I shout at plants and browbeat the vacuum cleaner. I tell the dishwasher I hate it. What’s wrong with me? | Emma Beddington

I've started talking to household objects - and none of us are enjoying what we're hearing

There has been a flurry of debate about whether people do or do not have an inner monologue. What none of us has, really, is an adequate vocabulary to explain what goes on in our heads, or convey it to others. We can't grasp how others experience their inner lives, just as we can't know what they see or hear.

Currently, though, my inner monologue is striving to bridge that gap by becoming an outer monologue. I have spent longer than usual - on balance, probably too long - alone recently, as various members of my family went away, and I have started vocalising the stuff that used to stay in my head. Talking to yourself isn't necessarily bad (one study found it might help you find your keys, sort of, but talking to objects is revealing troubling things about me.

Emma Beddington is a Guardian columnist