On getting a yellow card
The toast is burned, and there is a dog hair in my morning coffee. But there is worse to come.
"Hello, my name is Pyotr and I from council. I give you YELLOW CARD!"
He is indeed called Pyotr and from the council, because he is wearing a badge to that effect. He is also waving a yellow card in my face.
"Also – naughty tag on bin. Look!"
There is indeed a yellow tag on my wheelie bin. I dare say it has the word "Naughty" on it.
"We find plastic in food bin. Very naughty. YELLOW CARD!"
Bang to rights. He presents me with the little round disc they put over the top of a milk bottle, which – somehow – found its way into the incorrect bin. Only four to choose from – how could I be such a planet-raping spacker?
That being the case, and two minutes later...
"Mr Yellow Card man!" shouts a confused-looking Pyotr, "What… what you doing?"
"YELLOW CARD. Naughty tag on truck."
"Truck not naughty. Truck run on bio-ethanol."
"Ah ha," I say, an unnecessarily smug look on my face, "Truck has just dumped next door's bin all over the road. Very, very naughty."
No good can come of this.