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My wife’s new heroes are the ladies of various kitchen garden associations who go around collecting wet garbage from disposal centres, defying the very logic for which they were created. Thursday morning, as I drove to the airport, an overpowering whiff of pineapples emanated from the car, forcing me to throw open the windows. The chauffeur explained that the offensive smell came from a carton of pineapple peels my wife had insisted a roadside vendor give her instead of throwing away, to be turned into compost. Left to rot overnight in the boot, it was merely an example of our new normal and cost me a shampooing trip for the car to the service station.
According to the dictionary, compost is