Down in the dumps

Peculiar places, council dumps (or recycling centres as they prefer to be called these days - part of the Big Society no doubt).

As we offload various bits and pieces I chat with the chaps manning the bins (Garden, Electrical, etc.). They explain the kinds of stuff they get through: dead cats, puppies ... and one time a chainsaw clotted with blood. "We sent that one along to the Police ... never heard back, though."

Shades of Iain Sinclair.

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Back in Brussels.

Left at 8:55 a.m.; arrived 2:54 p.m. local time. So just under the magic 5 hours again.

At 10:30 a.m. the Eurotunnel terminal was virtually empty and thus unusually in focus. A Ballardian interzone of rigged exchange rates, jaundiced lighting and human disenchantment.

In W.H. Smith the salesgirl reluctantly checks through my copy of The Independent and a KitKat - the new ploy is to have the customer use the self scan (wait until the NHS cotton on to that). I suggest it's doing her out of a job and receive a blank look in return. "It's really popular with customers at busy times" she explains. The phrase is just too pat. Training runs deep.

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"I hate coffee" confides the bloke fitting the lid on my cappuccino.

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Meanwhile ... the RBS announces losses of two billion pounds and issues bonuses of up to a billion.

That makes perfect sense, doesn't it?

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