If you have to enter a bin, don’t get caught

Occasionally/too often in life I find myself in situations where it’s not possible to laugh things off or casually gloss over the awkwardness.

Sometimes in life it’s possible to trip on the pavement and smoothly style it out into a little jog.

Sometimes it’s not.

Sometimes you’re literally sat in a bin and realise there’s no way to casually jog out of it.

Let me explain, but firstly I must point out that there’s a reason I’ve only shared this Miranda-esque performance with a chosen few….it is shameful.

I moved into a lovely little flat last August. It’s on a quaint estate that’s beautifully quiet and for months I hadn’t even heard, let alone met, my neighbours.

A normal person would have perhaps knocked on their door and said hello, but not me.

As usual my first introduction was a little less conventional.

So our flats share a little communal outdoor bin shed with gigantic industrial wheelie bins inside for us to chuck out our stinking rubbish. I try very hard to avoid this job because I’ve seen Arachnophobia and I’m not stupid. I know there are a number of eight-legged bad boys in there waiting to kill me.

However on this particular day, the bin bags were letting off such a stink that it had gone beyond a tactical Febreeze of the kitchen. I was on my way out anyway, to the hairdressers incidentally. I was looking perfectly polished, because that’s what you do when you go to the hairdressers. Just in the same way you clean the house before your cleaner arrives. It’s just what you do.

I slipped on my cream coat, and at this point should add it was actually cream, that’s not just for comedy effect. I then picked up the bin bag and headed to the bin shed, with my keys in the same hand.

My bin technique involves me throwing the bag in with lightening speed, because the psychopath in me believes displaying quick reflexes will intimidate any spiders considering showing themselves.

But of course on this day I was running late for the hairdressers so things couldn’t possibly run smoothly. As I threw the rubbish in, I heard the unmistakable sound of my keys hitting the bottom of the bin. My life for a split second ended, for I instantly knew there was no quick fix. I’m not a natural problem solver, I’m a call my man, cry, and ask him what to do kind of girl.

The bin was too deep for me to reach into, so that was ruled out.

There was nothing to hand to hook them out with, so that was ruled out.

Then I spotted a rusty microwave in the corner and attempted to improvise by standing on it. However the bin was still too deep, so that was ruled out.

What happened next still haunts me.

I realised the only way to get the keys, was to turn the bin on its side. Using all of my strength I managed to turn the bin over, but the elusive keys still remained at the bottom, out of reach.

There was only one thing for it. I had to enter the bin and retrieve them or I would never make my hair appointment. Holding my breath and pinching my nose, I crouched down and waded in. Right in. As in not one part of my body was not in the bin.

And then, at that very moment, CREAK. The sound of the bin shed door opening.

Do you…

A) pretend you live there

B) pretend to speak no English

C) pretend you’re not there and just go with it when the person turns the bin the right way up with you in it

Well I went for option D after careful consideration and shuffled out to cheerfully introduce myself, minus the handshake.

Turns out the man who had walked in was my new next door neighbour, and his first words to me?

“I guess this isn’t your finest hour?”

Yep, thanks. I will take that.

I won’t confess that I wore that cream coat, covered in grime, and STINKING to the hairdressers after that. I won’t confess that when they asked to take my coat I grabbed it and shouted “NO” over-protectively, as though the label inside was Prada rather than Primark. I won’t confess that it’s hanging in my coat cupboard unwashed cos it’s dry clean only, and we all know that means Febreeze it and never pay to wash it.

Anyway moral if the story is, I am Miranda and, for a fleeting moment, I truly understood why Oscar the Grouch had such a chip on his shoulder.

Shame.