Long before official policies and colour-coded bins, we simply made do.
In 1960s and 70s Britain, when it came to collecting our rubbish, there were no separate kerb side collections. We didn’t have to remember whether this week was the green or brown bin. And there was no requirement to sort the rubbish we put out for collection.
At the time, it was not a big issue. There were no public campaigns urging us to reduce waste to protect the planet. It was not a mainstream political issue — the UK Green Party wasn’t formed until 1990 (out of the PEOPLE Party, 1972). Television did give us The Good Life, a BBC comedy following the alternative lifestyle of Tom and Barbara Good. Self-sufficiency and recycling in Surbiton. The idea of recycling though, was a fringe issue.
But people often did it because they had to.
Dustbins
The rubbish (garbage) was collected once a week. Everything was put into a small tin bin (larger items would have to go to the local tip). All we had was a small round metal tin bin or two (later they were black plastic or rubberised bins). Household waste went into those bins, and it all went to landfill.
Of course, this was bad, but we were none the wiser. However, in many ways, we recycled far more than we realised, and not because it was policy. But because we had to. Milk came in bottles returned for deposit. Drink bottles were reused. Paper and wood were saved for lighting fires. Leftovers became the next day’s meal. And clothes would be used over and over again.
There were many examples of people recycling, reusing, and repurposing everyday items.
The postwar generation who raised families had grown up at a time when waste was frowned upon. The war years had required people to “make do and mend.” It wasn’t just a slogan; it was a necessity, and for many it became a habit. With clothes, after a few years of wear and tear, they would be repaired, taken in or out, and passed down.
This happened quite often with children’s clothes.
“When you have grown out of them, they will fit your brother.” Mam might say to me when she bought me a new pair of trousers, shirt, or jumper. She would save buttons in tins. And old jumpers were unravelled for wool. Shoes might be repaired rather than discarded, or worn until the holes in them became too big.
But my mother had one big advantage when it came to making do and mending. She was a trained sewing machinist. If it could be made, altered or renewed on a sewing machine, she could do it. No job was too big or too small. She could make clothes last a long time or turn them into something else.
But, more often than not, when something needed replacing, the first port of call was not an expensive shop in the city centre.
No, we would visit local junk shops.
The World of the Junk Shop
Every city and town had junk shops.
Near my home, a fifteen-minute walk away, there was a street of mostly junk shops, or second-hand shops, as some would call them. They were often dimly lit, dusty, and in need of cleaning, but nobody complained. They would pile things high and sell them cheap. We didn’t care about the “shopping experience”, as we wanted a bargain.
These shops were full of other people’s cast-offs. Crockery without matching sets, second-hand books, mismatched cutlery, old toys, electrical items, and furniture. Anything for the home, as long as it fit in the shop, could be found there.
Nothing was labelled “vintage” even if it was antique. There was no eBay to check to see if an item was worth something. The age of the collectible was yet to arrive. I’ve no doubt that those junk shops did house some items that probably had value, but people were mostly buying for need.
For many, whatever you wanted, you tried the junk shop before you bought new. It was cheaper, practical, and despite years of prior use, whatever you bought was often built to last, with years of use left. Today, we might call it upcycling. Back then, it was just shopping.
In our family, we would visit the junk shops on Saturday, which was a traditional day of the week for people to shop — a busy shopping day. There was no Sunday trading back then, no 24/7 opening time, either. No shop-to-you-drop online options. If you wanted to shop from the comfort of your own home, you did it with a catalogue.
For many, Saturday was the big shopping day of the week.
Rummage Sales and Charity Shops
Then we had rummage sales. Also known as jumble sales, a weekend would not be complete without checking the local paper to see if there was one listed nearby. Clothes were piled high on tables. Toys and books were sold for pennies. In fact, most things were sold for pennies. Rummage sales were often the cheapest of all.
People queued early for the best finds, but again, it was mostly to find things they needed. This was before the age of car-boot sales and Antiques Roadshow finds. There was no stigma attached to buying second-hand. It was sensible.
