For the past few months, I've been plagued by the mystery of people rummaging through the rubbish bin across the street from my flat. I sit at my desk, look out my window, and watch normal-looking person after normal-looking person walk by the bin, take a rummage through, then walk off. What oh what is in there? Obviously not much, since I've never seen someone walk away with something. Yet day after day, it seems to drawn people in.
There aren't many rubbish bins on London streets -- many were removed in the 1980s after the IRA bomb attacks. So the rubbish bin is one of only a few on my very busy street. Still, surely that can't be enough excitement to merit a poke through its contents, can it? It's certainly not in my books, anyway.
One of my favourite bin-pokers is a small round man. He's balding on top but he's valiantly trying to make up for it by cultivating patches of curly hair on either side of his scrunched-up face. He trots past the bin at about 8 a.m., performs a search with great concentration, then trots off. He seems to enjoy it as much as anyone can enjoy rooting around in rubbish.
I could go over and take a look, I guess. But then, I'd be one of them. And who knows what happens once you succumb to the siren of the bin?