THERE are two things that are the talk of the playground this week – dance shows and rubbish. The two are, obviously, not connected.

This is show-time in Cirencester and the parents I know whose children dance have been unable to communicate properly or commit to nights out for some time now.

If they are not ferrying children to and from shows, the harassed women are at home sewing sequins onto ballet shoes.

Delighted that my children have chosen the gymnastics route and my inadequate sewing skills are not pressed into action.

If people are not talking about dancing they are discussing rubbish. Where do I put the frube wrappers from the lunch-box? How does a turkey carcass fit into a small green bin? Can hamster droppings mixed with sawdust go onto the compost pile?

It will take some time to answer these questions and also to train the children that every time they throw something away they have to think about what it is made of and put it in the right receptacle.

But I’m firmly behind the principle and even if it doesn’t happen overnight, it’s not rocket science. If I can get parsnips to grow, then surely I can sort out my rubbish.

Life, as always, is simpler out there on the plot. Some plants grow while others, for no apparent reason, flounder. Some crops get eaten by us and the rest provide fodder for the multitude of beasties that, in one summer, could include a family of badgers, rabbits, slugs, caterpillars and even deer.

Husband has now pulled his shallots, which have gone the same way as the pickling onions and are the size of oranges. Desperate to bask in some sort of allotment glory he returns brandishing his first radish.

This peculiar vegetable has always left me cold but I try to look enthusiastic and hope that he doesn’t notice when I scrape my half into the correct bin later that evening. I think I’m getting the hang of this rubbish sorting.