The bins… the bins…

The stop-start drone of the lorry on the streets, coughing and wheezing along, the sound of wheels on pavement, the mechanical lurching, the shouts of burly binmen, the clap-flapping of lids… Huey Bucket awoke at six in the morning, naked, sweating and twenty-eight years old.  He leapt out of bed.  “The bins!  The bins!” he cried, and ran downstairs, waking his wife in the process.  “Huey!  Huey!  It’s only Tuesday!” she shouted after him before collapsing back to sleep.  But Huey had already streaked through the house and was in the front yard, dragging their wheelie onto the road ready for collection.  It was not until he was stood stark naked in the street, a street suspiciously empty of black wheelie bins, that he realised – it was Tuesday, and he had done it again.

The stop-start drone of the lorry on the streets, coughing and wheezing along, the sound of wheels on pavement, the mechanical lurching, the shouts of burly binmen, the clap-flapping of lids… Huey Bucket awoke at six in the morning, naked, sweating and twenty-nine years old.  “The bins!  The bins!”  He yelled and flung the covers aside.  His wife grabbed him by the arm, “It’s only Tuesday… it’s not bin day love.”  Huey tried to wriggle free of her grip whilst she explained, “It’s just a roadsweeper, not the binmen.”  Huey stopped struggling whilst her words sunk in.  “It could be the recycling bins today, I’ll just go to the window and check.”  She let go of his arm and he got up and went over to the window.  Sure enough, there was a roadsweeper, dawdling its way along the road and not a binman in sight.

The stop-start drone of the lorry on the streets, coughing and wheezing along, the sound of wheels on pavement, the mechanical lurching, the shouts of burly binmen, the clap-flapping of lids… Huey Bucket awoke at six in the morning, naked, sweating and thirty years old.  He had been in the middle of an ‘Apocalypse Now’ dream, summoned by Colonel Kurtz who spoke to him in the darkness in a half-whisper and said, “the bins… the bins…”  “The bins!  The bins!”  Huey had shouted, sitting up in bed and waking his wife with him.  “Huey, it is not bin day,” she said through gritted teeth.  But Huey was up and at the window.  “It is, it is, it must be, I’ve forgotten,” he raved.  “It was just a bad dream,” she told him and turned away from him in bed before sandwiching her head between two pillows in frustration.  Huey quietly made his way downstairs to put the bin out, just in case.

The stop-start drone of the lorry on the streets, coughing and wheezing along, the sound of wheels on pavement, the mechanical lurching, the shouts of burly binmen, the clap-flapping of lids… Huey Bucket awoke at six in the morning, naked, sweating, thirty-one years old and alone.  “The bins!  The bins!” he screamed and sat up before flopping back into bed.  Every morning it was the bins.  He lay still in bed and listened for a moment.  The only sound that broke the Tuesday morning quiet was birdsong.  And yet still Huey was filled with a nagging doubt, convinced that the binmen would be arriving soon and he should put his bin out.  He gave in and got out of bed.  From his window he could see a sleepy, empty street with no bins out for collection.  He let out a sigh and went back to his empty bed.

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