My regular readers will remember that I wrote about the dangers of recycling when I injured my foot through stomping on Sam's beer cans. This had to be done so that I could compact them down into the bottom of bags of foil and aluminium for Church. Feeling slightly embarrassed that we were now contributing beer cans in quite a big way and that we might be thought of as secret drinkers approaching alcoholism, I hid the cans under all the other foil from pies and things.
What does Church want with them anyway, you might well ask? Well they sponsor a little girl in Bangladesh with the proceeds of the aluminium after it is sold. This provides her with a meal a day and an education that she would not otherwise receive. So I suppose it could be an incentive for my son to drink up!
I don't really care too much about what other people think of me. In fact the older I get, the more I can get away with bizarre behaviour, as I can always blame my age and have been doing that for years! Several bloggers advised me to purchase a can crusher to save my feet from getting further damaged and I am now the proud owner of a deluxe model that is mounted on the kitchen wall. It is quite therapeutic crushing down cans! There's something a bit pathetic about that statement, isn't there? If the lever of the can crusher is pulled correctly and the can turned upside down so that the air is forced out of it, all is well. However, every now and then the crumpled can is liable to leap out when you least expect it to. There should be a warning on these contraptions to use protective goggles!
Now I have developed a horrible habit of picking up cans from the pavement. Usually they have been flung from cars onto the pavement and I turn the cans upside down to let left over liquid to trickle into the gutter. Sometimes I get odd looks as I really don't look like a down and out who needs to slurp down other people's leftovers hurriedly.
I have been known to say, "If everybody picked up a can, the street would be a lot cleaner!" I am also thinking of the little girl in Bangladesh, as I'm sure she doesn't care where the money for her meal comes from. Whether its from coke or beer cans, from the street or anywhere else.
After my can crushing, I wash my hands carefully in case someone really horrid dropped the cans and I watch with fascination as the bag fills up quite quickly with little two inch condensed can stumps.
So I don't really care anymore who thinks what! After all, I know that I hardly drink at all and I say, "Cheers," to the Bangladeshi girl, when others do!
