Shop less!

I'm feeling very in front of the proverbial wave these days. This morning, Gordon Brown was urging people to shop and waste less. He was mainly referring to food; if we didn't all let our lettuces rot in the fridge there might be enough to go round. I'm afraid I've been a sinner on that front in the past - and sometimes still am - but my guilt valves were opened when we lived in Kenya and every scrap of uneaten food was carefully preserved in the fridge (kerosene), in itself a luxury. Giving up supermarkets has also helped a lot, and Ethi eats pretty disposes of all leftovers (barring salad). We still eat far too much.

But it also holds true for all manner of shopping. What Brown said about food could easily be shifted to clothes/toys/cars, even books. We're just too greedy, and we've got to stop equating the acquisition and consumption of stuff with happiness. Maybe I'm turning Buddhist or something, but I honestly feel much lighter since giving up non-essential shopping (in all ways apart from the literal: shopping, it seems, has an inverse relation to chocolate eating).

And it's been such a quick journey. This morning, Mark picked up a lovely plastic singing bird, one of a dozen Chinese-manufactured, ridiculously expensive - for what they are - which I'd bought to adorn the tables of my Joanna's pre-wedding dinner 2 1/2 years ago. At the time, he'd questioned the point of it, and I'd told him that it made me smile. It still does, but through somewhat gritted teeth. I'm not sure I'd smile less if it wasn't in our life.

July, for us, is kids' party season, however, and it's proving impossible to get through without a certain amount of buying. I managed to get through Alfie's birthday without party bags, at least, though Mark bought him a bike (which, it could be argues, is a green present - though a second hand one would have been better). I haven't a clue what we're going to get Notty - though her friends are leaving with old-fashioned sweets rather than plastic. My challenge is to get them to eat at least half of what gets put on the tea table.

It'll have to be sausages.

All shaken up (and stirred too)

It's been Bond season, and I've been wrapped up in a whirlwind of Fleming and Bond-related parties - including my own, to launch the final volume of The Moneypenny Diaries, written as Kate Westbrook. I've spent the last four years 'being' Miss Moneypenny, trying to get inside her head and experience life as it was in the early 60s, living in the shadow of the Cold War.

I've always thought that part of Fleming's appeal - the reason why a world fell in thrall with James Bond - was that he represented a re-blossoming of style and glamour after the privations of post-war austerity. Here was a man who flew to New York to buy his shampoo (Pinaud's Elixir), who drank the finest champagne and enjoyed the rarest of foods (avocados!). He was a sign that we could breathe a collective sigh of relief after the horrors and plunge back into hedonism.

And we've been there, more or less, ever since, catapulting our way to personal fulfillment through the consumption of more, more, more. We've come to believe that having stuff makes us happy and that only by exceeding what our parents - and neighbours - had and have can we find lasting satisfaction.

I guess I did it unthinkingly along with the herd. I wanted a bigger house, faster cars, more exotic holidays. There was a time when I dreamed of couture clothes, of flying to Paris or New York to pick up the new season's hot looks. (I never did, of course, but it was an aspiration.)

Now I think; why? I started Not Shopping almost as an exercise - because I thought it would be good for the planet, but also to see if I could. But over the past six months, it's made me rethink not only the way that I act - whether I need new stuff - but the whole idea of happiness. I used to think that a new dress made me happy. But I've had no new dresses for months and I'm happy now. I used to believe - more or less subconsciously - that people judged me by what I looked like. I know I'm guilty of that. But I'm not sure it matters too much - or that it's going to continue to be the case.

Just because I'm not shopping, I'm not going start growing my underarm hair or wearing dirndl (whatever that is). But would it really matter if I did? I won't brush my hair less often than I did (very rarely). I'm not going to be a different person just because I'm not wearing skinny jeans or we don't have a plasma screen TV. I honestly feel so much better about myself because I'm not shopping. As long as I don't become smug or worthy or judgmental, I hope people will see me for what I am, rather than a symbol of fashionability/smartness.

I think things are changing now: if Bond represented the tipping point of a seesaw from restraint to abandon, I think we're on the fulcrum of tipping back. The economic crisis - which, surely, must only get worse - will force us to take stock of our spending habits. We're already having to tighten our metaphorical girdles. But what I hope is that we'll learn to do it with a sense of joy, and find ways to get pleasure from the unmaterial - particularly time.

The richest people I know are not the happiest. They employ gardeners to tend their beds and get their food delivered by Ocado. They do not know the joy of eating a pea that they grew. We all have room for at least a couple of peas in our life - even James Bond.

Just peachy

The long winter months of fruit deprivation have come to an end, at last. Yesterday, I went into the farm shop to find, to my joy, not only English strawberries, but Spanish peaches. (In fruit terms, I'm afraid, I count Spain as local.) I pounced on them. They were astronomically expensive - apparently the booming Polish economy has resulted in a dearth of slave fruit pickers - and not particularly delicious, but gloriously guilt-free.

