The Fag Ends of Life

It's just a pity that the quickest path to and from the Sunday toast is by way of the less salubrious part of Tollcross. This route is not for the faint hearted, weaving as required through the detritus of last night's jollifications, the discarded polystyrene food wrappings, the odd bits of left behind clothing, the undigested remains of someone's last supper, and the fag ends littering pavements and doorways. At least there has been a certain effort to use this bin for gum and used cigarettes and even for some undesignated litter.

It is with relief when on the way home, we turn into the path through the Meadows where any litter left behind by the throw away generation has already been picked up, and all is orderly and clean.