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13 My Dustbin John Eppel Bent, battered, banged about, my garbage bin, once fascist – only flies were welcome – now inviting, on collection days, vagrants, pied crows, dogs, children, is a democrat. Children on their way to school; sometimes, if the garbage truck has broken down (again!), on their way home; the girls like butterflies, bedizened uniforms; the boys like moths in colonial khaki, silver-grey. Polite, they wait until the vagabond, less messy than the fussy carrion, departs with an empty plastic bottle and a mouldy tomato. These children have acquired the patience of queueing; children of the neighbourhood; suburban; queueing at my bin for a lucky dip. ...

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