I brought two peaches with me to pick the kids up from school. 'The first peach of the year!' Alfie shouted with excitement before cramming it into his mouth.

That made it all worth it. All the months of wrinkly apples and curly Kale. It's not the peaches that I'm loving; it's the fact that my children now appreciate seasonality. As do I. Rock on the cherry season!

I'm also loving the farm shop, which is becoming increasingly well stocked. Apart from parmesan and chickpeas and white balsamic vinegar, there's pretty much everything I need. And the joy of it is that, because I haven't been into a supermarket now for 4 1/2 months, I have no point of price comparison.

Apart from Mark, that is. He popped into Sainsbury's yesterday to get some creme fraiche - and came out singing its praises. 'It's so cheap!' he cried, brandishing four jars of tomato passata (which he's steaming through for the sake of the empty bottles, which he's planning to use for his home-produced passata). 'And what's more, they give away free bags!'

Caroline 2 in the farm shop was bemoaning the price of lettuces. 'I get through tonnes of them,' she said. 'My pet goose loves them.' I said I'd save any spare leaves for it.

We started discussing the weather.
'I hope it stays fine for the weekend,' she said. 'I was planning to go out for the day. It's my birthday. But it's also the ruddy Bowood ballooon festival.'
'Are you going to it?' I asked.
'No. I can't. My goose is terrified of balloons and I daren't leave him.'

Green Wife 2

I'm back and typing, with a lot to say... However, until I clear my desk of all the stuff I've used my arm to put aside, here's the second installment of Green Wife in the Spectator: http://www.spectator.co.uk/the-magazine/columnists/628826/green-wife.thtml

Bloody bike

As always, attempting to lighten my carbon dependency, I tried to bike to the pub yesterday. Dog lead fell through basket, caught in spokes and I was catapulted over the handlebars. Midnight found us in Bath casualty, a lady plastering my right arm. So Green Wife may go off the air for a few weeks (v slow typing with left hand).
I should have taken the car...

Individual v collective responsibility

In so many ways, trying to be green appears to come back to this: do I do the best for myself and my family - or do I try to do my tiny bit to make things better for the world (even though I know my contribution will have infinitissimal effect)? Like travelling: I would love to take my kids to all the extraordinary, wonderful places I've been - and more. Having those experiences has made me who I am, broadened my emotional and moral as well as physical horizons. Seeing and learning about different cultures has made me aware that ours is not the only way to be, that what seems right for us is not always appropriate for a Madagascan or Indonesian, for existence.
By not flying (theoretically), we are denying those opportunities to our children. How will they suffer as a result?
We were talking about this the other day when my sister asked whether 'martyring' ourselves (ie not flying whenever and wherever we want) makes people react the other way (our family have a strong streak of perversity)? I replied that it wasn't about martyrdom, but about acting according to our conscience. Even to me that sounded priggish. But it's also true. I feel as if I've breasted the watershed, and instead of wanting more stuff, I now want to give it back. An essay I was reading (the introduction to "Do Good Lives Have to cost the Earth?), tried to define happiness, particularly its relationship to money. It found that, over a certain level (about $15,000 pa) there was no correlation. None at all. Although this is inevitably complicated by factors such as expectations, it still makes increasing sense to me. We don't need more stuff to make us happy. We've been conditioned to think we do - thanks Maggie, Coca Cola, Vogue etc. - but it's a load of bollocks.
We've got to realign our expectations, rethink what it is that makes us happy. The same essay suggested that, beyond enough money to satisfy our basic needs, the important vectors to happiness are time and giving something back - helping others. One of the best evenings I had last year was when Mark and I took a couple of beers and walked up the Downs to watch the sunset. It beat the premiere of Casino Royale, dinner at the Dorchester, pretty much everything.
Today, I got inordinate pleasure from planting out the spinach, baking baguettes. The kids loved our 'Night Off' last week, when we switched off the mains, and ate and bathed and read stories by candlelight. We laughed more, stressed less. We were making a tiny difference, but it was more fun than computers and noise and television. I had forgotten how seductive the sound of silence could be.
So maybe the premise is wrong? Perhaps we can do good for the individual and the greater good simultaneously? Perhaps my children won't suffer by not flying to Bogata. Or maybe we'll go by boat.

