After shenanigans last week, I have been careful to keep my voice down when experiencing frustration with lack of own computer literacy.

Reason for now speaking to computer in only hushed tones is not only to avoid offending and therefore sending it AWOL again but because of call from new, recently arrived in this country, Eastern European neighbour who was concerned I was shouting because of some emergency, rather than at an inanimate object (albeit an inanimate object with a mind of its own), who came to offer me help.

So I was surprised when I saw him in the corner shop that he asked me if my computer had been playing up again.

"Only, a little" I said, truthfully. "And I've been trying not to shout at it anymore. In fact, my bedtime reading is now a Mac help book. So, in future it will be entirely under my control."

"I thought maybe your husband was having the same problems?" he said. "I hear him shouting a lot some days."

Without explaining husband has an entirely rational disposition and that his attitude to problems with technical things is to get out the manual and methodically work through the problem, step by step, until he has worked it out and remedied whatever it was (whereas I just hammer lots of buttons and shout, making the problem far worse than it was in the first place), I told him it would be most unlikely to catch him shouting at the computer and wondered when he'd heard the shouting.

"Usually, in the mornings," he said, mentioning a few mornings as examples. And, having narrowed the shouting down to specific mornings, I realised immediately what he was referring to and explained.

"Ah, he's not shouting at the computer. He's shouting at the television," I told him.

"So, your television is not working also?" asked Mr Majetski. "I know a little of television engineering, perhaps I can help?"

I thanked him for his concern but explained the television was working perfectly.

Husband had not, in fact, been shouting at it but at the footballers who ran to and fro across the screen and who he obviously thought he could tell a thing or two about football to - provided he shouted loud enough and despite the fact they were thousands of miles away, being shouted at by large crowds of fans (who knew about as much about football as husband but nevertheless believe they are helping the respective coaches with useful bits of advice such as "Get him off. . ." "Get him back. . ." "Move forward. . ." and "That was definitely offside. . .").

"I'm afraid there's likely to be more shouting over the next week or so," I told him, hoping to avert daily visits from our extremely kind, though as it happened unnecessarily concerned, neighbour.

Husband will definitely be helping various national team managers with their jobs for the next few, increasingly important, matches. . .