Lockdown has made me aware of how much junk I have in my life

Last Friday I went “out out”. Well, when I say “out out”, I mean what counts for going “out out” until 12 April. I went to the dump.

Like many people, being stuck at home 23 hours a day, seven days a week has made me acutely aware of my surroundings. Specifically, it’s made me aware of how much junk I have in my life.

Before the pandemic hit, I’d been planning a very different 2020 to the one I ended up with. I was determined that I would enjoy the last year of my forties (and EU freedom of movement) in style. The idea was I would hand in my resignation in the middle of March and spend the next month clearing out my home, ahead of a big escape at Easter. I had a glorious itinerary mapped out. But then, Covid...

I didn’t hand in my notice and I didn’t bother clearing out my house. Instead, I hunkered down in my stuff like the characters in that Raymond Briggs’ book about nuclear war. Suddenly, everything I owned looked like it might be worth keeping. That enormous suitcase with the broken wheels I’d been meaning to get rid of since 1996? I would need it for the panicked rush out of London when Godzilla pitched up at Canary Wharf.

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Almost exactly a year on, a visit from Godzilla sounds like fun and I crave a home that looks like the ultimate Zoom background: clutter-free. I decided it was time to get rid of that case. Not least because the Smugglers Way Recycling Centre was about to introduce an online booking system. I had to move quickly for fear of not being able to get a slot until 2022.

I put on make-up, telling myself it was because I had to jump straight on a Zoom call afterwards, but knowing deep down it was really because the last time I went to the dump – four years ago – I got into a slightly flirty conversation by the garden waste skip. It was like singles night at the supermarket. But there was something very different about the dump clientele this time around. The pandemic has made even going to the recycling centre the kind of trip you bring your wife, the children and the mother-in-law along for. We were queuing right back to the roundabout.

When I got to the front of the queue, I wound down the window to ask where I should park. The dump employee waved me towards a parking spot without a second glance at my careful maquillage. I caught sight of myself in the rear-view mirror as I pulled forward. Had someone drawn a five-bar gate on my forehead? The problem with masks (or should I say, one of the many problems with masks) is that they hide the best half of my face. No amount of brow gel distracts from the worry lines. When are we allowed to get Botox? And does it react with the vaccine? I wondered.

Visiting Smugglers Way was something of a workout for body and the brain, full of physical and mental challenges. The first challenge was reversing into a parking spot. Having not parked a car since December, I was thrilled that I managed first time. I felt inordinately proud of myself as I lugged my old suitcase to the correct skip. I shared a knowing nod with another woman as we sorted old paint pots into “oil-based” and “water”. This was adulting at its best. I was just fetching some cardboard boxes from my boot when I heard the sickening crunch.

An old chap in a Sharan had reversed into the Merc parked next to my car.

“Should have reversed into that one,” quipped a builder who saw it all happen. He was pointing at my Fiat. “Could have put it straight in a skip.”

I felt personally wounded by the insult to my car, which was still valiantly getting me from A to B after 12 months of benign neglect. I smarted all the way home, where it hit me that I’d actually had a very near miss. That Merc might have been shunted straight into me. Dead at the dump. I was shaken.

“You look stressed.”

It was Brenda, warming up for a run, using my fence as a barre this time.

“It’s higher than mine,” she explained, as she propped one foot upon it, causing it to creak alarmingly.

“How’s your boyfriend?” I asked.

“Oh,” she said. “He’s having a difficult week. There’s a problem with his wages and he’s due to pay his son’s school fees. I’d said I’d help however I can.”

“Really?” There was no time to waste. “Brenda, have you got a picture of him? I’d love to see it.”

She was only too keen to show me his Facebook page. I made a note of his name. Daniels Williams. His Christian name was Daniels? With an ‘s’?

While Brenda ran, I did a reverse Google search. As I suspected, Brenda’s dashing new boyfriend was not who he seemed to be.

“Look at this Minky,” I said to my hamster, who was, unusually, out during daylight hours. “I knew it!”

Daniels Williams was in fact one Steen Amundsen, a Danish dentist. The photos Daniels Williams claimed were taken in a field hospital in the DRC, had been taken in a dental surgery in Aarhus.

When I stopped Brenda on her way back from her run, she responded to the news with dignity.

“I see,” she said. “Thank you, Trudy. You must think I’m very silly.”

“Brenda,” I said. “Nobody’s laughing. These scams are very sophisticated. He sent flowers. Why shouldn’t you have believed he was real? We need to let this Danish dentist know that someone’s been using his pictures.”

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Brenda agreed. “At least this means I don’t have to keep running.”

“No way!” I said. “Brenda, you’re getting fit for you. It’s still worth doing.”

She nodded bravely.

“I wish I had your discipline,” I continued. “I wouldn’t know where to start.”

“You could come running with me,” Brenda suggested suddenly. “I’ll WhatsApp you next time I’m going out.”

“Running? Right. OK then.”

Having broken her heart, how could I say “no”?