Green House

We spent yesterday with friends, and I was acutely aware of how greenness has taken over our lives. Everything I talk about seems to have greenish highlights. It doesn't particularly feel that way to me - which, I suppose is a measure of the extent to which it has become internalised, part of how we think, which must be a good thing?
We went to a movie with the kids and afterwards, Sally suggested picking up a pizza from Sainsburys. 'No can do,' I said. She asked what I was up to, and I gabbled on about setting up an Eco Mums' support group. We talked about holidays and I admitted that Mark hadn't come to South Africa because he refused to get on a plane. And so on. I do hope I'm not getting boring.
I was up in London last week, and a friend asked how it was going on 'Planet Green'. Oh God. I had subjected myself to a 24-hr succession of not-buying opportunities. First, a friend's gallery opening, in which at least a quarter of the paintings were of our fields/trees/hills. I was itching to buy 'Sam's duck house', but managed to restrain myself (or, rather, the price ticket did it for me). We went to an after-party at an obviously very well off Spanish divorcee's house in Knightbridge. A butler in white gloves opened the door, while Philippino ladies wearing starched white doilie aprons handed around plates of canapes before dinner. At least half the food wasn't eaten, and I can't imagine they had a wormery in which to dispose of the excess.
I stayed the night with Fev, who offered me yoghurt for breakfast. I opened the fridge to get it, and found a punnet of Chilean blueberries nestling temptingly on the bottom shelf. 'I'm sorry,' she said. I gobbled the blueberries gratefully and wished she hadn't felt ashamed.
Kate was holding a sale of James's sister's kids knitwear at her house. I would have loved to have got some. I took my cup-candles along, but only J & Kate, Alice and Allie bought them, under pressure. I am going to use the money as seed capital for 'the Eco Mum Movement', perhaps to buy a domain name?
Allie is pregnant, but stressed that she wasn't going to be the sort of mother that pushed the pram around, or kept the baby attached to her hip. I bit my tongue. We bumped into her Mark later, and when I congratulated him, he said, 'It's going to be the Philippino's baby.' I am sure, when it comes, they'll feel different. I hope so.
I know that my friends in London think of us as some sort of curiosity, while I feel that is they who are behind the curve, with their hot houses, fast cars, and long haul holidays.
I came home. I mixed up some dough and put it in the airing cupboard. I hung the washing in the hall, and watered the broad beans growing rapidly across the way. I guess we can't kid ourselves. Mark may have spent months making a greenhouse at the end of the garden, but he needn't have bothered: we're already living in one.

SA plastic

I knew there was something different this time. The streets and windswept plains of the Cape looked noticeably cleaner. Then, when I went into a supermarket (I had an enforced sabbatical from my supermarket-free existence), and they explained that they charge for each bag, I realised why. Plastic bags used to be known as the national flower of Africa. Now they are virtually extinct. It's brilliant.
Driving back from Heathrow the following week, I saw them everywhere - on the verges, in the hedges and ditches. They are an affront to our landscape. Now that Africa is ridding itself of the scourge, has Britain taken over her mantle of plastic bag nation?

Fly-by-night

Confession: we have just returned from 11 days in South Africa, and no, we didn't swim there. The kids and I (Mark didn't come), climbed onto a plane for the first time in over a year - and blew about three years of carbon emissions in order to visit my grandmother (their great-grandmother), who is about to celebrate her 91st birthday. It wasn't just us: both my sisters came, niece, brother-in-law, boyfriend-in-law. Granny and Sipho flew down from Johannesburg to Cape Town for a week by the sea. Together, we probably emitted as much as Mali or Guam. Uh-oh.
I wish I could say I felt guilty about it - and I suppose I do, in a way. But it was also heavenly, a beautiful and joyful way to reconnect to my roots - both familial and geographical. I could try to argue that it was important. Certainly it brought a huge amount of joy to Granny. It opened Alf and Notty's horizons: they learned to surf, ride a camel, and what naturally-ripened mangoes taste like. We ate figs straight from the tree, fish fresh from the ocean. We saw squatter camps and vast, empty beaches. We talked about Mandela and apartheid, which should be a part of their history and heritage, as it is of mine.
On the grand scale of things, our proportion of the carbon emitted by our plane was a proverbial grain of sand. But it was also more than that. It was a betrayal of my moral position. It ran against what I've been preaching to all and sundry. It was a big, fat hypocrisy. What's the point of freezing in an unheated house all winter when I go and heat the equivalent of a hotel for a year? Someone described carbon offsetting as 'like eating a chocolate brownie and then going for a run'. That makes a bit of sense to me. This was more like gorging on ten double Big Macs and a gallon fries - with a Diet Coke on the side. Greedy, indulgent, not strictly necessary, but.... just wonderful.
I can't calculate the benefit from our trip. Nor do I want to. I want it to be a glorious memory, not an albatross.
But if it showed me one thing, it is that, however much we want to give it a positive spin, learning to live our lives in a way that the planet can support is not going to be easy. There are going to be sacrifices involved. I refuse to be a martyr - or to act like one - but if I never visit South Africa again, and if my kids never get to see the incredible things I have had the privilege of enjoying, then it will be sad. Very sad.

