Verge of Excess
Ros Thomas
The Weekend West
Published: Saturday March 21, 2015

I can feel summer losing its sting. The leaves on the plane trees are curling into autumn, their edges fringed a coppery brown. At 6am, there is dew cooling my bike seat. Best of all, the new season triggers our council’s bulk rubbish collection.

Mounds of gubbins have arisen on verges. Outside No. 56, a black Weber kettle from last century is crippled on the grass. Now a lidless bipod, its rusty innards are exposed. A clothes horse, plastic arms peeling, leans against a tree. Teetering on the kerb outside No. 64 is a bar fridge, door half-hinged, seals shredded. The wind blows it open just as a cyclist hurtles down our hill. He jerks away from the kerb as the door swings at his shins. That’s when I notice three frayed fly swats in primary colours propped in a chipped white vase, a local’s Mondrian homage to dead blowflies.

Pedalling at dawn, I see the heaps have proliferated. A decrepit dishwasher squats outside No. 70. Its dented white door rests metres away. Between appliance and door is a pagoda of flattened cardboard, the boxes for a new dishwasher and oven. A wicker basket sits on top like a crown, filled with Tupperware. For a moment I consider rifling through the containers to see if my missing lids have migrated here. Would anyone recognise me grubbing through the neighbour’s leavings? I eye off the boxes, knowing what great cubbies they’d make. Six sprinklers charge up through the lawn with a hiss. No scavenging for me today. Soon the boxes will be sodden and useless.

You can tell a lot about a household by its detritus. One verge is offering a collection of tribal masks. They look African: some painted with long wooden noses and gouged-out eye sockets, others plain, with unfortunate jug-ears and matted hessian goatees. Bear Grylls must live here.

Next door, a swathe of perfect lawn hosts neat piles of refuse in seemingly perfect nick. Two balding teddies picnic on a bright plaid rug. A shaggy mop and several old brooms are lined up like soldiers. Beside them are three obelisks, each of six floral cushions. Perhaps Laura Ashley lives here.

Our verge, conversely, is a tangle of dilapidated bikes, a leaning tower of plastic planters, two busted scooters (one pink, one blue), a pine bookcase and a tub of tattered shoes. Then there’s the junk I reluctantly abandoned: the stroller whose wheels veer annoyingly left; the playpen that successively imprisoned three toddlers, now out on parole. Anyone passing our home can tell we’ve reared three babies.

The world is divided into hoarders and purgers. I am a purger living with a hoarder who thinks he’s a purger. On collection eve, my hunter-gatherer marches past me with a box of books from the cellar.

Still in my nightie, I spy on him through the front door. I recognise my second-year French books as they spill onto the damp lawn. Then he rats on me to the neighbours, who are deadheading their roses:

“She can’t throw anything away!”

I hear sniggering.

“I heard that” I shout. He wanders inside with a smug grin.

“I’m not a hoarder,” I remind him gently. “I’m just running out of space to put things.”

A van pulls up and a swarthy man leaps from the driver’s seat to capture our bookcase.

“Score!” my husband says in greeting.

The man nods and slides our bookcase into the back of his van, slams the doors and cruises up the street.

Next morning, I make my final pass of the neighbourhood before the council trucks arrive. Nothing new to critique. I sense the purge is complete. I feel a wave of disappointment that my verge entertainment is over.

That’s when an interesting shape catches my eye. I stop pedalling and dismount. Propped against a milk crate is a leg. A man’s lower left leg. Made of peachy-pink plastic, it looks just like a mannequin’s, only there’s a gaping crack along the shin. Sticking out at the ankle is a metal rod attached to a foot. I can only presume it’s a foot because one end of the leg is wearing a worn-out Hush Puppy, laced up over a faded fawn sock.

I get the feeling this is not a rich man’s leg. Or maybe it’s just an unloved leg. I debate whether to knock on the door and ask its owner. Would that be rude? Yes.

So I speed the ten-minute ride home, grab my camera so my husband will believe me, and return to the corner house. To my dismay, the verge is now clear. The whole street is clean. The collection truck has been and gone! As I turn for home, I spot a small metal object shining in the grass. An egg cup? Don’t mind if I do!