Particular forms of what in America is called garbage impinge upon your sense of reality. It’s a no brainer that there is more of it in the world than there used to be. Roman rubbish piles take on quaint BBC4 archaeological significance; not perhaps as significant as the less than expectedly crooked remains of Ricky The Shit under a reserved car park space, but significant nevertheless.
If popular fly tipping locations remain in use and uncleared for long enough, it’s probable that they’ll be of interest to archaeologists in a thousand years’ time. Mattresses, bricks and drinks cans apparently discarded over a period of what experts believe may have been several decades. Soil tests indicate that human infant faeces may also have been present, and there are of course many examples of the type of non-degradable printed plastic sheeting that this period is well known for. Most puzzling of all for historians is that there appears to have been a railway track only a few metres away and an official waste disposal site in the next suburb. It is believed that illegal waste disposal may have had some religious significance for a prevalent sub species with reduced brain function.
Growth can be aided by the right kind of rubbish. On this very bright afternoon in late February there is evidence of growth. Mum knew how to grow things. All those trees she collected in her garden over the years will be getting into gear about now, entirely oblivious of the fact that the person who planted them no longer looks out at the sea every morning from that window, or even opens the curtains. The bacteria in the compost heap that by now will have started to break down her final potato peelings are similarly unaware, as are the bulbs whose shoots we glimpsed in those boxes outside the garden gate a few minutes before we got in the car last time.
I pretty much do not have a facility for growing plants. If I ever get the psychological space, I’ll pay more attention to growing plants. Hopefully in the meantime I’ll grow other things.