Trash Whore
By Sarah Sexton
16.04.21
Ironically, I took the trash out yesterday morning, despite always doing curbside the night before. We have an early rubbish/recycling collection. Always by 7 am. The rubbish crew waits for no one and you can hear that garbage truck clanking down the street before your alarm strikes.
I never experienced a brighter sun at 6 am—-in England—-after a long, long night of no zzz’s. I have experienced the 6 am trash scene a handful. It was always a solo and stealth mission. My reaction yesterday was different. The sun pierced my tired eyes. My attention immediately popped when my neighbor was like, hello, in her fuzzy, purple bathrobe. Crap, crap, crap. Neighbor likes to talk. I am a trash whore right now.
No blames for that harsh label. I gave it to myself. I was taking out our trash and I looked particularly rough. Pandemic hangover, particularly rough! The only headache was from wide awake. Talking no sleep through the night. Brain swirling at midnight. Wide awake until 6 am, then dead tired again.
The day before my friend and her mom had tea with me in the Cathedral garden. This was one of my first social events outside of Sextonfive. I even put denim jeans on. Denim. Denim!! Decent enough weather to supply me with a ruby tank top and a sheer long sleeve blouse. I was happy and amused with my friends eating potato hash, shooting our lips and spilling (not much) tea.
Thereafter though, my battery percent depleted rapidly. Bed time-bra off, sweatpants on, hair up, messy bun! I exhaustingly uniformed the tank and sheer blouse for sleep. I don’t know why I swallowed that fly.
My neighbor spouted and muddled words. They could have been sentences, ballads or revelation. Not quite sure. I had difficulty processing. There she stood unbothered though. Here I stood frazzled. Fatigued in grey sweatpants, boot slippers, jacked up blousing and tank, true tales of a slept-in messy bun. I proceeded with my trash mission. From the back on our home to the front, I kept hauling out trash/recycling loads and neighbor politely chatted the time away.
‘And they won’t do a damn thing about the squirrels running on our roof. And now they have babies. They wake us up every morning.’
‘I feel ya. Our home in MI had squirrels on the roof (you really can hear them, like they have iron hoofs). The Cathedral won’t do anything? Huh?’
Come to think they’ve never done anything about those damn pigeons either!
We shot some more talk about our crappy dial-up internet. Neighbor rattled off some more complaint items. We complained how the Bishops, deans and cannons who live there (rent free) treat us rent paying civilians like trash, all while we looked like trash, next to trash piles, speaking utter trash. I asked her:
‘So, you think you’ll look for another place?’
‘NO! I’m staying right here and complaining to the cows come home.’
The fact that she could talk and talk and talk to me when I was under such horrible visual circumstances, lets me know, you know what? You are cool AF, dear neighbor.
Abbey Street has been a real joy. Each neighbor walks out like a character in a story book. I sit at my front window watching them all, writing it all. I find life in small acts.
Pick a daffodil and you sincerely might die here.
I love my street.
Abbey Row 