My obsession with litter is bordering on mental illness

It’s no good. I’ve tried to resist it, but I’ve succumbed. I’m now a full-blown litter Nazi.

Whenever I leave my house, I make a point of taking a plastic bag with me so I can pick up litter. This is in Acton, mind you, so we’re talking a full-size bin liner, not your common-or-garden Sainsbury’s job. Everything goes in the bag. Not just beer cans and cigarette packets — I’m talking about mucky stuff like wet newspapers, polystyrene takeaway containers and banana skins. I even pick up those little black plastic bags full of excrement that some dog owners carefully place beside trees or hang on railings.

My children are mortified by this behaviour. They usually try to physically restrain me, pinning my arms to my side, or, failing that, run ahead, shouting, ‘Ergh’ and ‘Yucky’. They’re right to be embarrassed. I often attract queer looks from passers-by, who aren’t used to seeing middle-aged men in suits bent double over the pavement, manically trying to scrape a wet tissue off the asphalt.