacked in this department, we made up for with over 20 cans and bottles (including two wine bottles, one medicine bottle, ten cans of white light and assorted broken glass fragments (none of which ended up in my foot this time).

Jingo decided to dress in old jeans, an old jumper but instead of the obvious choice of old shoes, chose new, white trainers. Why? Ask him, not me. I attired sensibly for the occasion, also with a pair of much envied gloves.

The catalogue of calamitous events lengthened when Jingo trampled on a bed of newly planted daffodils towards the edge of the park. He assured me: "I'm sure they'll grow back."

After the tiresome yet CV boosting afternoon's main activity. Jingo and I checked out the job opportunities at the local Tesco store. We queued for about 20 minutes at the customer service desk as some old woman was trying to get her pension or something. The lady directly in front of us wanted a taxi to cart her elaborate and heavy purchases home, but no-one at the desk knew of a taxi number. I stepped forward boldly and brandished my Sefton Taxis business card, complete with calendar on reverse. Both women smiled and thanked me and the customer servicer called the number on the card. Since I was about to ask for a job, I could already feel the brownie points flooding into me. The number had expired.

She returned the card to me with a grimace that would have melted stone. Fortunately, my face is not made of such material, otherwise I would be enduring the deplorable British hospital system by now. The fact that a face made of stone is no cause for concern in the NHS anyway makes you wonder whether they would respond to a melted one either. Dissatisfied at me for some reason (I mean, its not like I work there or anything), the woman with the shopping lumbered off to get a bus home. Feeling depressed and embarrassed, I let Jingo do the talking, but he failed to secure us any position whatsoever. That's the last time I let him get me a job. We were told that there are usually several openings over Easter and should come back then.

Check out Jingo's alternative side of the day's events.