Recycled Man

I clattered awake at 6:00am and tried to stretch my aching back and
limbs. Sleeping in such a confined space really is not too healthy at
my age but it's cold, wet and miserable out there and I have at least
managed to remain dry over the past five weeks. I gained access to my
new home through a hatch at the back of the aluminium-recycling bin.
It's how they empty it, which is what happens every Tuesday. I need to
be awake early in order to avoid being unloaded with the rest of the
empty shells and taken to be melted down, reshaped and used to
administer sugar to children's teeth. Tuesday evenings bring me a sense
of relief as there are not so many cans in the bank, which means that I
have got more room to move, breath and relax. As the week progresses, I
get closer and closer to the roof of my shelter and it's extremely
difficult to gain egress. I'm used to the feeling of people dumping
their tins, cans and chip wrappers onto my head now. When I first moved
in, I would shout angry and abusive words at them but now I try to keep
as low a profile as I can. I don't want to be discovered again and told
to move on.

You would be amazed at how much food and drink is left inside these
so-called empty cans. I manage to sustain myself pretty well on the
remains of meat pie fillings, dog food and lilt. I get the occasional
beery dribble and as I said before, when the late night revellers dump
their chips into the slot, I know that I am in for a real good feed. I
had considered making a move into the paper recycling bank but a good
read won't get you through another hungry night in the middle of
March.

I try not to be seen during the daylight hours these days, as the
sharp edges of the cans have torn much of my clothing to shreds and the
scar tissue from my numerous cuts and abrasions have made me into quite
a spectacle. Last week, several angry mothers chased me from the park
accusing me of scaring their children. That was not my intention. All I
wanted was to take some of the bread that they had thrown to the ducks.
Damp bread helps me to wipe the wasted food from around the more
sparsely lined tins. The ducks would understand. I dare not lick the
tins anymore as the cuts to my tongue swell up making it difficult to
breathe properly. I have enough problems?

When the day comes that I feel that I cannot take anymore of my
existence, I have made a plan to move into the green glass bottle bank
further down the car park. People drink lots of wine in this area and I
suspect that I will be minced into a sort of ragged pulp within a few
hours. I think that will be a fairly unpleasant end to my relatively
short life but I am hoping that some horse faced Nigel or Nigella will
glance into the recycling bin and see my red, tatty smile. Maybe then
they will reflect on the fact that once, a long time ago, I was their
equal and the same thing could happen to them.