It's not bin the best way to ring in 2026

Missing my slot a real clutter-f**k

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I LOOKED at the bin truck.

The bin truck looked at me.

The bins didn't know where to look.

They stood at the back of the house like bloated soldiers regurgitating ghosts of Christmas past, losers in the war against litter.

I stood at the window, facing the road - sombre in the realisation that the bin truck was passing by like a funeral cortege mourning dying hopes of disposal.

And if three similes aren't too much this early in the year or column, the blame fell on me like a forgotten bauble falling from a taken-down tree.

I had been warned. My phone had beeped. The notification was clear.

"Your bins are due for service tomorrow - please leave them out the night before."

As warnings go, that is excellently worded - firm and to the point, businesslike yet not intimidating, and unlikely to spark panic.