IN my real job I wear a council uniform. In my unreal job, I usually wear my holey pyjamas.
Anyway, each afternoon I like to take my ratepayer-funded clothing for a stroll through the bush, and while Long Suffering Wife's dogs water the trees, I ponder life's big questions, like, 'Will tea be ready when I get home?' and, 'How can I get out of doing the dishes tonight?'
We rarely meet anyone else in the scrub, but I often spy their footprints, paw prints, slither marks, tyre tracks, and unfortunately, the piles of rubbish they leave behind.
So last week, when I spotted a bloke standing next to a trailer-load of junk, I rushed straight over.
Now, having a council worker catch you dumping illegally can sort of ruin your afternoon.
But it can also do your head in when that council worker starts loading rubbish back onto your trailer and cheerfully says, "Good onya mate! It's nice to see someone cleaning up around here for a change!"
Dropping the garbage bag he was holding back into the trailer he mumbled, "Yeah, that's what I'm doing."
I found a couple of tyres in the nearby grass and tossed them on as well, at which point I'm sure he thought, 'Hey! They're not mine!'
But he didn't say anything.
After overloading his trailer with other people's rubbish, I whipped out my phone and asked, "Can I take your photo and send it to the Mayor? She'll be thrilled!"
A true champion, he humbly declined my offer of public recognition.
After making a show of noting his rego, I waved him farewell.
Thanks to my uniform one bloke is now much wiser, Gladstone is slightly cleaner, and I'm a little bit fitter, especially after exercising my inner smart arse.