In which I snarl about husbands and bin men.

I have bravely risen from my death-bed, following 24 hours of either food poisoning or the world's most vicious tummy-bug. Whichever it was, I can highly recommend it. I'm at least half a stone lighter.

Having made my way downstairs this morning, weak and gaunt (oh alright, maybe gaunt's pushing it a bit. Thinner. Less fat. Possibly with one less chin.) I was less than delighted (though not very surprised) to discover that nobody in this house has seen fit to pick up a single thing in the day and night I've been out of action. It's taken an hour to rediscover the sitting room rug.

Honestly. I realise that my husband took the kids to the park yesterday. I know they all went to the pub. I understand he had to go to the shop a couple of times and I sympathise that he had to feed the baby. But would it really, REALLY have been so hard to pick a few toys up? Or put things back in the fridge? (There is a reason, Simon, why your coffee tasted queer this morning. Milk is best kept COLD.)

Plus, the Refuse Refusal service (or bin men as they used to be called) have refused, yet again, to take my refuse. This time it was because I own two wheelie bins. Despite the fact that the council actually provided (and apparently have 'registered' the second bin) I was considered greedy and under-hand and they have left my stinking receptacle to rot for another two weeks until I have this row with them again. Decomposing nappies and mussel shells, do not make a pleasant odour. We shall see what Captain Refuse Refusal, with his bright yellow bib and clipboard has to say next week.

I suspect that Extremely Peculiar Neighbour Number One has something to do with it - I'm sure I saw a yellowing net curtain twitch whilst I dragged the stinking full bin back into the garden, but that may just be paranoia.

For now, I'm off to tackle the kitchen and remind myself what colour the washing up bowl is.