Is this a whole new psychiatric condition?

I’m talking about “recycling paralysis”. How much of my life has now been lost hovering over the cluster of different rubbish/recycling bins in the corner of my kitchen, staring at the scrap of matter in my hands, trying to decide if it is recyclable or not?

I live in Greenwich, which actually has quite an advanced recycling policy. They’ll take all kinds of paper and cardboard, metal tins, glass and plastic. Well, not all plastic, and there’s the rub. Some bits of packaging have clear symbols to show they are recyclable; others don’t discuss it. Still others have sad notes saying, “Sorry: not recyclable”.

But the instructions from Greenwich do say that they’ll happily take plastic carrier bags, for example—and this presumably means even if the bag itself does not have a recycling logo on it. But how far does this extend? Does the plastic bag that an armful of potatoes came in count as a carrier bag? It’s almost as big as a small one. And what about clingfilm?

It’s all become more complicated recently, and you can’t afford to get it wrong round my neck of the woods. We have one blue-topped bin for all recyclable stuff. We also have a green-topped bin which used to be for rubbish, but is now specifically for compostables—food scraps and garden waste. Everything else goes in black bags which I think are burned somewhere (to fuel power stations or something else useful, I hope).

But put the wrong thing in the wrong bin and the bin men won’t touch it. Some passer-by threw a Betterware catalogue into our compostable bin the other day and the bin men turned their nose up at it, doubtless thinking to themselves, “Don’t these fools know the difference between a compostable and a recyclable? What century are they living in?”

The poor family living at the end of the street, whom I think may be Korean, don’t seem to have quite got the hang of the complex recycling rites and put everything in the same bin—which smells as if it hasn’t been emptied in some considerable time.

And what about metal: does this include anything made out of metal? What about the metal caps on bottles? Or nuts and bolts? I was sent a strange promotional object from Jack Daniels: I think it was some sort of marker for poker games or perhaps just a paperweight. Anyway, it was a substantial chunk of stainless steel. Is that recyclable?

In fact Greenwich borough has a space-aged facility in Thamesmead where all these recyclables are sorted by various Heath Robinson machines; paper and card are extracted using the “trommel screen” (which sounds like part of a medieval church). Residual bits of paper stuck to bottles and containers are removed by the “ballistic separator”, where I assume they are shot off by highly-skilled marksmen.

Does this mean that even if I unwittingly include the Wrong Kind of Plastic in my blue-topped bin, there are machines who will simply pounce on it and dismiss it with the flick of a robot wrist? Or will I undermine the whole system—bring the trommel screen grinding to a catastrophic halt as klaxons blare, red lights flash and scientists in white coats shrink from instrument panels exploding in sparks, while men in silver hard hats arrive in little buggies and run about. Oh hang on, I’m getting confused with Bond movies. (“Do you expect me to talk?” “No, Mr Bond, I expect you to recycle.”)

I think my Recycling Paralysis has just taken a new disturbing turn…