Got to go where the bin is

Van Morrison sings Got to go where the love is. But I think it’s better I don’t go where the love is, or I’ll end up leaving him a bag of shit and a heart-shaped cioccolatino on the doormat, with a note saying ‘i love you from the depths of… ‘.

I got to go where the bin is, instead. To throw away my rubbish and, of course, the bags of poo. This morning I threw away 4 smelly bags that had collected outside. I walked all the way to the local Sainsbury’s because that’s where the bins are, according to boaters’ wisdom. Not proper big bins, more like this kind of pedestrians’ bins. That means you’ve got to make your bags small so that they fit. Or else you have to do like I did, and push them through the little opening with your hands while people look at you, appalled.

Finding rubbish bins and finding supermarkets is my main occupation when I reach a new location. They often come together, which is great. While I don’t particularly like rubbish bins, I’ve developed a certain interest in supermarkets since moving along the canal. I like to spot the different produce they have depending on the area, what kind of people there are and what they buy. In Sainsbury’s Alperton they have chinese dumplings, which I’ve never seen anywhere else, for example. But I don’t see why people would buy dumplings there, because there’s a massive Asian store just behind the corner. Mysteries. Life is full of mysteries.