The fitness freak at 34 does lunges on the lawn. You wheel his bin towards the truck. Flip the top and inside there’s a pair of running shoes — running shoes you never use. When you look, your feet are bare. The supervisor taps his watch. Who knew rubbish was such a high-pressure game? The neighbour lunges. Left, right, left. The truck hisses. Day-glo men scurry. Bins jar and jolt. Press the button and in it goes, never to return.

The shop-window couple at 47A stifle a laugh at your outfit. Their condescending look smells worse than the truck. Your scratched-up seven-carat ring rattles the bottom of their bin. When you try to reach in, your arms have shrunk, and the harder you strain, the farther away it gets.

The lady at 74 puts her hands on her hips. “Excuse me, Binman.” Her voice is a perfect composite of all the women you’ve ever disappointed.

“We’re called refuse collection agents now.” “Do you take paper?” She opens the lid and a series of photo prints flutter out. Into the air go ultrasound scans, away-day team shots, and thinning family portraits. The wind whips the cellulose reel all the way to the truck. She laughs. “Refuse collection agent.”

The supervisor taps his supervisor watch and marks his supervisor sheet. The lunger lunges. Curtains twitch. The lady laughs. Why don’t you save them all the bother and just dump yourself? The compaction press reaches the top of its range. Three hundred tonnes of pressure ready to drop. You’ve withstood more.

As the mechanism starts its journey down, you set off towards the void. Gravel rakes your feet. Each step faster. Air rushes past. Hole shrinking. Eyes screw shut. The smell intensifies. You only get one shot to break the threshold of a black hole.

Build to a sprint. Leap… Impact. You’re in. Breathe. Bed down among your crushed possessions. Brace against the pressure.

But it doesn’t come. When you open your eyes, the space of the loading bay extends forever. It’s infinite. And the outside world now cowers in fear at the prospect of the inevitable crush.