Five a day? make it 5 a decade in Greenland

How are you supposed to get your five a day in Greenland? You try growing a brussel sprout just outside Nuuk (the capital, for those who don't know and don't know how to use Wikipedia), or a radish, if you prefer. Go to a vegetarian restaurant in Nuuk and the waiter says, 'But you're quite welcome to come in and sit down if you like'. In Greenland, five a decade is more hopeful.

If you have say seven one day, can you carry two over and have just three the following day? If not, and you fancy seven one day like you know when you have a craving (usually a craving will be for something more specific like fish and chips, but this time round it's awh, do you know what I fancy? I fancy seven), you could have your five then stay up till midnight and just after pop another couple. Technically those two will count in the next day's quota but psychologically you've done it - you've had your seven.

We suffered two days without hot water in the kitchen. Turn the hot water tap - nothing. Water coming out the cold tap, but that's still half a drought (you do the math) we've endured.

I didn't see an episode of Ray Bears where he showed you how to wash up in the Tundra. Or I may have missed it. Fingers numb from rinsing dishes before washing them up in a bowl of boiled kettle water mixed with water from the cold water tap. This is what it must have been like for Scott of the Arctic when he washed up except he probably didn't have a kettle.

These are the sort of entries Scott would write in his diary:

'Washed up today. Couldn't feel fingers afterwards. Dogs are restless.'

'Morale higher than it has been for a long time now. Dried up today.'

Read 'Damp Sleeve' for 'Damp Squib'

One of the things we are presently putting up with at this stage of human development is the one sleeve or one leg of clothing somehow turning itself inside out in the machine wash.

At some point during the washing cycle one arm, for example, will often go against the grain of the shirt's natural demeanour. Can we fight our natural instincts to right it and hang it up to dry as is? I don't feel we can, nor do I feel we should. It's lightly disturbing to see a top performing contortions on the radiator or clothes horse. It doesn't look right. It niggles us mutely like an inside-out dog's ear. It says 'you have to do something about this'. But that's not the end of it. The twisted arm gathers material around the armpit, material that doesn't stand a cat in hell's chance of drying at the same rate as the rest of the top. And cats don't get many chances in hell. The arm (or leg) has to be righted. Denial (like failure) is not an option. But here, finally, is the rub, the nub of the situation. 'Righting' involves having to reach inside the soggy errant sleeve and pull it back out. And that means getting the arm of the top you're wearing soggy. And you have to live with a slightly damp arm from then on until it dries or you change it for another top.

My partner tells me that I should check that my long johns legs aren't inside out when I throw them in the dirty washing basket. I shall endeavour to do this, but still check whether the washing machine is responsible for this inside-outing phenomenon.

Keyboard-Dusting Block

Keyboard dusting is an activity which removes the dust that collects between the keys of your computer's keyboard. A little-known writer's affliction has to be 'Keyboard-dusters' block' caused by the active process of writing.

Chopsticks

The thing about inhabiting a small dwelling, in our case, a flat, is that you have very little storage space. You're forced to think about storage space. The middle classes don't with their town houses they were helped to buy by Location, Location, Education (Why do the presenters have to help people with budgets? They've already got money why can't they suffer the ennui of looking for somewhere to live with no money?) They have loft spaces they can store trinkets they can take to Antiques Roadshow and say oh, I don't suppose it's worth very much, it's just been gathering dust in our attic, knowing full well that there's every chance their crockery belongs to a Ming Dynasty.

In the smaller dwelling we have to have a conversation with our missus about 'we don't really need that, do we? It's only taking up space.' I have a pair of chopsticks in the kitchen drawer. That's a good start because if they were in a cabinet in the lounge, they'd be immediately behaving like they're out of place. That's where you shove elastic bands, buttons and coins of a currency that has now become defunct. Why do you keep chopsticks? asks your partner. We're going to discuss this because by losing them we will gain space equal to the volume of Chinese chopsticks. 'You don't even like Chinese food', she says. 'I didn't say that'. 'You did. You always say you don't like Chinese food'. 'I didn't say I didn't like Chinese food. I just don't like the way they cook it'.

Chopsticks are always handy (and 'handiness' is the quality you want to bestow an object that's threatened with eviction) when you step in dog shit and it squelches and compacts in the tread of your trainers. Then you get rid of them or at least you should.