There’s a blue bin stand-off at the refuse department. I don’t know why, but they have reduced their service and I end up running to the dump constantly.
As our wheelie bin was lying dormant, I washed it so clean you could eat your dinner out of it and as I forced the family to admire my handiwork, I recounted a story from back in Belfast.
I was about 15 and wheelie bins had first appeared and were the subject of much admiration. So shiny and new, it was almost sacrilegious to tarnish them with rubbish, and as I called to my friend’s house one morning on the way to St Malachy’s, I saw a few of the boys standing around the bin.
“See who can jump into it from standing beside it,” someone suggested.
“Like a kangaroo?”
“Exactly!”
“Wise up. You’ll catch your foot and knock your teeth out.”
“The bin will fall and you’ll go on your hole.”
“No, we’ll grip it tight. Who’s game?”
After a bit of practising and testing, a couple of the boys tried and failed, but didn’t wreck themselves, so I lined up to jump.
Now I was a goodish footballer and played basketball, so my spring was decent; but this was alarmingly high.
Eventually, after a lot of deep breaths, I launched myself up, tucked my legs under my chin, and plopped into the bin perfectly.
Later, some of those who witnessed my feat would say it was as though my legs telescopically disappeared into my body. A cheer went up that was guttural but then there was a strange, muffled silence. And darkness.
I tried to get out but it wouldn’t open, and I banged and shouted but no-one answered. Then I felt the bin moving and suddenly I was bouncing around inside, roaring and screaming how this wasn’t funny. But to no avail. The bin and its contents, ie me, were being taken somewhere.
Later, of course, the boys said it all was improvised, and I suppose I believe them. They had closed the lid and someone saw a rope and they tied it round and whispered a great plan to each other.
After wheeling the bin down the road, they left it sitting outside the police station and rang the bell.
The story is now folklore in the school. Versions of it have me being arrested and the dean having to come up and bail me out, right up to a controlled explosion with the robot; only thwarted by one of the boys jumping on top of the bin.
But the truth was the cop who opened the door had seen this prank before and heard my shouts. He let me out with the wryest of smiles and sent me packing.
Of course, that’s not what I told the boys when I eventually got into school. They were mad men, I’ll give them that, but before we could even disseminate what happened, the teacher got a knock on the door and one of the elderly priests came over and whispered to him. He announced there was a search for a missing girl and that we were to help out on a sweep of the Cavehill.
As we trudged in a long line over the mountain, I wondered why had we been asked. It was other-worldly: peering at the rushes and kicking through wet nettles for a dead body; hoping you wouldn’t feel something; praying for this sad stranger.
We were told to stand down after a few hours and sent home. They had found her at the bottom of a quarry lake; but me and a few lads snuck back to see the frogmen lift her black, lifeless body out.
“That was a cheery tale.” Fionnuala said, as the children stared silently at me, open-mouthed.
“Let’s hope the binmen settle their dispute soon.”