The highlight of Malcolm’s day is stepping out of his front door at half past nine in the morning to inspect his garden. 

Malcolm’s garden is mainly concrete.  There is a small selection of flagstones, a corner of crazy paving, and an area of uneven stone with a footprint and the scrawled signature of the previous occupant, a noted eccentric.  His plants are arranged in matching stone pots, and do not require additional water.  Occasionally Malcolm trims the leaves, but the main purpose of his daily inspection is to check for litter.  Every night, the sea breeze snatches selected items of waste from the street and nearby bins, depositing them against the front of Malcolm’s house, leaving them clinging to twigs and stones. 

Although Malcolm is fully aware that the rubbish is not deliberately dropped into his garden, he delights in perceiving its appearance as an unprovoked personal attack.  There is a shake of the head and a broken mutter as he collects each crisp packet, each carrier bag, each damp slice of tissue paper.  He wears a pair of disposable gloves, and will never look directly at the offending item.  He’ll hold it at arms length as he drops it into the dustbin, his face contorting in theatrical agony.  He carefully unpeels his plastic gloves, and tosses them into the bin before slamming the lid. 

Then he goes back into the house and doesn’t come out for the rest of the day.