plastic bombastic

I'm sorry, but the argument that 'if you're going to the supermarket you need lots of plastic bags in which to take away your weekly shop' just does not wash with me. Firstly, assume you need to go to the supermarket; all you need do is imagine there is no such thing as a free plastic bag, and you'll soon remember to bring your own. I bet it'd take about two weeks to ingrain the habit. It should be an automatic association, like keys and a car, hot date and a condom (whoa).
But let's take away the first assumption. Try imagining there is no such thing as a supermarket. Build food shopping into your routine, little and often. Then you don't need so many bags. A few strong hold-alls and you're done. You'll buy half the amount of stuff you don''t need (far fewer biscuits, I guarantee), and be able to carry it all recently. You'll also eat fresh food, support small, local shops, and help to loosen the stranglehold that supermarkets have on producers and consumers. Our town centres will begin to rejuvenate, farmers will be able to afford to improve their methods, childrens' attention spans will improve... We all benefit.
All by saying no to plastic bags.

Plastic fantastic

It's wonderful to watch something steadily gather momentum until, Bam, it reaches a tipping point and explodes into the public mainstream. I've been vaguely warbling on about banning plastic bags for years. Then came Modbury in May last year, and it's been a speedy ride since then. We went to stay with friends in Hay-on-Wye on December 1st, when they launched Plastic Bag Free Hay. Weeks later, a campaign was started in Melksham.
We wrote to the supermarkets, then went to see their managers, who greeted the initiative with enthusiasm (they have to pay for the bags after all). We tried to make Feb 14th PBF; plastered the town with posters, then stood around handing out leaflets and used bags.
Most people were polite; many were even enthusiastic; a few refused to take our recycled bags: 'They don't work as well as new ones', 'I don't hold with that. You sort out China first.' (Just two days later, China announced they were banning bags). But I still felt like a fringe act, a faintly irritating do-gooder aiming my sharpened lance at people's guilt boils.
Then, just two weeks later, the Daily Mail wades in with its campaign to ban the bag. M & S immediately jumps aboard, closely followed by a panting Gordon Brown. With a few pages of well-aimed righteousness, we'd been promoted to the main stage.
Halleluja, I suppose. Some environmentalists have been muttering about Green Wash, and I can see their point. At the grand table of things, plastic bags are bird feed: they'll have minimal impact on the planet's march into the furnace.
But I'm not with them. At best, the ban will get people thinking about the planet. And once they've taken the first, small step, the next will be easier, and the next, and maybe, one day, they'll break into a run?
At worst, we'll have got rid of plastic; seabirds and turtles will be relieved of a dangerous menace, and our hedges will be able to grow, unadorned by flapping plastic.

Greenwife goes national

My first in a series of Greenwife columns went live today (Thurs) in the Spectator (http://www.spectator.co.uk/the-magazine/columnists/503026/green-wife.thtml). The cartoon makes me look like Rula Lenska, but otherwise, I'm right chuffed. Please watch that space as well...

Not Shopping List

Last weekend I did not buy:
1 pair of Light-Up tweezers @ £2.99
1 FM radio pedometer @ £7.99 (reduced from £15.99)
1 tag-along bike @ £84.99
1 Brompton folding bike @ £224.99 (eBay)
and probably a whole spring 'capsule wardrobe' today.

I am not one of nature's economisers. Indeed, economy wasn't my primary motivation in Not Shopping - though it is a more than welcome side effect. I have just, however, compared my credit card bills for January this year and last to discover - to my horror and pride - that I didn't spend nearly £2,000 last month through Not Shopping. I feel sick at the thought of what I've been pissing gaily away.

At this rate, we'll have saved a Toyota Prius by the end of the year. Or a six-month sabbatical. A year and a half of school fees. A lifetime of income for a family of Kenyans.

Spring hopes (eternal)

I love the bird song. I love the tiny purple crocuses dotting our lawn. I love going for an early walk on the Downs, frost underfoot, and being able to peel off my jersey and see for miles. On a deeper level, it's obviously a terrifying signal of irreversible change, but in the moment, it's just peachy.
Except for the wardrobe. I've been feeling exceedingly smug about Not Shopping recently. Anyone who asks, or dares show me their new purchases, gets treated to a libretto on the joys of under-consumption. I wax on about how we have and expect too much, and how all we need do is pause for a moment, examine what we're doing, and we can cut our shopping by half. Or even totally (bar food), as I've been doing.
But that was before the weather changed. It's as though the early spring sun brought with it my fashion imp, who is currently raging inside my head about her Needs. She needs a new skirt (or two), several long-sleeved T-shirts, and a trench coat (obviously). The big jerseys that have been slopping over my wide-legged trousers so effectively are plainly ridiculous when the sky's as blue as a tit's head and daisies and daffodils are a' springin' all over the shop. Even without magazines - and hundreds of miles away from Fashion Central - I've managed somehow to assimilate that I need a fuchsia dress. The thought's ridiculous, obviously, but I want, want, want one!
I've realised now that the only reason I've managed to shimmy so easily through January is because I bought so bloody much in November and December. Trouble is, it's beginning to lose its lustre - or, at least, its weather-appropriateness. Why is it that I can normally end a season happy with my wardrobe, while by the next year, it seems like I've got nothing to wear?
What is it about new clothes that makes me feel younger, thinner and wittier? Am I going to make it through the year without giving in to the blandishing imp?

