The recycling room, morning

At eight the recycling room takes in the night's leftovers. Someone from the restaurant brings down yesterday's bottles and flattened pastry boxes, rinses what needs rinsing at the steel bench, and sorts everything into the blue, green and grey bins. The crates on the shelves are counted and stacked. By nine the room is back in order, ready for whatever the day sends down.

At the very bottom of the tower is the recycling room, and it is tidier than most kitchens. The walls are tiled in sage green, the floor is sealed concrete, and a long ventilation duct runs along the ceiling between two round lights. A door on the left leads to the service lane where collections happen.

Three wheeled bins stand in a row along the wall: blue for paper and card, green for glass and cans, grey for everything that cannot go anywhere else. In the middle a stainless steel bench with a small sink is where things get rinsed, flattened and sorted, with grey crates stored on the shelf underneath. On the right a steel shelving unit holds rinsed bottles and more crates, and a tall stack of empty crates waits by the wall for the next delivery to the restaurant.

Like the pump room, there is nothing here to buy and nothing decorative. It exists because the floors above produce coffee grounds, wine bottles, delivery boxes and pastry bags every day, and all of it has to go somewhere. The recycling room is where the tower's everyday life is quietly undone and sent on. It is also, oddly, one of the most satisfying rooms to visit: a place where everything has exactly one right place to be.

In the tower the recycling room is the second basement, below the pump room.