Continued from yesterday

Staring at me from beneath the sheet and within a cracked frame smothered in dust and what looked like mouse droppings: a watercolour painting of Fred Trueman’s cricket boots, signed by Fred Trueman.

I’d forgotten I had it; hadn’t seen it for years. And I’d just come from the Village Shop, in which I’d purchased a newspaper, the front page announcing that Fred Trueman had just died.

This seemed like a bit of a coincidence.

The picture had been stashed away since – well – the turn of the century, I guess. Nothing against Fred Trueman or Fred Trueman’s boots, but I’d never really fancied the thing on my wall. There are houses in which I’m sure it would sit excellently with the décor, but I’ve always been a bit conservative-English in my taste in art – Constable, Lowry, girl tennis players scratching their arses, etc. Pictures of cricket boots would come a reasonable way down my personal list, just above male nudes and crayon drawings by other people’s children. So I’d stuck it in the loft and forgotten about it.

Yet here it was, having reappeared on the day Fred Trueman’s death was announced.

(Incidentally, for those readers not from England or the colonies, I should explain that Fred Trueman was sort of the Abi Titmus of the game of cricket, having the undeserved misfortune to be known by many not for his achievements in the early years but for subsequent loud moaning onscreen.)

I replaced my painting thoughtfully. If I am going to have spooky haunted coincidentally-appearing Fred Trueman boot paintings then I would rather just leave them be than start prodding about with them.

I do not want lots of alien Fred Truemans appearing from the divide in order to go on about how our fast bowlers aren’t as good as those in their dimension.

My new recycling bin has arrived!!!

I awake to find that the Council has delivered big green wheeled bins for recycling. They are to replace the previous plastic boxes, which we are to throw away.

It sits there in the front garden, the sun rising over its looming chunkiness like a big green version of the eerie monolith from the film “2001: A Space Odyssey”. I briefly consider whether to put on some weird spacey choral music, don a monkey suit and go and dance round it before picking a fight with other monkeys. But none live in the street, so I am thwarted.

A leaflet pokes out the top with a long list of ‘don’ts’. The monkey suit thing is probably listed there, so it is a doubly good job I hadn’t hired one especially. It is typical of a culture of local government totally out of touch with the people. And they wonder why people do not vote for them.

I stick the kettle on and go to try and find some recycling for my new toy.

We try to be a ‘green’ household, and personally I think that stuff should be recycled if possible. So, for example, I always take an egg box to the Village Shop so that they can fill it with eggs and not use a new egg box. There is an empty plastic milk bottle in the kitchen. I take it to the bin – but hesitate. It is so unsullied and clean inside, and once I throw some recycling refuse in there it will be soiled for ever. I will never be able to climb in and make dalek noises.

I put the milk bottle in the recycling bin. I have christened it!!!

Returning inside, I make myself a cup of tea. As the scum rises to the surface, I search for an image of the Prophet Mohammed in the mug. Boooooo – there is no image of the Prophet Mohammed. I will not be an Ebay multimillionaire today. I just have scummy tea.