Bin There, Done That

It sits in the kitchen like a benign, emasculated dalek. It boasts that no finger, however greasy, can mark its satin steel finish. It opens its gaping black jaw quietly, slowly, yet efficiently at the prompting of a single, light tap on the head, receiving our waste in the most dignified manner possible. It is our new fifty litre Brabantia touch bin; it is a rubbish-god to be worshipped reverently and appeased with frequent offerings.

The husband-to-be touched many bins before electing to buy this one. He delivered an eloquent oration about the superiority of that particular brand whilst raising lids in John Lewis. "Feel the action," he cried. We're not used to having bins with an action. Our green plastic swing bin came from Woolies and was bought because it matched the kitchen where we were living at the time. Ten years and two homes later and it didn't match anything any more. It had also developed a large crack in the lid (due, we think, to the over-zealous disposal of a nephew's nappy - this is what growing old does to you). It clearly needed replacing. Thus into our lives came the Brabantia.

Much to future hubby's excitement, the bin brought with it three free bin liners. As robust and well designed as the rubbish receiver itself, they were his dream bin bag. Since moving to a flat with communal refuse collection facilities I'd come to realise that even perfectly personable professionals can be of the type who view bin bags as an optional lifestyle choice. Consequently the building's wheely bin swims with a primordial soup of flat-dweller's detritus. I still await the emergence of new species with interest, but not wishing to contribute to the evolutionary process I developed a habit of double bagging our rubbish. Future hubby saw this as sub-optimal, but Sainsbury's swing bin liners just weren't strong enough to prevent leakage if used in a single layer. The Brabantia liners, though, were man enough to go into battle solo.

As our free samples began to run out, we searched the shops in vain for replacements. Nowhere seemed to stock the correct brand. The husband-to-be refused to entertain the possibility of buying any other kind. The allure of tough plastic bags with a brand name written all over them proved too much for him to forsake - these bags obviously being the male equivalent of the Hermes Birkin. Buying direct from the manufacturer would have meant a costly outlay in Euros. A quick internet search revealed a company with a very reasonable price per bag. The downside was that we had to buy in bulk.

So it was that, shortly after the garbage dalek took root, Parcelforce delivered what was clearly meant to be a trade-sized case of bin liners to our door. One hundred and twenty bin liners to be precise, neatly packaged in tens. We use, on average, one liner per week. Thus we had purchased over two years worth of liners with the single click of a mouse. The future has truly arrived. I managed to stow a year's supply under the sink before putting the rest in storage, lest our flat should be further taken over by the cult of the bin. Ah, the bin. Still it sits in the kitchen, clad internally with its designer lining, silently waiting for the rubbish, waiting for someone to touch it and bring it to life, while beneath the sink the liners wait in their ordered ranks - a silver monolith and its plastic baggy children.