How To Make Me Crash My Car

I was driving through Engadine at dusk the other day, and apparently it's council cleanup time. On the curb outside every house were massive piles of junk, old furniture, tele's, broken laundry baskets, random wooden planks with tetanus-y old nails sticking out. Gold.

For some reason, this has a kid-in-a-candy-shop effect on me; I get very, very excited by piles of junk. I was swerving all over the road narrowly missing telegraph poles, power walkers, neighbourhood cats and the occasional car coming in the opposite direction.

Unfortunately I was in a rush, (and also unfortunately I'd be roused on for bringing home more old crap- E gets as excited as I do about council cleanups, but she gets excited about getting rid of stuff, whereas I basically see it as a treasure hunt). But oh, how I wanted to just pull over and walk along those suburban streets, poring at my leisure through other people's wasted goodness.

Imagine how rich I'd be in (slight electric shock inducing) white goods, lounge chairs (with a vague fragrance of urine), old novels about romantic encounters in the Outback ("G'day, I'm the new jackaroo in town, I'm looking for the old Watson property?, he said, his stony eyes blazing in the flame grilled sunset").

It saddens me deeply to think of the treasures I've missed out on, that are now just landfill.