So this is what it is like to be a man...

However many times an hour men are supposed to think about sex, it can't be as often as I think about matters green. It's as though I've got emerald lenses glued to my eyeballs. Each decision comes with its green dilemma, like a Pullmanian demon:
yoghurt pot - chuck or recycle?
Buy a paper or read it on-line?
Cashmere or wool?
Is it better to use our old car until it dies or swap it in for a low-emission model?
Ditto for the light bulbs.
Does dried mango come by plane?
Is Turkey in Europe (we don't eat fresh food that comes from further afield)?
Can I have a hot bath alone after shivering in an unheated house all day?
What should we do about our methane-belching pets?
Should I unplug the laptop when I'm using it?
Whither our pre-green patio heater?
Should we put money in the charity box outside a house festooned with extravagant Christmas lights?

And that's only the little stuff. What about moving house? We'd love to build our own, on a bigger slice of land with all the eco-trimmings; heat pumps, super-insulation, maybe a PV cell or two. But can we ever justify the cement, the new bricks, wires, glass, energy burned by the diggers and drills? If it were, say, to pay off its carbon expenditure in 25 years would it be worth it? 30? 50? 17? How would we calculate it?

Should we choose our kids' next school on eco-grounds, as well as educational?

Can I get on a plane to South Africa to see my 90 year-old grandmother?

What if Mark were to steal enough votes from the Lib Dem candidate to enable Tory Ancram to waltz in without even raising his heartbeat? (Academic, since Ancram's as good as glued to his seat).

I sometimes think back to those innocent, pre-green days, with the nostalgia of the ignorant. I can only cling on to the idea that this incessant mental activity must be burning an extra calorie or two.