SARAH VINE: My one-woman war on our 'what's in it for me?' society Removed: Apparently, residents from the estate opposite us had been dumping their household rubbish in and around it, causing it to overflow and attract foxes As a law-abiding, tax-paying citizen of this great nation, I get thoroughly cheesed off with having to clear up everyone else's mess. Take rubbish, for example. Across the road from our house there is a bus stop, and next to it a bin. Or at least there used to be. A few weeks ago, it was removed by the council. Now, instead of depositing their empty Fruit Shoot bottles and crisp packets in the bin, the passengers of the No. 7 bus just chuck them on the ground, whereupon they migrate into my front garden. When I rang the council to ask what had become of the bin, they explained it had been removed for health and safety reasons. Yes, really. Apparently, residents from the estate opposite us had been dumping their household rubbish in and around it, causing it to overflow and attract foxes. Leaving aside the insanity of removing a bin because people were putting too much rubbish in it, it's an incident that encapsulates everything that's wrong with our society. A feckless minority abuse a useful public amenity and the rest of us suffer as a result. Those who offer least and care even less dictate the way the rest of us are treated. The lowest common denominator rules. The plan to offer women in South Yorkshire up to £200 in store vouchers - from Poundland to John Lewis - as an incentive to breastfeed their babies is a classic case in point. It's not going to improve the lives of underprivileged babies any more than paying truants to turn up at school is going to turn them into conscientious pupils. All that will happen is that those with an eye on the main chance will take advantage of a scheme designed by well-meaning professionals to nab themselves some extra cash. Who knows, perhaps that money will go into the household budget; but it may equally contribute to a flat-screen TV for the living room. Crucially, the very idea that feeding your child the way that nature intended should somehow earn you a financial reward is simply reinforcing the message that responsible social behaviour is not borne out of altruism or respect for your fellow man, but out of greed and financial incentive. No wonder we live in a "what's in it for me?" society, where those who go out of their way to help others seem to be a dying breed. It doesn't have to be this way. There are other ways of appealing to people's better nature than offering them cash. Not long after I met my husband, we were strolling along together when a man walked past in a hurry, and spat in front of me. Just another example: The very idea that feeding your child the way that nature intended should somehow earn you a financial reward is simply reinforcing the message I ignored it, but my then boyfriend didn't. "Excuse me," he boomed in his loudest voice (which is loud). What do you think you are doing? The man turned. He wasn't happy. "What's your problem, mate?" he said, or words to that effect. My problem is that you spat in front of my girlfriend. I think you should apologise. There followed a frank exchange of views which, mercifully, resulted in nothing more than a bit of strong language. But the incident had a lasting effect on me. Opposite our house is a park, where I regularly walk my dog. It's a mixed community: one or two drunks, a cluster of mothers and children - and a selection of dog owners, from grannies with fat, yappy pooches to macho young men and their trophy dogs. I approached one of these types the other day. His dog - a Staffie - had made a massive mess, which he was studiously ignoring. Hello! I said. Would you like to borrow a poo bag? I held out a roll. "Why?" he said, sniffing. "So you can pick up your dog's mess," I replied, in what I hoped was a helpful, but not too bossy tone. "Nah," he said. "Oh, all right then," I said. And I scooped it up for him. A few days later, I was in the park again. There he was, with his Staffie, chatting on his phone while the dog snuffled around in the flower bed. And then he caught sight of me and waved. He reached into his pocket and brandished a poo bag. That one tiny gesture earlier had cost me nothing. But the effect was priceless. What a way to mourn a lost child It is very hard to live with a seriously disabled child. But to attempt to profit from that child's pain and misery is unforgivable. I can understand the parents of Bethany Chinnock-Schumann - who was born with a severe chromosomal abnormality and who died in 2009 at the age of 11 - wanting to do their best for their daughter while she was alive. Adding insult to injury: For Joan Chinnock to claim that she would have aborted her daughter if she knew how disabled she would be is an insult not only to her daughter¿s memory, but also to all those who love and care for their own disabled children That might well have included suing the health authority that failed to spot Bethany's disabilities for funds to better support their child during her lifetime. But attempting to extract £500,000 four years after the girl's death as compensation for "damage done to their lives and careers" seems horribly venal. For the mother, Joanne Chinnock, to claim she would "almost certainly" have had an abortion, in a desperate attempt to extract the cash only adds insult to injury - not only to her daughter's memory, but also to all those who love and care for their own disabled children. Wear a warm coat love, not a nightie Lily Collins pictured at the Glamour Women of the Year Awards, New York on Monday wearing a nude Julien Macdonald dress One of the least attractive things about being a beautiful young actress these days is that it appears to be compulsory to walk the red carpet half-naked, come rain, shine or, in this case, snowstorm. Here is the adorable Lily Collins at the Glamour Women of the Year Awards in New York, shivering in a diaphanous, nude Julien Macdonald nightie/dress. Would it have killed her agent to let her wear a coat? Poor child, she's in serious danger of going down with pneumonia. Underneath that red, her lips are actually blue, you know. The old school tie that binds us As a partial foreigner, the British obsession with old school ties baffles me. For what it's worth, I went through the Italian system until I was 14, then to a boarding school in Sussex before transferring to a London comprehensive and eventually a technical college. Educationally, then, I'm neither fish nor fowl nor good red herring, though I am lucky enough to be fluent in the language of the Renaissance. But it doesn't matter: I still managed to go to university and blag my way onto a national newspaper at the age of 21. It seems to me that being state-educated in Britain is no different from being a woman in a man's world. You have to work twice as hard as the men/rich kids to succeed and, even when you do reach the top, they still think they have the right to patronise you. But it doesn't stop you trying. Double Trouble As if the onesie wasn't bad enough, the trend for infantile adult clothing has reached the next level of hideousness in the twosie, a giant three-legged romper suit made for two. The idea is that you wear it together, as though you were running some demented sack race. Think it won't catch on? I thought that about the onesie. And then M&S started making them in cashmere ... The veteran broadcaster David Dimbleby has now had his first marking - of a Scorpion - while filming his latest show Britain and the Sea I, for one, am delighted that David Dimbleby has got a tattoo. Nothing like a septuagenarian joining in to kill an annoying celebrity- driven trend stone dead. More and more families are having to rely on grand- parents for childcare. In fact, almost ten million elderly Britons look after their grown-up children's children. But while the most obvious advantages may seem financial, there is so much more that is vital about a child's relationship with a grandparent. My grandmother was central to my upbringing. She lived a genteel, suburban existence in Bickley, Kent, and yet as a former Army wife she was far more worldly wise than she cared to let on. She and I had an incredible bond. I still feel a connection to her almost 20 years after her death. I never thanked her properly for what she did, of course. But she wasn't stupid: she knew how much of a difference she made. Like so many grandparents who follow in her footsteps, she offered so much more than a source of free childcare. Was Miley Cyrus smoking a joint at the MTV Awards? Who cares. She could inject her eyeballs with heroin and she'd still be as dull as ditchwater.