“Utter bollocks,” I mumbled under my breath, just loud enough for the pedant to hear, but not quite loud enough for her to be sure what she heard.
“What was that sir?”
“How on earth can they be deemed an offensive weapon?” I said.
“Sir, it is council policy. You are not allowed to take them in, so please leave them outside. It’s for your own safety.” I hadn't been spoken to in such a patronising way since primary school parents evening when Mrs Broughton was telling my mother I would have such potential if only I had neater handwriting.
“But why? I said again. I get like this sometimes. I don’t just accept decisions. I need to understand them, and this was beyond my comprehension. But my protestations were falling on deaf ears, the lady was not for turning. Only she was, she was for turning away from me and talking to her colleague behind the counter.
“Oi I was talking to you.” I said, but she continued to ignore me.
A woman with a hefty looking handbag came to the desk with what looked suspiciously like bin liners stuffed inside.
“Council tax?” she said.
“She had bin liners,” I said, “in her bag! And anyway that bag looked more dangerous than bin liners, you could kill someone with that.”
The woman didn't even look at me. She turned back to her colleague.
Now if she hadn’t mentioned it, I never would never have thought to use roll of bin liners as an offensive weapon, But she’d planted the idea in my mind, and to be fair, she was right, they didn’t half do a good job.
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