Please note the new title. It was always a mistake anyway. Early doors, it was called “Me and My Money”, but while phoning it across once, back in the dark days, when the pigeons were on strike, a copytaker thought I had said “Mean with Money”. Say it quickly, and you can see the problem.

The “Mean” bit sort of stuck. Of course I could have sued, dear friends said it’s so totally out of character, how can you allow it, but heh ho, life’s too short to stuff a lawyer.

I’ve been out picking some nettles, fresh, pristine unpolluted ones, none of your horrible London nettles covered with carbon monoxide and dogs’ pee. We are in Lakeland. Not only are our nettles pure, they’re from my own field, next door to our house. How’s that for being self-sufficient? Stuff that in your hedgerow, Richard Mabey.

I also have 20 apple trees in my orchard, so many that come September I’ll be giving apples away to poor people. Looks a good year for gooseberries, and mine are almost ready, as are the blackcurrants. Oh, we just live off the land up here.

To gather the nettles, I put on yellow Marigold gloves to avoid being prickled, wondering that if any townie tourists were watching they’d be bound to think look, there’s a farmer going to deliver a baby calf, where’s the camcorder, Keith?

Plus a pair of kitchen scissors. You just snip the tops off the nettles, the light green, virginal bits. I soak them in cold water, then I boil them all slowly in hot water with a pinch of salt. But why am I telling you all this, you probably do it all the time, while making your own Aga out of old bottle tops.

I started off with what seemed a huge pile of nettle leaves, enough to freeze and feed the next regiment that calls, but when boiled, all I ended up with was about a teaspoonful. But was it delicious, yes sirree. Even my dear wife agreed. At her suggestion, we added a drop of walnut oil, which she makes herself, trampling the walnuts with her bare feet. Nettle pate, we called it, which we had on toast, half a slice each. Yum yum.

So that’s growing your own. But recycling and conserving, I’ve been doing that for years. Look in our bathroom and you’ll see a nice clean tube of toothpaste, hardly used. That’s my wife’s. Beside it, you’ll see the tube I use. It’s had the end cut off with a pair of scissors and every morning, I press and pummel it until I get the titchiest drop out. Been doing this for weeks now, since she discarded it as empty. What a waster.

In our bedroom, I do a similar clever thing with my moisturiser. When the plastic bottle appears to be empty, I cut the top off and then stick my finger in, wiggle it round, and it’s surprising how much you can still get out. Gives me such pleasure, as the days and weeks go by, still managing to get more.

I’m not thinking great, I’m saving a few bob — that was the old me. These days I’m thinking about how environmentally aware I am. Always have been, really.

I call it moisturiser, but in fact it’s Wilkinson’s baby lotion — two for £l, what a bargain. I don’t usually reveal my beauty secrets, just let the world wonder at my flawless skin and lack of wrinkles. I only use it after shaving, as my face always feels sore and rough. No, nothing to do with making the same disposal Bic razor last for months, which is what my wife alleges.

Downstairs, in the kitchen, you’ll see a new roll of tinfoil, waiting for my wife’s pleasure, which in her case means ripping off a new and vast sheet every time she uses it to wrap up and heat two small rolls in the oven. Beside it, there’s a neat pile of used sheets of tinfoil. I flatten them out, scrub and clean, cleverly fold to hide any holes, tears, stains from old bits of roast chickens. Bingo, ready for action again. Except she won’t. She’ll come to want, that girl.

Lots more wonderful tips I could pass on, but I’m saving them up to enter for Cumbria’s Green God of the Year award, sponsored by the county council to find the person who is the most penny-pinching, mean bastard, what am I saying, find the person doing most in our county to save the planet.