Bin men. Judge, jury and executioner.

Never is the householder so vulnerable as when he has forgotten to take out his bins in the morning. Out he rushes, bleary-eyed, dressing gown flapping indecently, dragging a wheelie-bin like a modern-day Sisyphus. At such times he is at the mercy of the bin men. And he knows it.

“Excuse me,” he says, ashamedly. “Terribly sorry to be a pain, but would you mind? I’m a bit late.” And he stretches his face into the expression of middle class apology. (You know the one: the corners of the mouth stretching towards either shoulder, the stiff-necked wiggle. It’s usually accompanied by a sort of “eeeer” sound, or a gargled “sorr-eee.” Try it — you’ll see what I mean.)

The bin men size him up, knowing that they hold in their calloused hands the fate of the man who — metaphorically, at least to start with — kneels before them. They could relieve him of his burden, perhaps grunt something nice. Or they could turn their backs, dooming him to a week of stinking piles of rubbish. Two weeks in some places.

In my adult life, I have lived in Winchester, Norwich and London, and played out this exact scenario in each city. I have to say that most recently, in Winchester, the experience was but a few degrees short of a pleasure. The bin man in question was courteous and obliging. He took my wheelie-bin off my hands with something approaching a smile, called me “mate,” and humped it cheerfully off towards the stinking jaws of his lorry.

Norwich, however, was another matter. Don’t get me wrong; the man took the bin. But he did so silently, sullenly, forcing me to fill the void with an increasingly elaborate apology involving children, ear infections and uncomfortable pillows. Having sensed that I was an outsider, his strategy was obvious. “It’s worth taking this prick’s bin,” he must have thought to himself, “if it will make him feel like even more of an arse.” I left Norwich shortly afterwards.

In London, the bin man regarded me laconically. “Want me to take this?” he said, eyeing me sidelong. Then he said it again. After the third time, realising that I still hadn’t cottoned on, he sighed and rubbed his fingers together suggestively.

I was taken aback. However, my indignation quickly gave way to a swift tally of hygienic verses financial disadvantage. “You’re not suggesting…” I said. The man nodded and, to underscore his point, rubbed his fingers together again. There was something nasty about those fingers. I persuaded him to wait and ran back to the house, clutching my dressing-gown like a half-dressed diva. Upon my return — pretty awkwardly, I must admit — I gave him a tenner. “Each,” he said, gesturing to two of his mates. I tried to read his face. Was this a joke? “Do you lot take visa?” I said.

As a coda, I should mention the way that bins are collected in Taiwan (I once spent a gap year there). At a randomly selected time, the bin lorry will turn up blasting pop music from speakers on the roof. The idea is that when you hear the music, you take your rubbish out and toss it onto the lorry. It tends to work fine. Except that up and down the country, cars with loud stereos are prompting people to dash onto the streets with their rubbish.