I live in a bubble – a rather picturesque one, nestled at the foot of Table Mountain, with breathtaking views, lofty fences, and dogs that are meant to guard but, let’s face it, are more like fuzzy family members. This bubble comes complete with a greenbelt, its only crime being the occasional dumping of bin remnants. These aren’t just any leftovers, mind you, but expired Woolies delights that didn’t make the cut, pushed aside in favour of a Codfather feast, Bagels from Kleinsky’s, or Bacini’s pizza – inevitable after an evening of sundowners and waiting for the offspring to stumble home from their latest revelry. The trash problem looms of…