Recycling

We do our share.
The council provides for the collection of garden waste, paper, cans and cardboard. We recycle glass (Did I not hear that you had forsworn the devils buttermilk...Ed? ) Herself is partial to a drop of red wine, possibly a nightcap of the finest blended, and who am I to object. Besides, there are always pickle and jam jars, bottles of this, that and the next thing for which our consumer society requires the finest vitrification. I could believe the bloody milk bottles keep some fellow and his mafia cousins from Murano in clover. I religiously take a few rags from my back that have threads bared, the furniture that the mice have had condemned by the parish authorities  and assorted electrical devices that still have their valves glowing to the town dump, AKA the Recycling Centre, to avoid the horror of landfill. As a result of my efforts for the environment I may be responsible, personally, for the failure of the publishing industry because I take my surplus reading matter to the shop that combats famine in Oxford. (I think we get the point, could you move on for the love of god and his blessed mother... Ed!)  Well I also take the little cardboard tube that appears when the toilet roll is exhausted (I share its pain...Ed.) and flatten it, putting it in the recycling. I feel an enormous pressure to do this.

I believe that I could more likely cull badgers, hunt foxes or other defenceless beasts, perform cruel and painful experiments on small animals than fail to recycle the small but dutifully flattened cardboard tube.
Strange isn't it?