Vicky Ewan: Binmen, take a bow. Thank you for your cheer and kindness

When I walk to work or do the school run on foot, I regularly encounter what appear to be the cheeriest working folk who tread the earth. 

Bright orange vests, stout boots, huge smiles - yes, you’ve guessed it: refuse collectors. No matter the season, the climate, or the time of day, these good men and true can be seen on their rounds, calling out greetings, tossing banter back and forth, and genuinely seeming to have attained that zenith of goals: job satisfaction. 

They will unfailingly hail me with a cheery hello as I trudge unenthusiastically up several of the relentless hills between my house and - well, anywhere, seemingly. It really lifts my morning, especially when the weather is less than kind. 

These stalwarts battle onwards through the harshest of elements; when our darling children are shepherded inside because wet weather looms, and the fortunate are watching the world from their waterproof windows, and those who have errands to run or somewhere to be are scurrying around with hoods drawn about their ears and umbrellas pointed firmly skywards, refuse collectors are striding doggedly through our streets, hefting our household waste, sorting through our damp recycling, and wearing smiles that would shame the sun into hiding its bright face. 

Come rain, come shine, come snow, come storm, they clear the town of its rubbish, and provide a cleaner, safer environment for us all. And what do they get in return for such heroism? Not, perhaps, the optimum working conditions, as I witnessed for myself one recent morning. Hurrying to work, I encountered a crew elbow deep in their mission to rid our homes of their junk; we exchanged friendly greetings as I passed by, my mood already improving. 

Reaching the crest of the final hill some minutes later, my attention was cutely snagged by a small dog out for a walk with its owner, and shortly thereafter I met the team again, its driver having employed some canny way to negotiate the slew of one-way streets sprinkled around our town. 

At this location, the receptacles provided for household waste were not the sprawling grey bins common to my patch, but voluminous black sacks of a robust design which had been arranged in a row on the pavement, ready for the workers’ ministrations. 

Ahead of me, the last crew member emptied the final sack and rejoined his mates, and I heard him remark that the very dog that I had just passed had sprayed the entire stretch of bags whilst they were still full, in that insouciant way dogs have. 

Even faced with this unsanitary task, the gentleman’s greeting was no less sunny in its delivery as he and I crossed paths. 

I silently marvelled at this display of unquenchable cheer; a lesson for us all. In my first years as a young mum, with a newborn infant and her toddler sister dictating the content of my every waking moment, I admit to spending a fair portion of the early morning in my nightclothes, desperate for a five-minute hiatus from motherhood to speed-shower and get dressed. 

My elder daughter had cultivated a fascination for the refuse collectors that visited our street weekly, and, having developed an uncanny ability to detect their proximity to the house, loved nothing more than to watch them pass by. 

She would cajole me into opening the front door to regard the slow progress of the vehicle and its workers as they emptied the nearby bins and finally reached our house. From the safety of my arms, thumb firmly planted in mouth, she would gaze shyly but adoringly at these fascinating folk in their luminously-hued attire, the noise and bustle and camaraderie a magnet for her young gaze. 

I think the men were as enchanted as she, and would greet her especially gently, using a pet name they had coined. Of course, I was often mortified by these occasions, obliged to appear in public in my dressing gown for all to see, with dishevelled hair and sleep-deprived eyes. 

I was by no means prone to maternal indulgence in those days, but there was something so pure in the innocent adulation that my young daughter showed that I was compelled to yield to this whim and accept the silent judgment of my neighbours (thankfully, there were very few around at that hour). 

That Christmas, anticipating the habitual weekly collection, my daughter and I stood patiently in our doorway, chilled to the bone. Drawing near, the men called out their customary cheery hello to my daughter, and, to my enormous surprise and her sheer delight, handed her a small parcel wrapped in Christmas paper. 

Opening it as soon as we had managed to summon words of thanks and shut the door, we found inside a festive pencil, topped with a novelty rubber in the shape of a reindeer head, festooned with curled strands of shiny green ribbon. 

My daughter was overjoyed - and I was deeply touched, imagining the thought process and conversation that must have gone into the procurement of this gift. 

Such a simple gesture, yet wholly sincere. I don’t know what qualifications they look for when recruiting refuse collectors: strength, I am certain; resilience, no doubt; team spirit, for sure; but I fully believe kindness must be at the top of the list. 

It’s no wonder that happiness marks their steps when such kindness fills their hearts.