I’m back at the recycling depot with my colleagues, Todd Hanley and The Whip Carey. It’s a great place to work and an even better place to pass the time, although I wouldn’t be saying that too loudly for fear a council official might get to hear it. There’s always someone of interest coming and going, and when things are quiet, Todd and The Whip are the best of company. The pair of them are complete opposites in terms of personality and their view of the world.

Todd is like an ambling auld bull who has all the appearance of having lived two lives, but doesn’t get too excited about either of them.

On the other hand, The Whip greets every day with the enthusiasm of a lively young fella, firm in his belief that today is going to be even better than yesterday. The Whip is nearly as auld as myself, but the hard edges of life don’t appear to have had any impact on him.

The depot is busy these days. The fine weather seems to induce in people an irresistible urge to spring clean. Farmers are arriving in convoys, pulling trailers piled high with all kinds of fandangos and contraptions that have been sitting around the yard for years. The householder is at the same lark, uncovering yokes at the back of the garage that haven’t seen the light of day since Adam was a gorsoon.

There was a time when this stuff was left to rot, but the appearance of the recycling yard has given all kinds of doomed relics a chance at reincarnation.

I was waxing lyrical about the way people have taken to recycling, but Todd wasn’t impressed,

“Keep your eyes peeled and watch every fella that comes in here with a big load,” he warned. “There could be anything from a dead cow to a barrel of ancient silage acid in the middle of those big trailers. Some fellas are notorious hoors when it comes to passin’ their problem on to someone else,” he said.

The Whip agreed: “You could find anything, dead dogs, sheep, scoury calves, anything.”

“They’d nearly put their unwanted relations into the trailer if they thought ‘twould spare them payin’ Tinky Ryan a few pound to put them down decent,” said Todd.

“And what if something valuable turns up?” I asked.

“That’s a rare occurrence,” says The Whip.

“When that happens we have a very strict protocol to follow,” explained Todd.

“And what would that be?” I asked.

“It’s the old FKLW protocol,” says Todd.

“I didn’t hear of that before,” says I.

“Ah you did,” says Todd. “It’s the Finders Keepers Losers Weepers protocol, it works every time. That’s how The Whip managed to get his Volvo. However, findin’ treasure isn’t our problem, one of our major challenges is convincin’ people that what they thought fit for recyclin’ is only fit for the landfill.”

“All the same, the recycling thing gets into your blood,” says The Whip.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Well,” he says, “you begin to believe that everything has the potential to start life again. Take my Volvo, she was abandoned here by someone who thought there was no more good in her, but I saw what could be done and with a bit of patience, a bit of work and a pair of furry dice she’s as good as new.”

“The Whip is a monument to recycling,” says Todd, even his socialisin’ is done at human recycling centres, they’re called dances for the over 40s. The vast majority of the crowd at those functions has been through at least one weddin’ ring and many are shapin’ up for another.”

“But you don’t regard yourself as recycled?” says I to The Whip.

“Indeed I’m not,” says he, straightening all five-foot-two of himself. “I’m a low mileage machine with one careful owner. The plastic is still on my seats. I’m not even burnin’ a sup of oil.”

“Well you’d want to buck up and burn some soon,” says Todd. “Your guarantee is nearly up and it won’t be long before bits start fallin’ off.

“Any woman wantin’ to put her shoes under your bed will be lookin’ for an NCT cert from you, in case the exertions of the marital scratcher might cause your auld engine to cease.”

“Oh,” says the Whip, “I’ll find someone like myself, unattached with low mileage and everything in perfect working order.”

“If I was you I’d be inclined to lower my expectations and get on with it,” says Todd.

Turnin’ his attention to me, he said: “How about you Maurice? Are you living in hope like Mr Optimistic here?”

“I’m perfectly content as I am,” I replied.

“You’re like myself,” says Todd. “Quite happy to bypass the recycling centre and hit straight for the landfill.”

What a comfort.