Badger Day

I have to admit, it took me ages to get it. Several months ago, Mark had the idea of starting a series of public debates. Great; so far, so exciting. But then he announced the first topic: Badgers.
So it was a hot story line in The Archers a couple of years ago; David Archer shot a badger - a protected species - and was arrested, I think, for it. I listen rarely, but he's still around, so he can't have been banged up for life. But it did raise the issue of the causal relationship between badgers and TB, even if only among the rarefied Radio 4 audience. I know it's a major issue for farmers; all cattle are tested yearly, and if a reactor is found, the herd is shut up and any cows judged to have TB are slaughtered. Not only can it have a devastating effect on their income and livelihood, but it must be emotionally damaging too.
I know we're not really farmers, and have a rather soppy, anthropomorphic relationship with Sophie and Sylvia (lovely traditional Hereford ladies), but I can only imagine that the four days between the TB test and the result are even more hellish for proper herdsmen.
Still, it didn't seem to me like the kind of topic that was going to get the burgers of Devizes away from Thursday night telly in their hundreds, as Mark seemed confidently to expect. He'd booked the Assembly Rooms, grand and capacious, printed hundreds of posters, taken an ad in the local paper. But, by the morning of the debate, less than 70 tickets had sold - and thirty of those to Malcolm Clark of the Wiltshire Badger Group.
I bought Fair Trade biscuits, tea and coffee, and four litres of milk, which seemed like tonnes. Mark told me to get more (I had to give my friend Fev the money with which to buy the milk from Somerfields - all rules are there to be steered around).
We were still laying out cups and saucers when they started to arrive. First, three farmers - one with a prosthetic leg. Then a pair of perforated badger fanciers, a handful of pensioners, a couple of students. Soon it had turned into a flood of unfamiliar faces, and my money box was overflowing with £3s (£2 for concessions). Andrew, our farmer friend who had reacted so dramatically to the mere mention of Malcolm Clark, brought his wife and father, but fortunately not the promised rotten eggs.
Meurig Raymond, deputy Chairman of the NFU, swept in trailing hand maidens and took his seat as Proposer; Malcolm's entourage was rather more shambolic.
I was still at the door, selling standing room tickets for £1 when Mark, as Chair, introduced the opposing factions and announced the motion: 'This House believes it is becoming increasingly necessary and right to put the management of disease and needs of food production above the rights of wildlife.'
It turned into an evening worthy of the RGS. Meurig rose to the heights of Welsh oration as he expounded the central crisis in modern farming: world demand for food is soaring, while supply - embattled by climate change and mis-judged bio-fuel production - is shrinking. Having to slaughter whole herds that have become infected by TB is an impediment too far. Cull the badgers, and milk and beef supply, at least, can be secured.
Organic farmer Peter Gantlett, seconding the motion, expressed the farmers' desire to have healthy wildlife.
I was washing up teacups while the opposition spoke, but I caught the central argument: culls don't work. And I heard our habitually phlegmatic vet, Donal, rising from the floor, purple with passion, to rail against badgers. For a moment, I thought it might yet become a scuffle.
Tea and coffee during the interval calmed matters somewhat. And after that when, one by one, farmers rose to talk about their devastation at having to stop milk production, shut up their herds, slaughter their foundation stock, the audience by and large listened with respect and restraint.
I was swung. I probably entered the room listing slightly towards the badgers; what right have we to ride roughshod over the rights of silent wildlife? But the Welshman won me over. It might not be very green, but I went with the cows (and Mark later admitted that he would have done the same).
Surprisingly, the majority was not swayed. A tally of the vote on the way in showed them to have a marginal majority: by the end they had increased it by a handful. It was very close, but the badgers won by a nod.
As we left, an hour later than we had anticipated, groups of farmers were still talking to environmental scientists. All agreed that we needed healthy animals, both wild and domestic.
It was a rousing success. Mark was a dignified and generous chair (good practice for Westminster). Nearly two hundred people were obviously stimulated - inspired, enraged - by the debate. Hopefully they'll come to the next one.
The only problem is to find a subject half as interesting and apposite as badgers...

