It might sound slightly unhinged, but I have fallen in love with it.
As soon as it is emptied, I am desperate to refill it, although I know my bin cannot runneth over because that is a no-no.
One week dominated by almost constant drizzle saw me rushing out in a brief break in the wetness to trim the hedge because it was bin day the next day.
Afterwards, the hedge looked as if it had been chewed by a plague of rats, but that was not the point.
When I proudly shared this woman-against-the-elements triumph with a friend (it was all of about 8°C at the time), she laughed.
Was it a nervous Elspeth’s-losing-it sort of laugh or did she just think it was funny? I was too cold to care.
The goody two-shoes in me has been wondering how many people have been paying attention to what they are allowed to put in the green bin.
Who is wantonly throwing their tea-bags in there, contrary to the rules? Not me, your honour.
How do I love the wheelie bin? Let me count the ways, although without the benefit of structured mathematics teaching, I cannot vouch for my accuracy.
As I am a notoriously appalling gardener, happy not to venture usefully into the wilderness from one week to the next, the wheelie bin ensures a modicum of regular activity.
My occasional forays into the depths of my large out-of-control garden with the machete and secateurs have previously resulted in piles of weeds and debris dotted about the property. I am hoping, over time, my use of the wheelie bin will eradicate these eyesores.
But the best thing about the bin is I no longer have to pretend I am making compost. It’s cathartic.
I know a lot about compost. I have read books and newspaper articles about it, all describing in detail how composting works, and how to ensure mine does.
But what have I done? I have kidded myself about composting for years.
With high hopes, I bought a black compost bin. I may have followed the instructions about what to put on the bottom of it, but then after that I have mostly thrown kitchen scraps (and the odd sink plug, potato peeler and teaspoon) into it, popped the lid on, secured it with a brick and walked away.
The slimy innards of this monstrosity were never likely to produce anything resembling something which is dark brown, with a crumbly, soil-like texture, smelling like damp woodland. (I only know it should be like that because Mr Google, and the books and newspaper articles have told me so.)
Rather than being a composting operation it was more of a centrally heated hotel for mice (and possibly rats, but let’s not go there). I know this because the cat spent an inordinate amount of time waiting beside it, resulting in a succession of dead mice which she lovingly left in the hallway for me to stand on.
You might say I was the Karen Chhour of compost.
Karen’s attitude to boot camps for youth offenders and getting rid of 7AA in the Oranga Tamariki Act is as delusional as my composting behaviour. She has been exposed to plenty of reliable information about both subjects, but she ignores it and plunges ahead.
Anyone can see the expensive boot camp (sorry, military academy) pilot is a farce.
How can it be a true pilot when the people participating in it have "volunteered" to be there? There will be nothing voluntary about the real thing.
After two weeks, one of the volunteers has already left. We don’t know why, but it raises the question of how hard it might be to leave the camp when attendance is mandated, and how safe that might be physically and mentally for young offenders.
This 12-month pilot cannot establish if this can make a real difference in these young people’s lives. To do that would require years of follow-up, but there will be no time for that.
By the end of the year, it is expected Young Serious Offender legislation will be introduced, which will allow judges to send kids with the YSO designation to boot camps.
But while the green-topped bin has given me a way to escape my composting myth-making, Karen and her tough-on-crime chums missed the opportunity the findings of the Royal Commission of Inquiry into abuse in care gave them to rethink their boot-camp stance.
On the 7AA repeal, she could be taking heed of the many voices contrary to hers who have made submissions to the select committee.
The trouble is, I don’t think Karen is capable of recognising how liberating and face-saving a green-topped wheelie bin moment can be.
• Elspeth McLean is a Dunedin writer.
