My rapidly diminishing number of brain cells has possibly not been helped by the inhalation of things found in odd containers during the basement clean-up.
There has been nothing hedonistic about my sniffing - it's been a matter of identifying what is safe to be thrown in the skip.
The Third Born reckoned he'd trust his nose as to whether anything was edible (have we taxpayers wasted our money on that young man's extensive science education?), giving the thumbs-up to the two bottles of what I thought was gooseberry sauce, likely to be more than a decade old.
I wasn't convinced (although I must say it did smell delicious).
Nor was he when I pointed out that the bulk of it refused to be coaxed out of the bottle.
Now I have an unrecognisable basement. I could give tours, pointing out my novel collection of chain bar oil (enough for a new career as a lumberjack, if only I could work out how to start the temperamental chainsaw I share with my brother-in-law); the 1978 journalists' strike placards, later papered over for use in a demo about water and sewerage supply to Broad Bay and Portobello; broken must-keep toys, tins of paint dating back to the previous owners should I wish to become more retro than I already am; and containers full of things nobody can recognise, but we know will be useful one day. The drawback to this tourism venture is no functioning light. Having me point out the salient features while breathlessly whirring the dynamo torch would detract from the ambience.
Perhaps it is this unaccustomed burst of tidying - only about a tenth of the house done and the skip is already full - which has me feeling crankier than usual this early in the new year.
Maybe it highlights how cluttered our lives become, even when we are not trying to accumulate ultimately useless stuff.
Despite my physical dross collection, my hope for the new year would be that we all keep our involvement with rubbish emanating from electronic devices to a minimum.
I will avoid the temptation to be fascinated by the flotsam and jetsam of famous people's utterances, often on Twitter, which are then regurgitated by other media. Talk of things going viral is enough to make me go feral.
Is it just because I have a cellphone which is openly laughed at on those rare occasions I peevishly peer at it in public, that I am sick of this type of trivia?
I reckon my cellphone hand-me-down is about 10 years old.
It's now considered enormous.
But it still takes calls (if I ever get around to turning it on) and text (ditto) and has a functioning battery. On occasion I have found it a useful gadget, but I don't feel my throat's cut if I don't turn it on for days.
Typically, however, in the middle of this year it will become obsolete.
At that point I would have been prepared to end my shotgun marriage with the cellphone, but the Third Born has assured me I won't be forced to buy some modern wizzbangery with a touch screen capable of everything except cleaning the toilet.
He is quite sure he will be able to track down some similar-sized old unfancy and unfancied clunker and put me on a network which will allow me to use my old number (not that I have any idea what my number is, but I assume some of the people I know do).
I trust his judgement on this.
After all, he and the First Born, with moral support from the other offspring, took my 33-year-old bike in hand and did it up after its derailleur snapped rather spectacularly.
They knew how much I loved the old Falcon and appreciated my lack of enthusiasm for replacing it with something snazzier (as urged every time it went near a bike shop).
Recognising my complete lack of understanding of gears and my preference for walking rather than having my legs whirring round in a blur to travel 2cm on hills, they turned the 10-speed into a "onesie" - a single-speed designed for my cadence. It was a long project, but it was worth it. A week before Christmas, my beloved bike was returned. Like the basement, it was unrecognisable, but the best of the original, including its excellent frame, had been retained.
I am not sure they believe my subsequent claims to have overtaken some cyclists (on the flat) on this monument to sensible recycling. Who cares?
I am just grateful for their perception, perseverance and practicality. It gives me hope.
Hell, instead of being cranky, perhaps I should be reaching for my hanky.