Like my school uniform. Uniforms were compulsory at secondary school — which was a problem for my Dad. A letter from the local education authority arrived with details of the official dress code.
I would need a uniform. For my school, the standard was, black blazer with the school badge on the pocket, white shirt and black tie, dark grey jumper, black or dark trousers, and black shoes.
All smart, plain and lacking colour.
I didn’t own a single item on the list, and my Dad didn’t have the money to buy them new. No way was he going to spend that sort of money.
He looked at me and shook his head.
“You’ll need another uniform in a few years, and another after that. You’re at school for five years. Do they think money grows on trees?”
My parents were divorced by then. Mam, with her machinist skills, probably could’ve made the blazer herself, but Dad hated shopping. His solution was to scour the weekend rummage sales. He checked the Friday paper, made a list, and off we went early the next morning.
“They look a fit,” he said, pressing a pair of trousers against me. “Now try these shoes.”
They were too big.
“You’ll grow into them,” he laughed.
By the end of a long day, we’d found everything but the blazer, and all for less than a pound. “We’ll sort the blazer out later,” he said, ever hopeful. Eventually, I did get one, badge and all. I suspect Mam had something to do with that.
My school uniform was recycled, but it looked as good as new.
And sometimes, the item you bought would later be donated back again, continuing the cycle. While junk shops and rummage sales often topped the list of places to find a bargain and recycle, there were also charity shops. I don’t recall any close to us, but they offered another cheap alternative.
The Rag and Bone Man and Tramps
Then there was the rag and bone man, a familiar figure in many towns and cities and a thing of the past now. His cart, typically horse-drawn (later a van), collected unwanted metal, broken appliances, and anything they could get their hands on. In return, he would pay a few pennies, or not, to take stuff away.
Most people knew about them. Everyone seemed to watch the BBC television comedy, Steptoe and Son. It suggested that rag and bone men had a hard life, and ran from 1962 to 1974. It is still repeated today, and gives a nostalgic look at a way of life long gone.
We also had a couple of local tramps, who would collect and sell on items. They couldn’t afford carts or transport; instead they used an old pram to move their stock around. I would often see one of them pushing his pram of metal finds into the local scrapyard.
Scrapyards and the Local Tip
If something couldn’t be repaired or was just too big for the dustbinmen to take, a trip to the local tip was necessary. They still exist but are usually given a more modern name, like “recycling centres”, and are managed differently. Today, you might have to book an appointment to take your unwanted items; not so in the 1960s and 70s.
I remember a local tip that I would occasionally visit. The front gate was always open during the day, and there were no on-site workers. You could just walk in and have a look around to see if there was anything worth taking home. On a couple of occasions, I found a bicycle that with a few repairs, could still be used.
Scrapyards were places to find anything made of metal. There was one just down the road from my home. They could be a treasure trove for anyone handy with tools. If you needed a working part for something electrical, or made of metal, the scrapyard might have it at a fraction of the cost on the high street.
Why It Felt Different
In the 1960s and 70s, recycling was less visible because it was part of everyday thrift. People didn’t talk about recycling because hardly anyone knew about it. They chatted about not wasting money. Making do, or buying second-hand, wasn’t trendy; it was often a necessity.
Back then, awareness of the environment was limited, and sending stuff to landfill was normal. Today, recycling is formalised; we sort everything and follow collection schedules. It is structured and, in many ways, necessary. It is as much a response to modern levels of consumption as it is about saving the planet.
It is romantic and nostalgic to suggest everything was better, but in many ways, it was just different. Without realising it, we lived through a time when many of us reused, repurposed, and recycled as a matter of routine. Most people had less money to buy things, and the age of consumerism and “spend, spend, spend” was only just about to start.
Recycling, and making do, was something many of us did as a way of life — even if we were not aware of it at the time.
Image by PublicDomainPictures from Pixabay
Image by Sasha Matveeva on Unsplash
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