I was just arriving at El Vino on Fleet Street for a leaving do when my phone rang. It was my wife, sounding frantic. ‘Where’s that box?’
‘What box?’
‘The box that was outside our bedroom door.’
I didn’t just do the bins effectively, I did them with grace. I did the bins, I thought, in the manner of Roger Federer
My mind started working quickly. It was a Thursday evening. The box in question, small and nondescript, had indeed been by our bedroom door. It had been there since Saturday evening or Sunday morning and I had passed it any number of times until earlier that day, shortly before 6 a.m., I had finally picked it up and taken it downstairs, giving it a little shake on the way to confirm my by-now firmly established belief that it was empty.
‘It’s in the recycling…’ Even as I said it I could sense that this was the wrong answer.
Get Britain's best politics newsletters
Register to get The Spectator's insight and opinion straight to your inbox. You can then read two free articles each week.
Already a subscriber? Log in
Comments
Join the debate for just £1 a month
Be part of the conversation with other Spectator readers by getting your first three months for £3.
UNLOCK ACCESS Just £1 a monthAlready a subscriber? Log in