Rejoice, dads of Britain – soon, we will have fewer bins to take out

When Theresa May became prime minister, she must have hoped – despite the many insurmountable challenges facing her government – that she would at least leave a positive legacy. As it turned out, her four years in charge were marked by mistakes and missteps, and it was only by comparison with the even greater chaos that followed that her time in Downing Street took on a rosier complexion.

But in terms of memorable moments, the main ones were dancing and coughing during Tory conferences, and offering peculiarly mundane revelations about running in wheat fields and how she and her husband Philip split domestic chores into “boy jobs and girl jobs”. Hardline Theresa cooked; mild-mannered Philip put the bins out.

The couple’s discussion of their home life, on The One Show back in 2017, was certainly a bit awkward, and at the time it provoked widespread derision. Seven years on, it feels like the kind of thing that would make the Tories more electable.

And assuming there has been no role reversal since Theresa stood down as an MP, dear old Philip will presumably have spent the last week poring over news reports that the Labour government is to enforce a standardised bin collection system across the country.

Under new rules, all councils will provide householders with four bins, one each for paper/card; other recyclables; garden/food waste; and non-recyclable rubbish.

The intention is to end the current lottery, under which some councils use a system of just two or three different bins, while others require residents to separate their waste into nine or 10 different bags, boxes and wheelies.

As it happens, Philip May won’t see much of a difference: the regime in Maidenhead is already of the four-bin variety, as it is round my way. Mind you, you have to pay extra for the garden waste collection element.

Standardising rubbish collection makes good sense, however, in the quest to find a sweet spot between encouraging more recycling and not making the whole shebang so complex that even those with the greenest of consciences can’t be bothered to separate six different varieties of paper. Then again, we’ve heard all this before. As recently as last year, the former environment secretary, Therese Coffey, was proposing a similar simplification. So bin aficionados like me and Phil won’t hold our breath.

As with the Mays, in the Gore household the bins are a “boy job”. The importance of taking charge of dealing with the rubbish was impressed upon me not long after my wedding, when a renowned Mills & Boon author told me very strictly that it was a critical element in a happy marriage. I didn’t dare take the risk of finding out if this queen of romance fiction was exaggerating.

The truth is, though, I actually quite enjoy the task. I like the sorting element, picking out the remarkable number of sweet wrappers from my children’s wastepaper baskets, or scrunching small bits of foil together to make a recyclable lump. And I certainly don’t want other people putting out a big bag unless it’s properly full – even if it does smell faintly of fish.

There is sometimes a degree of guilt about the sheer amount of packaging that comes into the house, but at least it departs bathed in the rosy glow of the blue recycling bin.

Once or twice, our food waste caddy came off second best in a battle against a fox when I failed to ensure it was properly closed. But you live and learn, and Reynard won’t be getting his nose into my chicken bones again in a hurry.

In short, to bin successfully is to win at life. And yet there is sometimes a question raised in my house about whether a chore is really a chore if you don’t mind doing it. The bins and the gardening are my domain; my wife looks after the dusting and the hoovering. I can claim it’s a fair split, but I certainly wouldn’t want to swap, and not only because, in an average week, her tasks probably take longer.

On the other hand, it’s perfectly clear that Mrs Gore doesn’t want to clear out the bathroom bins or endlessly weed the patio. So, when she tries to trash-talk me over my domestic duties, I roll up my sleeves and declare that I need to investigate the state of the kitchen compost container. When the government brings in its new bin rules, I’ll be ready and waiting – just like Philip May.