In praise of garbage chutes

There are many things to miss about Australia. I miss the quiet in the evenings; the stunning clarity of the sky at sunset; the sound and texture of the sand at my local beach. I almost miss the possums that wake me up at 2:00 in the morning running up and down the gutter and fighting over women.

What I don’t miss is taking out the rubbish. Once a week the outside bin has to be wheeled down the drive to the spot by the letterbox where, early the next morning, a truck will come and hoist it up and over and deposit it back down emptied. I usually forget and Sharon either reminds me or does it herself and I end up either rushing out into the cold or feeling guilty.

What a pleasure as we move up into the world of high-rise Singapore to discover the garbage chute. Just a little tilt of a hatch, in goes the rubbish, and with a very satisfying whoosh, it disappears, no longer my responsibility. Height has bred ease and a reduced sense of responsibility; the effluence of affluence is no longer such a chore.