Sunday night blues

Come to think of it, I probably enjoyed the weekend mainly because it was the weekend. The weeks are a little harder - not because I have to go back to work, but because I haven't any work to do. I dispatched the proofs of Moneypenny 3 nearly three weeks ago. It's over: four years of pretty constant writing, always knowing what's next, another deadline hovering over the horizon. And however much that felt like some kind of pressure, now it's gone, I don't know quite what to do with myself. I spend half the time thinking that I need to step away from the great greasy grindstone, consume less, enjoy simplicity - and the other bit feeling vaguely panicky about what's next. I don't have another book chafing to come out, and I'm not convinced I want to jump right back into it. But I can't fiddle the days away doing nothing either.
It's confusing. The world is heading towards some kind of cataclysm - a result in great part of our behaviour, our greed and need to achieve, consume, fly - but that's also what we've been programmed to strive for. If I don't feel I've been productive somehow, by the end of the day I'm ratty. But what's it all for, this 'productivity'? To enable us to eat more, go faster and send our children to better schools? Why, though? Surely the way in which we're going to be able to ride the future is to want less, to be able to fend better for ourselves. In Kenya a couple of years ago, in our tiny village away from any town, where most people couldn't afford shoes and the children kicked around a football made of elastic bands, they still seemed happy, enviously so. And I couldn't work it out. They had little to hope for, yet they laughed more than we did, had a greater capacity for kindness. I wondered whether it was too late for us to achieve that kind of contentment - though in so many ways, I felt it more there, in the sounds of the bush waking and the great skies, than I ever do here, amid my comfort.
So what is it I should be doing now, with the children at school and no deadline? Should I scrabble for a new project, a route to royalty payments and a sense of achievement? Should I be pushing for a book tour of the US, so I can persuade more people to part with $20 in return for a couple of hours of escapism? Or should I read a book, or dig the garden? Or just go back to bed and wait until it's pick-up time - and then bring the children home and, instead of flustering over homework, let them do exactly what they want?
Sometimes I wish I didn't know what I do. I wish I could continue consuming and producing at an accelerating rate. In a funny way, that was so easy.

Is it fair to be green?

I try not to judge my friends and family for their behaviour. But it's impossible. I don't want to be smug and censorious, but I can't help recoiling at their wanton disregard for their effect on the planet. Or is it simple jealousy? My sister rang up the other day to ask for my best friend's phone number in Venice, as she thought she might fly off there with a friend next weekend. That was after Switzerland this weekend. It suddenly seemed so unfair. I'm not going to benefit from my virtuosity - nor, really, is anyone else.
She knows what's happening - and the effect of her actions. It doesn't bother her. So why should it bother me?
My parents think it's criminal not to fly on private jets as often as they possibly can. They fill their house with flowers flown in from Bali, and keep it at all times at a temperature guaranteed to make an orchid sweat. They think we're mad for not flying, eschewing fish and winter blueberries. Perhaps they're right?
My children are probably not going to see India or Brazil or Bali - places that would have opened their minds. They're not going to learn to ski. Is that fair? Is it fair that they aren't allowed mangoes for breakfast?

The wilder extremes of happiness

I fluctuate madly, between wanting more, bigger, better, to finding it extraordinary that anyone would want to live in a mansion, holiday in the Caribbean, or buy McQueen dresses. I fear that the former is nearer my natural state, but when when I'm in contentment mode, there's no better feeling.
The sun came out on Saturday morning. I dropped Alfie at a party, and Notty at riding, then set off for the high downs. The tracks was drying out, and the sky was blemish-free. Early snowdrops lined the verges, buzzards soared overhead. I walked along the skyline, Ethi bounding by my side, and I felt pure happiness. The air smelled sweet, and from the top, I could see for miles. I've realised, in the last few years, that it is this that makes my heart sing; unspoilt, unfettered nature, big landscapes and quiet. After an infusion of this, everything seems better.
I spent most of the rest of the day cooking and cleaning and, uncharacteristically, I enjoyed it. Mark was building his greenhouse at the end of the garden, while I made rhubarb tart and listened to Any Questions. I polished the table, mopped the floor, cleared away most of the flotsam of undone admin and by the time the children came home, it was a haven.
We had some friends around for dinner. We lit candles, stoked up both fires, decanted red wine (organic) into old ships' decanters, Christmas presents from ten years ago, and never before used. I roasted a whole fillet of steak we'd been given by our organic farmer friends - in exchange for lending them our tents - which we ate with their veg. And our house felt, briefly, perfect. I found myself asking why on earth anyone would want a bigger house, or faster car?
It's crept up on me, this readjustment of ambitions and values. It is as if I have spent the last 40 years getting things, taking, and now I want to give it away. I want to put something back in, make a difference. I guess you can call it a midlife crisis. It's the how that's now the question.
But until I figure that out, I must grab onto that feeling from last night, and when wanting threatens to overwhelm me, just light a few candles and crack open the wine.

