People are getting carried away with this whole notion of giving away free stuff.
You know what I mean. People clean out their basements. And instead of driving to the dump and paying a fee like a responsible citizen, they deposit unwanted items on the curb.
Then they tape on a sign that says “free” or “free stuff.”
My theory is that one can judge one’s neighbourhood by the quality of the free stuff and the frequency with which it appears. For instance, in our neighbourhood, which is certainly not Oak Bay, someone recently put three toilets on the street as free stuff.
They were arranged in a neat row.
“Look at that,” I said as we drove by. “Three toilets.”
“Try not to think about it,” said my wife.
“Gee, I wonder who’s going to take those toilets. They’ll likely be snapped up by the time we drive back. And three of them, too. What a windfall.”
“Settle down,” said my wife. “You’re driving all wobbly-like.”
But I could not stop thinking about the toilets. Who puts out a toilet for giveaway? And why three? Did someone suddenly decide their old toilets needed to be replaced with fashionable new ones?
To my mind, these giveaway signs should not say “free stuff.” They should say, “Take my garbage, please.” Or even better: “Take my crummy old toilets.”
Another neighbour put out a rusty oil drum the other week. It had a “free” sign on it. But the sign blew off and landed in my back yard. Now it’s just a rusty oil drum, sitting there like a modern sculpture.
Possibly, now that the sign’s gone, it’s intended to be a statement on the folly of man depending on oil rather than green energy sources. That’s why the oil drum’s all rusty, you see.
“Calm down,” said my wife. “Forget about that oil drum. It’s not your problem.”
But it is. It’s in my neighbourhood. Which certainly isn’t Oak Bay.
Several days ago, my wife left for work. In our driveway, she noticed cars honking as they drove by. She waved, imagining acquaintances were saying hello.
In fact, the cars were beeping at a runaway chicken. It was a chicken that escaped from the chicken coop at the house next door.
My wife actually recognized the chicken. It’s white with black bits.
She knocked on the neighbour’s door.
“Your chicken is out on the street,” she said. “It has escaped.”
The husband and his young son ran out to corral the chicken. Now it’s back safe in the coop, with all its chicken brothers and sisters. I know because I hear them every morning, making festive cacklings and squawks.
A while back, someone was stealing our recycling bins. They would not only take the refundable bottles and cans (which is fine by me), they’d pilfer the blue plastic boxes as well.
This happened several times. My wife would return from the curb, all dejected, because the bins were missing. Not even the sight of the rusty oil drum sculpture could cheer her up.
So we decided to embark on a surveillance routine. Not sure what the police call it. A “sting” perhaps.
My wife noticed that even when the bins didn’t go missing, the cans and bottles always disappeared within minutes of her putting them out. So she decided to watch and wait next time.
Sure enough, after about 15 minutes, my wife yelled out: “Quick! Quick! They’re stealing the bins!”
I slipped on a pair of Crocs and sprinted to the curb. Sure enough, a woman in her 30s was stuffing our recycling bins in the back seat of her vehicle.
“Hey, you,” I yelled. “Give me back those bins!”
The woman looked, well … actually, quite frightened. Wearing only a dressing gown and Crocs, flushed with the effort of running 10 yards, it’s possible that I looked a bit demented.
I told her she could keep the bottles and/or cans. But in the future, no more bin stealing. She drove off. Nary a bin has been stolen since that day.
The rusty oil drum’s still there, though.
