REMEMBER YOU'RE A WOMBLE

A carrier bag flits down the street like a lone spectre in search of his ghoulish friends.

Following him on his quest is the snaking cellophane wrapper from a packet of fags, joined later by its crumpled cardboard counterpart tossed unceremoniously from a moving vehicle like toys from a pram.

On their way they will encounter many friends, the half eaten takeaway scattered on the pavement when a love story with their paramours belly has died. The cigarette butt that shoots like a comet over your head.

The empty coke can that adorns the beautiful flower beds like a coronet and the milkshake bottle that lays forlorn in the shelter because it’s missed the bus.

But where are they headed and what is this paradise they are seeking?

A haven where bags of dog poo and dirty nappies swing elegantly from the branches of trees and bushes radiate with all the colours of the rainbow that a trip to the sweet shop can afford. A utopia where pizza boxes and crisp packets live in perfect harmony as they create their own commune on local grassland and let their offspring play to their hearts content in the public play-ground.

 Not for them the constraints of tidiness, the joy of pride in your area, the uniformity of residing in the bin and not cluttering up the system, they want to be free.

Free to do what they want to do, creating a film of filth all over the county because after all who’s got time these days to take that few seconds walk to the bin. In a nation of busy people with others to impress, they can’t have any litter cluttering up their cars and bags until they can find somewhere to put it; it needs to be released to the wild to fend for itself.

And fend for itself it will , the discarded tickets ,cans ,bottles and wrappers  injuring and choking wildlife and creating eyesores for all to see as lazy adults teach their broods their slovenly ways.

But I for one will not be to blame, for I had these words of wisdom drummed into me from a young age and have passed them in turn onto my own spawn...

Remember you’re a Womble.

The best advice a 60s/70s childhood could buy.

GIRL FROM THE NECK DOWN COLUMN - MEDWAY MESSENGER