Consumer-driven recession

I can't quite claim full credit for the downturn in consumer spending (though my contribution feels pretty significant to me), but I am convinced that it is driven by more than the sub-prime debacle. I got the idea of not shopping from a friend, and since then, have heard about scores more people who have made the same leap (let's not call it sacrifice). There are support groups devoted to shoring up the resolve of non-shoppers, and articles in the weekend papers. There's even a book, 'Not Buying It' by Judith Levine, in which she describes a year without excessive consumption - and paradoxically writes a best-seller about it. Sure, some are doing it because they can't afford to spend, but there's an equal proportion who, like me, are just fed up with 'stuff', of buying just for the sake of it - and then having to find somewhere to put the clothes/games/candles/pictures/mouli/cake stand we thought we needed.
I'm compiling a list of things I haven't bought - in itself fulfilling, and not just for reasons of economy, though that's a bonus. But I'm most surprised by the relief I feel. I don't have to make any decisions about what to buy; I can't feel too fat for the skinny jeans I don't even try on. I don't even feel a yearning for stuff anymore. If I don't go into Nicole Farhi, I can't lust over that cashmere dress I can't really afford (but bought anyway in a pre-not shopping frenzy in the December sales). It's a bit like getting married: you free that substantial section of your brain that's otherwise overheating about whether he's 'the one'.
The only downside I've identified so far - and yes, I am only 24 days into the year - is how to fill that time I'd otherwise spend in the shops - those spare hours between meetings, when I'd normally drop into West Village for a new dress, or Erikson & Beamann for a pair of earrings. I guess I'll just have to pack the schedule tighter, or walk more slowly.
The no supermarket resolution is, if anything, even more of a thrill. I have not missed them for a second, and when I had to pop into Sainsbury's the other day - just to deliver a letter - I couldn't get out of there fast enough. So far, there's nothing I haven't been able to get elsewhere. The farm shop has even started stocking creme fraiche and Fair Trade chocolate chip cookies for me. It might cost a little more, but I reckon I'm about even on my total grocery bill; I'm no longer suckered into buying stuff I don't need, and since I now shop little and often, there's virtually nothing to go mouldy at the back of the fridge. People may argue that small shops are the province of the rich, but I'm sure my homemade vegetable soup costs considerably less than the individual, pre-assembled, hamburger-in-sesame seed bun I saw in the check-out line before Christmas.
And if this turns into a movement, and the gathering vortex further dents the growth in Tescos' profits, then hooray. The truth is that the planet needs a bloody great recession at the moment, to allow us to get used to not feeling we have a right to everything, and to marshal our ingenuity into devising ways to live a low carbon life. From my - admittedly rather brief - experience, if it's not there, we don't really want it. Close the airports, and we'll start taking the train - or holidaying in Wales. Stop importing chives from Chile, and we'll grow our own. Ban battery hens, and we'll eat more veg.

Morality v political expediency

I softened my stance on shopping to allow a weekly paper. I plumped for the Saturday Guardian, and duly skipped across the valley to buy it from Bromham. Carefully designed to tap into our post-Christmas spare tyres, it included the first guide to getting fit, British Army style, and a poster with a timetable laying out a daily workout programme spanning 16 weeks. Clearly a road-map to guilt. But I stuck the poster on the fridge and vowed to keep to the schedule.
Somehow, I managed to justify Monday's paper as well, and carefully kept the instruction booklet for the upper body workout.
Back to school Tuesday, and I went straight to Devizes, ran for 30 minutes (not strictly what the army recommended for day 1, week 1, but near enough), then on to the post office. Newspapers piled invitingly by door. I consulted my conscience: I couldn't think of a good reason to get the paper, yet I really needed the lower body instructions.
I picked up the paper, took it to the counter, and casually extracted the guide, later slipping it into my bag before returning the paper to the pile.
It was only when I got home that I realised how twisted my priorities had become: I had stolen an - admittedly free - insert, in order to avoid violating a New Year's resolution that I had already broken the day before (meat, chocolate and wine all fell on Friday 4th).

The first local GP meeting of 2008; Mark had moved it to the Lansdowne Hotel in Calne, and booked a room that held 12. We sent e-mails to all local green groups, as well as sympathetic friends. By 7.35, we numbered 19, and moved into a large hall, more used to the benevolent gatherings of the North Wilts Rotary Club.
It was a rather excited and enthusiastic gathering, several new faces, a good handful of our loyal friends. Mark led the way through the minute's attunement, forgetting the introductions in his eagerness to gallop on to the four pending by-elections. He produced Nick's poster, which they'd compiled together after a successful assault on Upavon in search of the ten signatures required for registration.
Top of the mini-manifesto was: 'Weekly curbside rubbish and recycling collection, including plastic and cardboard.' But, piped up Hilary, didn't we believe that every other week was preferable?
'Yes,' Mark replied, 'but, you see, we don't exactly specify weekly rubbish collection. It was deliberately ambiguous.'
We debated the morality of this. New faces Pam and Steve suggested that we take a completely different tack, along the lines of 'We can help you green your life.'
There were a couple of nods, before Derek - possibly the most honourable man you could hope to meet - closed the debate: the important thing is to get people on the councils, he said firmly. 'We can have a far greater influence from the inside.'
Once again, political expediency had triumphed over morality. The ends, we must hope will trump the means.

