Grumps

Waiting at the traffic lights on the way to Waitrose yesterday I watched a family walk past, parents and three kids, one in a pushchair. As the father stared at his phone screen and the mother talked on her phone, the two older children walked ahead, aimless, bored, disconnected. I know I sound like an old crusty - I AM an old crusty - but it is just beyond my comprehension what is going through the minds of these so-called parents. You overhear phone conversations all the time, and they are just rubbish, nothing, idle chitter-chatter. "What ya doin' babe?" "Nothing much, saw Mum this morning, only she was going to the shops ...". Talking to children is never like this if you engage their interest and show yours. It makes me want to scream. It makes me want to bury my hand in my hands and weep. All those ignored children who'll soon isolate themselves with their own phones. Personally I never know what to do with the Internet, after I've checked my emails and bank balance, and read the paper. Penny told me to watch a Youtube clip of Peter Sellars on the Michael Parkinson show, so I did. Really, it was hilarious, and what a beautiful voice the guy had. I enjoyed it, but what a waste of time during the day. I went back to sorting out World Peace. Someone has to.

Then the dustmen turned up unexpectedly, delayed from Thursday, and of course I hadn't put my bin out. I would have let it go, but I missed two weeks ago when I was away and it's quite smelly, so I rushed to the front gate and yelled as they emptied my neighbour's. "Well, 'urry up then" a fat grumpy man shouted, and I raced through the house, kicked off my slippers, threw myself into my shoes and ran to the bin. There he was, the refuse collector, standing at the end of the drive waiting. I don't really do racing at the moment, especially with a heavy bin, and couldn't resist venting my irritation. "Where are your nice colleagues today then?" I asked him, emphasis on the word "nice". He looked surprised for a moment, smiled sheepishly and told me they'd gone, they were on other jobs. "Please ask them to come back," I told him sweetly, and he smiled again and nodded. I wouldn't normally have expected any behaviour other than this, but my usual dustmen are the height of kindness and consideration. If I leave big piles of detritus for the garden bin, or cardboard boxes I can't fit in the recycling, they do it for me. One even gives Hugo a treat if he's out. And I tip them generously every Christmas. I hope the Fat Controller is temporary.

The snow has mostly gone, and I'd say we got off lightly. Only a few days of inconvenience after all, though not for everyone I know. I've had an odd sort of day, not at all pleasant. Hassling for things for myself is not my cup of tea, but I knew I had to, and now I have another date for Papworth. All the waiting, the disappointments, and then suddenly the dawning of what it all means and how serious it is, came together in a horrible emotional crescendo. I knew how to deal with it - better out than in. So I played Bellini's I Capulette e i Montecchi and it did the trick. Now I'm feeling as deflated as a pricked balloon, but I'll get the pump out later. There's just no point in avoiding feelings: feel them and they'll pass quicker. I'm the expert.