Ha. Recycling. Do not get me started. Oh, well, do then.
Two years we have lived here. Two years under the same Council with the same recycling rules. Only plastic allowed is plastic bottles. No plastic pots, tubs or containers.
If I'm here, every single time he has something plastic to throw, DP will head off to the recycling bin going, 'they can recycle this, can't they?' No, DP, no plastics. 'But there's bottles in here!' 'They only do plastic bottles.'
We have had this conversation roughly 2,037,456 times. I have also - helpfully - bluetacked the Council's recycling leaflet with their graphic depiction of what can and cannot go in above the recycling bin.
But woe betide the recycling if I'm not here and he is 'independently' putting stuff in there. Every single time I put the recycling out I have to fish through it for (dirty) yoghurt pots, pizza boxes with plastic lids ('but it's mostly cardboard!' 'yes, DP, and I'm mostly water but that doesn't make me the Sargasso f*cking sea'), and even - good GOD - catalogues and bits of the Sunday papers still in their plastic wrapping.
Cue WW3 with him saying he doesn't know why I get so het up, and me sobbing about the poor children in China who have to sort through his rubbish because he's too effin' thick/lazy to take a plastic wrapper off...often I manage to chunk up from this to the fundamental lack of respect it shows me, lack of attention, he never listens, blah, sob, blah, sob...
We're moving in a few weeks. To a different Council. They have TWO separate recycling bins, including one for plastic pots/tubs/containers. My blood is already running cold. He's going to a) smarm 'I TOLD you plastic could be recycled' and b) still put it in the wrong effin bin.
Breathe...