The joys of not shopping

One week down - and I'm surprising myself by how much fun I'm finding it (I know - one week - so what; wait until the weather changes and the summer clothes start hitting the shop windows...).
But, after those first couple of days, when it dawned on me how ingrained a habit shopping is for me, I've actually began to relish not doing it. Particularly the no supermarkets aspect. All it needed was a leap of imagination: I persuaded myself that there was no such thing as Sainsburys. Easy. I get my fruit and veg from the market, and most of the rest from the farm shop which we are lucky to have in the village. If I can't find what I want - today it was creme fraiche - I simply change the menu. So the kids had leftover beef and rice, instead of fajitas. No problem. Maybe it all costs a bit more, but I'm saving such a fortune on unneeded clothes/creams/stationery that the extra whack to my wallet is pretty marginal. And actually, I think I probably buy less food that I don't want. Certainly the inside of the fridge is beginning to look rather streamline: no forgotten yoghurts languishing on the top shelf, no mouldy Gu chocolate puddings at the back, or rancid red peppers in the veg drawer. I'm a tiny tiptoe along the route to austerity - in relative terms, anyway.
I wish I had the same control over chocolate.

A short note on low energy lightbulbs

I've just listened to a news scare; 'Shock, horror! Low energy lightbulbs may be hazardous to your health.' Apparently there are two problems: sensitive skin can be irritated by something to do with the quality of the light (not to mention washing powder, soap, cosmetics, air...), and the light bulbs contain a tiny bit of mercury. I remember my mother breaking thermometres when I was a child, so we could play with that miraculous molten bulb.

I can just see the anti-MMR, anti-mobile phone, anti-wifi, anti-antiperspirant, anti-pathetic crew adding low energy lightbulbs to their anti-list. God help us.

10/1/08: Apparently, the problem is mercury in our landfill. Not great, I agree, but apparently only the equivalent of that found in two tins of tuna, which we - well, not exactly we - actually eat.

Happy New Year

We had a very happy one, albeit in Brighton instead of the westernmost point of Wales, where we had envisioned burrowing down in a rented 'colonial-style house' (aka bungalow), playing board games and guzzling ham with millions of children while the waves crashed below. In the event, a pre-Christmas trip to Madagascar (not by us, sadly) put an infected foot in our plans, so we trundled south to keep the foot company instead.

Brighton was a revelation, in green terms. I was last there before my conversion, and so didn't notice. I expect I just thought it was a little cool and laid back. Now, I saw green everywhere; in the organic cafes and vegetarian shoe shops, the organic markets on every corner and lack of plastic bags in any shops (or, if they were there, at a price). Most of all, in our hotel (Paskins, on Charlotte Street), which was whimsically run down, but nonetheless comfortable. The landlady winced when we asked to store our ducks in her fridge: I expect she thought they would contaminate her excellent vegan sausages. There was a sign in our bathroom explaining that the towels were usually washed with soap nut shells, sometimes 'as we agree with our guests that grey towels are unacceptable' with Ecovert (sic), and occasionally with conventional washing powder. I can only surmise that the last is a little more frequent than they admit, as I find Ecover pretty useless and can't quite believe in the cleaning powers of of nut shells.

Still, it is obviously cool to be thought to be green in Brighton, which feels a light year ahead of Devizes, or London. Wandering through the North Lanes, I couldn't believe there was anyone who wouldn't vote Green. Hail Caroline Lucas, our future - and first - GP MP. It must make a difference, surely. I can only imagine that we'll get very used to the sight of her face on Question Time. I hope she manages, somehow, to seduce John Humphreys before taking up residence round the Today Programme table.

In fantasy land, I'd love the chance to have regular interviews with Jeremy Paxman, even if he is, as I suspect, rather short in the leg department.

A friend of ours, another prospective GP MP with a similarly questionable educational background to Mark (ie embarrassingly over-privileged), envisages a time in the near future when the GP will hold a substantial block of parliamentary seats, and possibly the balance of power. I'm not sure what I feel about my husband being in a position of influence, finger near the red button, input into foreign policy. I suppose it's not all that different to having Davy C in the hot seat: why is it that it feels much easier to trust people we don't know?

Back to Brighton. Imo found ethical crackers in Tesco Express. Instead of useless plastic spinning tops or ring puzzles, we got little cards from Good Gifts thanking us on behalf of hospital patients from Malawi for soap (presumably not of the nut variety) and loo rolls, and for planting oak saplings in England. Terrific, and the kids didn't even seem to notice. Perhaps next year we can dispense with the cardboard and paper and just give them the fire crackers and a couple of bad jokes?

My New Year's resolutions are one day old and almost in tact (I tasted the kids' ham and pea pasta). No supermarkets, no clothes shopping, and no chocolate, booze or meat for a month. I wonder which will crumple first?