We need to reduce our noise footprint

Forget carbon footprints: from iPods to road drills to motorbikes, our noise footprints are massive

My dad was such a noisy riser that, a few years ago, I wrote a song about it because it was a ritual that was stamped on to my soul. As a child, I'd hear his buzzsaw snoring suddenly stop as though it had run into a wall. I'd hear him sigh hugely and yawn operatically. He'd say, "I'm just getting up!" – and then he'd get up.

His slippers made more noise than tap shoes across the landing; the sounds he manufactured daily in the bathroom were mysterious, sluice-like, medieval. He'd tramp downstairs heavily, making the fifth step bray like a donkey. The kettle hissed, whooshed and whistled in the kitchen and his cutlery rattled. He'd shout upstairs, "I'm just having my breakfast", and my mother would stare at the silent ceiling and grit her teeth. Noiselessly, of course.

So that's why, when I get up early to go for my morning stroll, I try to be as quiet as I can. I slip from the sheets as silently as an invisible, weightless moth. I wee on the side of the toilet bowl so as not to splash. I get dressed downstairs, quietly, holding my belt-buckle against rattling. I go out closing the door gently and reverentially as though I'm closing the door on a room in which there has been recent bad news. Sometimes I wait to put my shoes on until I get outside. I do my best not to make any waves in the air, not to disturb the sleeping people in the house or in any house nearby. I feel like one of those water boatmen on a pond, not breaking the surface tension of the day in any way.

The other morning I got back from my stroll and my wife was having a cup of tea. "You woke me up," she said. "I'm sorry," I replied, with self-righteous grumpiness, "but I couldn't catch that sock before it hit the carpet." "In fact, you often wake me up, but I don't usually say anything ..."

I felt crushed. I felt my smugness drain away. I was a noisy man. All that creeping around and holding my breath and urinating on silent porcelain had been in vain. I was leaving a big aural mark on the world as I progressed loudly through it.

Let's face it; I don't drive and I went on holiday by train this year, so my carbon footprint is pretty small – but my noise footprint is huge. I sat in the conservatory and thought about the noises I pollute the world with; if it were paper, there'd be a skipful, once a day.

And it's not just me. Listen to us, just listen: most of our noise footprints are huge. Our real feet may be size six but our noise feet are about size 15 and a half, and we're all contributing to the general din.

There's the motorbike that zooms down the midnight street, dragging you from sleep; the burglar alarm's version of house music, endlessly repeating the same tune as the day turns; the road drills that make your teeth rattle in your head; and the throbbing iPods on the bus. There's the general hubbub of the streets, the lifestyle hum, the background mutter of the city, the barely audible but still irritating noise of the bloke's telly in the next room to you in the budget hotel. All of us, everywhere, filling the air with sound, even when we try not to, even when we sneeze quietly into a tissue or whisper during a play.

And what about noise miles, the equivalent of food miles? Think of the deafening jet engines of the plane that brought that fruit from Africa to the supermarket. Think of the forklifts in the warehouse, crashing containers of vegetables around like tracks from live noise music concerts. Think of the shouts of the workers, the slamming of great steel doors, the revving of engines and the clattering of tumbling stacks of tins. Think of your recalcitrant trolley as you push it out of the store.

Every time I eat beans on toast, I should be made aware of the noise miles used up by the bringing of The Greatest Snack in the World to my table, and then maybe I'd chew more quietly and I wouldn't slurp up the juice. And I wouldn't drop my plate in the sink, enjoying the splash.

So let's make today the day we reduce our noise footprint, even slightly. A great journey begins with a single step. In slippers, of course.