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We wheeled our bikes up the main street on the lookout for somewhere to get food. We
passed a bakery that had closed for the day, but there was a stack of refuse bags piled up
outside. Ben and I had talked about dustbin-diving a few days previously, and this was our
first potential opportunity.
Dustbin-diving, or 'freeganism' as it is now fashionably known, has gained a new lease
of life in recent years. Freegans adopt an anti-consumerist lifestyle and an alternative way
of living. They prey on the discarded waste of supermarkets, restaurants, shops and cafés
andtrytohaveminimalimpactontheeconomy.Duetoacombinationofstringenthygiene
laws and an increased desire by the consumer for food to be of the highest standard, the
stuff that is thrown out is often perfectly edible.
BenandIbothhadabitofanti-consumerisminusandakeendesireto'beatthesystem'.
We started rummaging through the bin bags, one by one. They all seemed to be full of
empty cake wrappers.
We dug deeper.
'Shit, a needle,' squealed Ben, holding his finger with a look of panic across his face.
'Fuck. Oh shit, you…' I started, before noticing his big grin. 'You idiot. That's not
funny.'
WecarriedonforagingforafewminutesuntilBenfoundagianttubofeggmayonnaise.
The pot still had its label on, but drizzles of egg were oozing from the sides.
'Hey, George, check this out. What do you think? It's best before tomorrow.'
'Yeah, cool, it looks… err… great, yeah.'
'You can have it if you want. I'm not a big fan of egg mayonnaise.'
'No, you have it. Finder keepers, losers weepers, and all that.'
'No really. Consider it a gift from me to you.'
'That's very kind of you, but I couldn't possibly accept.'
'Well I'll just leave it here where we found it, if you're not going to eat it.'
'Good plan,' I said. We were the world's worst freegans.
'To be fair, though,' I said, 'I'm pretty sure real freegans don't eat egg either. I think the
word freegan probably comes from 'free' and 'vegan'.'
'Good point. Shall we try those bags then?' asked Ben, pointing to another pile outside
the back door of a restaurant.
We were halfway through the first bag when a large, sweaty chef stepped outside his
restaurant for a cigarette break.
'Oi! Get the hell out of my bins, you tramps. Go on, clear off,' he shouted. We scurried
off like a couple of diseased rats. It's a hard life being a freegan.
'Shall we just try asking in Caffè Nero for some food instead?' asked Ben.
'Yes, that sounds much more civilised.'
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