I've been a grumpy old bugger of late, but who could be surprised. With a husband at high risk of redundancy and the state of the economy, I've preferred the sanctuary of watching the bees enjoy my garden than harping on about rubbish.
Instead of blogging, I've sat staring silently at the lavender and breathing in the scent of the honeysuckle until my peace with the world is broken by the passing traffic or a random man in his motorised paraglider taking regular opportunities to check out the gardens of suburbia.
Then there was the time my husband emerged from the kitchen holding a remnant of unidentifiable plastic crap, asking "where should I put this?" Yes he really did ask in such an inviting fashion.
I wanted to shout in the same way as I've taken to shouting at the TV.
"You can stick it up your..."
But I struggled to find an amusing even if rather predictable cockney rhyming slang to fill the space. With the benefit of internet research and resultant hindsight, I now know I could have replaced that very loud gap with anything from Political Farce to Tijuana Brass with even a touch of Hagen Daas.
After two and a half years of helping others reduce their rubbish why am I still the only one who takes responsibility for domestic waste knowledge management in this house. I'm convinced I mentioned my delight at our new "hard plastics recycling facilities" many times over, but short of gluing the council leaflet to his glasses, I don't know what to do.
I know we're facing change on the homefront that could have a bigger impact than any of my waste-bashing interests and I accept it's affecting my sanity too. Don't tell anyone will you but the lady seen emptying all the receipts and tissues from her handbag into a trainline rubbish bin was me. I only did it so I could look more presentable when meeting strangers in London that day instead of introducing myself as the haphazard specimen that I've become.
But in my favour I did remember to take my familiar refillable coffee cup, much to the annoyance of a very stylish cafe at St Pancras.
"We don't know if we can let you use that," they insisted, when I ordered my latte.
"I'm only trying to reduce your rubbish," I replied
"We'll have to check with our manager, to see if we're allowed"
Thanks to my recent mood, it's not enough that I want to shout at the TV and my husband, I wanted to shout at the staff too!
I really hope my husband's work is sorted out soon, or this grumpiness might last a bit longer. Well, change is as good as a rest, so maybe this new blog space will do me good as will the new Almost Average Headquarters into which I will be moving soon.
Yes folks, I've gone and bought myself a shed! But that is another story indeed.