Monday 25th April

I was having a lay-in this morning which, in my house at least, involves ramming my eyes closed and trying to pretend that I can’t hear the Teenager and Annabelle screaming at each other. It also involves quite a bit of ‘faking’ since I can, from time to time, sense that either the kids or the dog have entered the room and are staring at me.

None of them actually dare ‘wake me up’ so; they cough, shuffle and make other miscellaneous noises that they clearly hope will be the cause (on accident, of course) of me waking up. As I am pretty good at ‘faking’, I usually manage to outlast them as they inevitably get bored and decide to go back to screaming at each other.

The downside of this brilliant plan is that I can neither get myself a cup of coffee nor avail myself of the facilities, so my stubborn determination to stay horizontal is fraught with trip-wires of both the external and internal varieties.

My neighbour, the Mr in the Young-Couple-That-Live-Together equation, finally bested me at 9.30am when he switched his lawnmower on. I don’t know what they have hidden in their straggly, yellow grass but to someone with her eyes rammed shut and a pillow over her head, it sounded like he was trying to mow through gravel.   

Despite the fact that I spent all of Sunday tidying the house up for Friend-Sophie’s arrival (she’s dead house-proud), I discovered when I went downstairs that another pile of washing up had materialised and with only a few minutes to go, went in search of somewhere to hide it.

Since I had been thinking about those recycling bin thingies yesterday, and quite certain that they had never been touched, decided to hide the dishes in there. Friend-Sophie may be dead house-proud but I was quite certain that if she headed in the direction of my bins I would easily be able to distract her before she got there by shouting “Look, I found an old bottle of cooking-sherry”, so devious plan concocted, I headed over to the orange and black one.

When I got there, I discovered that the Teenager had beaten me to it as I was faced with all of the glasses, knives, forks and plates that I had been hunting for since November. I also i-spied the carving dish for the roast and my pizza-cutter along, mysteriously, with a remote control for the Sky box and what looked like a pile of Annabelle’s Justin Bieber and Katy Perry CDs.

I made a mental note to have a serious word with him about the meaning of responsibility and the sense of true pride that, when he is asked to wash up, can be gained from doing a job and doing it properly.  

Having stashed my pile of dishes in the green and grey one, I wandered back to the house marvelling at how ‘with-it’ the council are these days. Bins used to be really dull back in the days when they only came in black but now, for reasons, best known to themselves, the local authority have pimped them up real nice and they seem to come in a rainbow of mix ‘n’ match colours.

I’m going to ring tomorrow and order a pink one for Annabelle. She could keep her roller skates and bits in it. This would make better use of the space than their current purpose as an impromptu corral to herd her little friends into when she plays one of her games of ‘I’ll sing and you cheer and clap me’.

If my council tax dollars are paying for cool, colour-coded storage for my garden, the least I can do is make good use of it.

How environmentally friendly am I?

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