Food glorious food.

Carbonlite got his knickers in a twist, ranting on about how this was a joint project and all I've done is put up barriers to it. So I resolved to sort out the food part. "Where are you off to so early this morning?" he asked as I loaded the baby into the car. "To the supermarket." I replied. "Don't forget to take some plastic bags." he reminded me. "You don't want more to end up in landfill as a result of your careless consumerism." I went back into the house for my purse and some milk for the baby, and chucked it all into my car, forgetting about the bags.

In the supermarket car park the baby was crying and the three year old demanding a lollipop. I looked in the back of the car for the carriers. Damn. I scrabbled around in the boot and found an old bin bag that smelt of sour milk. It was the best I could do, and I felt quite proud that I was saving the planet before I'd even had my breakfast.

"Shop local," I repeated to myself as I tried to find anything in the produce counter that was from England. "Tomatoes; Spain, Gibraltar. Bananas; Dominican Republic. Don't we grow anything anymore in this country?" Even the organic range had flown halfway round the world to be there. The three year old took advantage of my dithering over the prepackaged sprouts, and hid under the produce section. It took ten minutes of panicked trolley dash around the store, and the 'seeking' involvement of a sixteen year old who had to be interrupted while marking down satsumas (Spain) before the three year old ended his game.

At the checkout, there was a boy scout helping to pack. "It's ok, I've got my own bags....well bag." I said, casually wafting the bin bag around. "You can go for a cup of tea if you like, take a break." The boy looked at me pitifully, then ripped a handful of bags off the bag tree and began stuffing my shopping in them. Not wanting to cause a scene, I stood beside him, transferring things around from bag to bag, taking this surrepticiously out of his and putting it into mine, then trying to jam the extra bags back onto the tree. The smell of rancid milk began to permeate the checkout area. While I paid, the scout began trying to bring some kind of order back to the bag tree. I left without leaving him a tip, the three year old screaming for the promised lollipop that was now at the bottom of the sorry black bag.

At home I lugged the black bag and a couple of stuffed new carrier bags into the hall, then made countless trips for the extra items that I'd shoved into the boot loose. Carbonlite came in and surveyed the scene. "I counted thirty bags the other day. Why the hell have you brought home more." "Its only two." I answered, hurt that he would criticise after I'd gone through so much faffing. "So it's fine that two more bags rot in the ground for a hundred years is it?" I shot him one of my blackest looks before answering, "Your fruit and veg are from Spain, Gibraltar and the Carribean. They contain so many carbon airmiles that I wouldn't bother fretting about the packaging. Next time I'm getting it all delivered." Then I stormed out and went upstairs to sulk.