I have a confession to make. Over the past three weeks I have placed more than 30 large, heavy, bags of rubbish outside my home - in batches of ten or so a week.

And I've waited, heart in mouth, to see if the refuse men would take every one of them away.

OK, we all know that cleanliness is next to godliness, but there's still something shockingly antisocial about one small single-person household producing such an excessive amount of garbage for the local authority to clear, isn't there?

Well, I've certainly felt very shifty about it anyway, which is why, on the mornings our refuse collection has been due, I've carefully redistributed some of the bags outside my neighbours' homes after they've left for work.

Four bags maximum per house is my rule.

Fortunately, my immediate neighbours are spartan waste disposers, with rarely more than one half-filled bag per house, so my excess rubbish is easily absorbed and causes no comment.

It was not always so, however, which is why I decided a little subterfuge was necessary.

The first time I did my bulk drop, I left a dozen or so bags directly outside my own house. Then I went to the shops.

On my way home I saw the refuse men and their big, grunting, grinding, refuse truck making steady progress along my road.

As I walked towards my house I heard a shout: "Look at this b . . . . . lot, I'd like to get the b . . . . . . who lives here and stuff them in their b . . . . bags, head first!'

"My, he sounds angry," I thought. Then I realised the owner of the voice was standing outside my house.

Now there are some women who would deal with such a situation by adopting a simpering "poor-little-me/you-big-strong-man" stance. That is not, as you might guess, my style.

Instead I strolled nonchalantly straight past my house, glancing neither left nor right, and would have continued on my way had there not been a loud tapping on a window.

I turned just in time to see The Mother's face disappearing behind my curtains. A second later she was at the front door calling my name.

Nothing for it but to return to the scene of the crime, I thought.

The rather vocal refuse collector was still dragging my rubbish-packed bags across the pavement to the kerb edge.

"I'm terribly sorry," I said in what I imagined sounded like a sincere simper.

Then I added, by way of explanation, and in what I hoped would be a successful bid for understanding and sympathy: "My mother's staying for a few days and you know how messy old people can be . . ."

"What was that?" said The Mother, now standing beside me on the pavement.

I hustled her indoors, turning quickly to nod conspiratorially at the refuse collector and getting a shrug in return.

"You're only supposed to put out one bag at a time. I'm amazed they took all that lot," said The Mother. "What did you say to persuade that chap to move it?"

"Easy," I said. "I told him I thought I'd dropped a possible winning lottery ticket in one of those bags."

"Rubbish!" said The Mother.

"Let me bag it for you," I replied.