Beneath the litter
I recently unleashed an utterly epic, fiery tirade about the plague of litter slowly swallowing the place I call home. Through the city centre, past my brother’s street and area—literally everywhere I looked, rubbish clung to the pavements like a plague. It wasn’t just messy; it was apocalyptic. A grim, sprawling eyesore that drained the colour from the world around it.
I raged. Oh, When I raged, I mean I raged!
How filthy it made everything feel. How heavy and depressing it made the atmosphere. How demoralising it was to see your own neighbourhood look like it had given up on itself and resemble a dumping site.
But then came the turning point—my moment of resolution.
I purchased my own litter picker—not just any picker, but a foldable, battle-ready litter picker, compact and mighty like a secret weapon.
And the very second it arrived, I marched into the warzone armed with nothing but determination, a clear bin bag and a collapsible claw.
As I strode home, collecting discarded cans, bottles, and some questionable and often unidentifiable debris, something unexpected happened. Passers-by—complete strangers—began cheering me on. People smiled, thanked me, some told me I was “wasting my time,” whereas others encouraged me like I was leading some environmental crusade. Which I will take claim too. This didn’t just lift my spirits—it fuelled me.
And then I expanded my mission.
I summoned my friend from Stoke—yes, Stoke—to join me in this noble fight. Which a slight bribe of a Bagelry, I may add.
For two and a half intense, transformative hours, we worked side by side. And slowly, the world shifted.
What had once been buried under layers of rubbish began to re-emerge.
The wildflowers, long hidden beneath trash and decay, resurfaced like a forgotten kingdom returning to life. Purples, yellows, whites—colours I hadn’t known where even there—peered out as if testing whether it was finally safe to bloom again. It wasbeautiful. Even the grass looked greener.
As if I was seeing colour for the first time. Almost surreal. A reminder of what had been there all along.
Then came the moment that truly cemented the drama.
A road sweeper passed us—one of the local council workers—and after a quick chat, he handed over huge, industrial-sized litter bags, the kind you only see in official clean-ups. He didn’t stop there. After we filled them almost to the brim, he actually returned with his cart and collected every single bag, whisking them away like an ally in this growing rebellion against rubbish.
Yes, my valiant foldable litter picker did break in the line of duty. It gave its life honourably. But worry not—its story does not end there. I shall repair it. Reinforce it. And take it back into battle once more. Possibly this weekend, maybe early in the morning.
That bagel has never been more delicious. That donut has never tasted so sweet. I was basking in the sun soaked morning, full of bagels and donuts, carrying an exceptionally proud disposition of what’d managed to do in such a short time.
So, tell me—
What are your thoughts on litter?
Does it bother you?
Does it make you want to rise up, tools in hand, and reclaim your streets?
Because I’m telling you—once you start, the transformation is addictive.
A Thousand languages, but which one to pick?! 