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.
Sunday 27 January 2008
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?
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.
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.
Thursday 24 January 2008
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.
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.
Friday 11 January 2008
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.
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.
Monday 7 January 2008
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.
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.
Saturday 5 January 2008
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.
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.
Tuesday 1 January 2008
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?
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?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)