Miranda Richardson wasn't the only Miranda at the Stop Climate Chaos demo last Saturday. We made it – despite hosting a big party on Friday night. In the old days we'd have enjoyed a lovely lie-in, but young children = the world's most insistent and persistent wake-up call, so up we scrambled at dawn's early light. After attending to the post-party chaos we headed to Trafalgar Square (bus and a walk, natch) to protest again climate chaos. We found a lovely patch of grass by the National Gallery, which meant the children could ramble without being trampled in the crowd, which though well-intentioned, was heaving.

 

Our daughter was shouting the "I count! You count! We count!" chant along with the best of them. She's a veteran of demos, starting with the Stop The War march in 2003, which, come to think of it, didn't stop the war. Was this demo doomed to be equally impotent?

 

It's so easy to get discouraged. Individuals, companies and the government seem to be justifying their failure to meet targets. Some people assert that UK emissions are irrelevant compared to the scale of the problem worldwide, but that's just another excuse to do nothing. And if everyone does nothing...

Confession time. I adore the nostril-scorching smell of bleach. Not lemon-scented or pine-needle fresh, but unadulterated chlorine. That's right, the nasty stuff that kills off Nemo and his mates in our oceans and rivers. I read that mad women in New York get their nose hairs waxed – just pop into my house on a Thursday afternoon and save yourselves a fortune, ladies. Don't get me wrong,  my home isn't particularly clean or even tidy. I certainly don't recommend eating off the floor – though visiting toddlers often do.

 

I'm sure my bleach addiction stems from a childhood in America, home to 90% of the world's germaphobes* (*www.wehategerms.com). You'd never see an American advert featuring 'friendly bacteria'. In the land of springtime fresh, everything from tissues to loo roll smells sickly sweet – and is anti-bacterial.

 

Another confession. I recently bought some eco-friendly laundry soap and I hate it. It's not even a neutral scent, it's positively unpleasant. After re-washing two loads (definitely an express ticket to eco purgatory) I am back on Ecover, which gets points for being biodegradable – and for smelling nice. I'm really disappointed though. I wanted to give the little guys a try. Perhaps I should just buy a book on natural cleaning solutions. You know the routine, lemon juice, white vinegar (I am a big fan of malt, actually, but only made that mistake once) and elbow grease. It can be my new workout regime to stave off the middle-aged batwings. Saved by the bell: the postman's just delivered a box of samples from Home Scents (www.homescents.co.uk) and they smell gorgeous. The batwings are safe for the foreseeable future.

 

 

My enthusiasm for the worms is not reciprocated. They're officially on strike and the food has piled up and is starting to smell. My husband complains that it's not a wormery but a 'fly-ery'. The neighbours must be wondering what's going on – whenever I lift the lid for a peek, a black cloud rises up as the insects make a bid for freedom.  A friend who has a successful wormery tells me to leave the worms in peace for a week or two, so our scraps are back in the bin. I feel strangely ashamed – reminds me of when I had an aquarium and the fish kept dying. When I went in to the pet shop for the third time to buy more, they refused to sell me any until I brought in a water sample so they could sort things out. 'Fish-killer' I could hear them thinking. I have read that if the wormery conditions aren't right, the worms will try to climb out of the box – or will expire. Who'd have thought such a lowly life form was so high-maintenance? If my worms don't survive I may begin to doubt my parenting skills – surely children are more complex. I can do this! 

 

 

The worms have arrived, not in a tiny envelope of course, but in a rather large tub with handy airholes. When I carried them over the threshold of their new home, they seemed happy as Larry. They're more disgruntled now, as I've ignored the advice to give them time to settle in and have stuffed the box with tempting treats – if you call fuzzy brocolli, over-ripe pears and slimy carrot peelings tempting. Perhaps I'm subconsciously trying to breed my own little colony of American-style 'supersized' worms. The children and I keep checking to see if they've magically turned the rotting remains into fertile loam. Not as yet. I feel a new obsession coming on. I'm sure the worms have had enough of my prodding and can almost hear a faint Garbo-esque "Ve vant to be alone". Now I'm worrying about how they'll survive through the winter – perhaps a cosy, hand-knitted organic cotton blanket? Let's not get carried away.

I used to think binning food was a great idea. I imagined it would help break down everything else, transforming landfills into giant compost heaps dotted with wildflowers. Wrong. Whilst researching wormeries for my column, I discovered that food in landfills is a major producer of methane – and global warming. Time to start some global worming.

 

I was tempted by the Baby Beehives at wigglywigglers.co.uk (especially the baby pink one) but as our council was selling wormeries for a fiver, I couldn't justify the extra expense. Alas, our mousy-brown wormery arrived today, along with a tiny envelope labelled 'Worms' and '244'. I was gobsmacked – how could 244 worms fit inside, how could they survive without air, and would such tiny creatures cope with all our leftovers? I asked the delivery man if I could wait and open them later, as we were just heading out for a picnic in the park. He shrugged.

 

"May I have the envelope please?" After the children were in bed, I got the bedding ready and opened the envelope, but instead of wriggling worms, there was just a small slip of paper – a Worm Voucher for 250g of mixed composting worms. On the plus side, my worms haven't suffocated, but crickey, is my face red.

 

 

I do admit to tears and tantrums at bus stops when we're not allowed on with a pushchair. In the latest  incident a driver told me we couldn't board. I offered to fold it, but he said I'd have to step off the bus to do so. Of course he then roared away. Must remember to carry a spare £20 for emergency taxis! We live very close to a tube station, but even after its recent million-pound makeover, there's no disabled access to the platform. I can't face 30 steps carrying the buggy, so we're stuck with the bus until we're pushchair-free. Still, the station looks great – not that that helps the elderly or disabled, parents with pushchairs or anyone with heavy bags.

 

My husband cycles, and we have also joined a car club, Streetcar (www.mystreetcar.co.uk). I can't drive as I don't yet have a UK licence, but we use it around once a month for large shops or family visits to friends who insist on living miles from public transport. Many people who live in London only use their cars a few times per week, but the parked cars clog up the streets every day. Car clubs are a great solution – each car shared can take five off the road. There's also the savings on monthly payments, MOT, insurance – and petrol.

 

I recently saw yet another eco-living feature on car clubs – by someone who used it for a few months and then bought another car. Yawn. No, it's not as convenient as having a personal chariot just outside your door (especially with two carseats to negotiate), but ours is only a few blocks away – and if more people joined, maybe we'd get a couple in our road. Ulterior motive, moi?