Doubt crept into my mind as the first bead of sweat departed from my hairline for it’s meandering journey down my brow. I couldn’t remember the last time I had looked defeat like this in the face and turned away a beaten man.  My girlfriend raised an inquisitive eyebrow, she already knew it was over. I was never going to finish the pizza that sat in front of me.

 

It was our fifth night in the land of excess and the ‘pie’ in question was the only size available in this Long Island backwater. This wasn’t Manhattan showing off for the tourist mob, this was the norm. The coffee-table sized piece of food actually had to be folded at the edges to get it in the box but even this didn’t signal to it's creators that it was too big. They proudly handed over enough food to feed a family and called it one man's portion and this man's side splitting effort (and a meal of leftovers) some of it inevitably ended it's journey in the 'trash'.

 

It isn't a secret that Americans like things triple-XL, the drive from the city to our beach-side get-away provided sufficient evidence of this. Lines of buffalo sized pick-up trucks stampeded along four lane highways. Some of these turbo-charged machines even sported four-wheeled rear axles, seemingly for no other reason than to require a larger driveway than their neighbours. Collecting our own transport at the start of the journey we'd been met with a look of concern from the hire-car staff worried about our choice of vehicle. "Are you sure you don't want something a bit larger? The economy choice is awful small and we have lovely SUVs." Admiring her up selling effort we declined and waited for our matchbox-sized car to be delivered, she had perhaps mis-read our British reserve. The 'economy' option in question took the form of a five-door estate with a 2.2l petrol engine. Larger in both size and power than any car I have ever owned it guzzled petrol with all the gusto of man worried he might never see fluids again. Worryingly, at 70mph I could actually see the fuel needle slowly retreating towards another visit to the gas station. 

 

Even down-town the love-affair with the automobile was in evidence. Manhattan's iconic yellow taxis seemed to make up almost 75% of the island traffic. The thorough underground network boasted roomy air-conditioned carriages and cheap tickets but we never saw it busy. Quieter still were the temptingly wide cycle lanes which sat almost unused next to congested lanes of traffic. Now, it is perhaps hypocritical to wave the naughty finger when the time I spent sat in a 737 on the way to Americas' East coast probably negates every bit of cycling I have ever done. However I had been hoping that forward-thinking New York would provide me with some eco-inspiration. 

 

Hope was offered by their attention to food wrapping which was predominantly paper and cardboard but street recycling was scarce and 99% of my waste joined the disposable coffee cups in the cavernous waste bins that stood on ever corner. Just when I was feeling concerned with the escalating levels of my holiday waste NYC redeemed itself in the form of a chilled bottle of water bought in Central Park. A brand new idea to me, it's label proudly boasted the completely organic nature of it's bottle, constructed not from oil-derived plastic but from plant materials. It was 100% compostable (or recyclable) and an idea that I had never seen before. Brilliant new technology as refreshing as it's chilled contents.

 

 

With a sideways glance confirming the coast is clear I delve my hand into the bin and swiftly retrieve the treasure. Slightly sticky and dripping coke onto my shoe is my most coveted prize, a discarded aluminium can. As I toss it into the recycling my warm feeling of pride is tempered only by the acute concern that a colleague might have witnessed my bin-based rummaging. I quickly make an exit.

This habit I have developed of man-handling peoples rubbish makes me feel comparable to the homeless man who strolls from bin to bin in my local park picking out cans to sell on-masse for a few pounds of lunch-money. Whilst the sight of him used to make me feel desperately sad in recent times I have developed a respect and admiration for this wandering recycler. He feels no shame as a modern day Womble, making good what people leave behind, and nor should he. I, on the other hand, am so embarrassed about my office-waste rearranging that I sneak about like someone with a dirty secret. 

Am I missing the point? Is it OK to sit and write about greener living from the comfort of my lounge if I can’t lead by example?

The following is an email sent to the people in charge of packaging reduction at Tescos.