Imagine a road. It’s a well travelled road, lots of traffic. It joins two small towns, it doesn’t matter which ones. Now focus on a particular verge on a bend somewhere in the middle. Again, it doesn’t mater where. It’s a grassy verge, quite a lot of space between the kerb and the hedgerow that bounds a field with some anonymous crop growing in it. There’s a small ditch directly adjacent to the hedgerow, you know the sort.

One day, some professional in his Porsche Cayenne winds down the window unleashing a cloud of vapour that smells like Skittles. Bon Jovi plays from his stereo. He discards the non-compostable, non-recyclable Starbucks Grande Latte container at ten miles per hour above the speed limit. It hits the road, the lid detaching, spilling congealed, frothed milk in a splat-mark that resembles a cuttlefish. The cup bounces on: once, twice. It clips the edge of the kerb and improbably lands upright in the unmown grass, the logo facing outwards.

The car is gone, disappearing over the brow of a hill, barely straddling the lane divider as he close-passes a teenage cyclist. He has places to be. He cares not a jot for the grass verge.

The next day, the cup is joined by a half-empty plastic bottle with the label removed. The liquid is yellowish. Who knows what it might be. Who knows who threw it there.

A couple of days later and the remains of three McDonalds extra value meals surround the Starbucks cup like worshippers to some obscure deity. A crow lazily pecks at a container that once held fries. It soon give up though, and flaps away looking for something more wholesome and fulfilling.

A fortnight has passed since the midden-heap began its ascent. The Starbucks cup now lies on its side, a fallen idol, all icons obscured by road dirt and soot. Rising to take its place is a once beloved plastic tricycle with a smiley face. The worshippers have swelled their numbers. A catalogue of fast food and sugary beverage containers bow low to the grinning monument. In the background looms a black refuse sack, split at the bottom spilling potato peelings and beans. The crow is very enthusiastic. She is joined by a rat. They tolerate each other, there is plenty to go around.

A fortnight more, and the cult of the tricycle is a fearsome sight. Scores of acolytes lie prostrate around him. More sacks have joined the first. A wall of dark figures behind the resplendence of the tricycle. Off to the side is a fridge. The door is open, revealing stains and shattered glass shelves. A woeful yoghurt deposits mould spores onto the breeze. The plug has been cut off. Waste not want not.

The next day, the compressor at the back of the fridge is gone. The scrap man cometh.

Two months on and the cult of tricycle has been supplanted. A mattress draped over the once magnificent congregation is torn open, spilling synthetic stuffing intestines and rusted spring ribs. Other appliances have made their way to join the lamentable fridge. The refuse-sack-army now numbers a dozen a more and a colony of black-backed gulls is never far away now. There are rich pickings among the fallen.

A couple, out for an evening walk stroll around the bend and make disparaging noises. The smell is incredible. Why don’t the council sort it out? It’s in that grey area between towns where no-one really owns the road. No-one to take responsibility. No-one to clean up. The farmer who owns the field has complained to both councils to no avail. It’s not her problem, she just has live next to it.

The verge has no opinion. It is a grassy bank. If it were just that cup, all those months ago, it could have grown over it by now. Too late now though. It’s no longer a tidy grassy verge, but a spoil heap. It’s already covered, what’s another discarded microwave?

It’s easy to write-off something that affects you. After all, in isolation, it’s just a comment someone made in passing, or a simple mistake. It’s nothing.

Once you’ve done that though, it’s easier to ignore the next little blemish, then the next, and the next. Then suddenly, it’s not just one little thing, it’s a great steaming pile, eating at your soul, killing off the green grass underneath.

Find someone who you trust and talk to them. Talk to them about the little things as much as the big and do the same for them. It may not remove the problem, but getting a second opinion, and having someone else know you’re struggling is so important. Don’t suffer alone.