A Tip Down Memory Lane.

One of my earliest memories and perhaps, with the benefit of hindsight, maybe one of my most disturbing, although not at the time, was this one time that my Dad took us on a family adventure.

To the tip.

While he got busy unloading rubbish, I wandered off, over mountains of crap. Like a filthy little adventure for this four-year old. I navigated my way through a maze of dead fridges and spotted one of my greatest loves. That being a horse.

It was a huge chestnut thoroughbred. He was very tame and placid.


But that did not stop me from patting him, grooming his tangled mane with my little fingers. I told him what a good boy he was and then heard Dad honk the horn, signalling us to return to the car as he was done shovelling filth.

Disturbing, with a side of naive sweetness.

And as usual times have changed. The tip is now called Landfill and it is far a more homogenized experience.

Mr Woog is obsessed with the tip. We took down the front fence at Jabba over the weekend, which meant not one, not two but three tips to the tip. And not just any old tip. The thing of organised beauty that is the Woy Woy Landfill Centre.

The Woy Woy Landfill Centre lacks the stench of your traditional tip, because it is so organised. You drive in and the whole car and trailer gets weighed. You then proceed to the area and line up with all the other cars and trailers. I sat in the car with the kids and watched my beloved empty the trailer with gusto. And then I looked around, and noticed the glee on all the other men’s faces, as they did the same.

Was this the male equivalent of getting a mani-pedi? Sure seemed like it.

tip collage

Scrap metal in one place. Dead TV’s in another. Discarded fence went into an area known as General Waste. This is the section that we spent our time.

As we drove back down towards the weigh bridge, I asked Mr Woog if it would save us much money if I alighted from the car and snuck through. Apparently not, so I stayed put.

And everywhere you looked at the Woy Woy Landfill Centre were these.

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Menacing and ugly Ibis. Although I should not berate them because of their appearance I suppose. They just all hang around looking at you, with their beady little eyes. They are like undertakers for unwanted goods. They lend an air of dread and creepiness to an already eerie place.

I still think about that giant dead horse, who I naturally christened Flicka. My friend Flicka.

Do you have childhood memories of going to the tip?

Or am I just really, very disturbed…..