The ghost of Christmas future

A journalist drops me an e mail. “Wonder if you can help?” she writes. “I'm planning a feature for Prima magazine on women who will be celebrating Christmas in different ways this year. I’m looking for a mum whose family will be celebrating a very eco-friendly Christmas - ideally cooking a meal using some of their own produce, giving sustainable gifts, or in some way generally rejecting a lot of the commercialised junk that often accompanies the season! I wondered if your family might fit the bill?” I write back and decline. “The truth is that the Carbon family Christmas is a plastic, greedy and environmentally damaging affair,” I reply. But as I press send, and imagine it winging its way to London, I see what a terrible admission that is. If an eco worrier can’t cut down on waste at Christmas then what chance have the consumers of women’s magazines got?

If it was up to Carbonlite, Christmas would have been cancelled in our house years ago. And the Carboncopies aren’t to blame for all the waste either. Their list this year consists of a modest chocolate pooing reindeer and candy grabber. I admit I’m part of the problem. In my mind Christmas should be fun and present filled, and full of all the traditions I enjoyed as a child. I know we can’t carry on mindlessly shopping, destroying trees and over-consuming, but if I’m honest, I don’t want it all to end just yet; not while my children are children. I still remember not receiving my requested ‘Girls World’ make-up mannequin when I was seven, and am of the opinion that Santa should honour all reasonable requests. I make a list of how we can cut down on our Yuletide Carbon Footprint while still keeping the fun. First on the list is transport. Could we cycle to church, the supermarket and Santa’s grotto? Can we source our sprouts locally? I gleefully strike the annual trip to the mother in law’s house in London off the calendar. I ask the Carboncopies what else they think should be on my list. “Turn the tree lights off when we leave the room?” the youngest suggests. “Let’s not have turkey,” says the oldest. “Me like chocolate poos, me no like turkey,” says the Carbonbaby, running with the food theme. I decide to ring the council to find out what their environmental people recommend. “When Christmas shopping, use less carrier bags and more cotton bags; compost your peelings; recycle trees, buy presents that are less wasteful,” a council officer reels off down the phone. “Don’t just get people an extra bit of something random, buy an experience day, or a goat. There are so many people that have got the gadgets, the gismos and all the CD’s they want, but if you still have to get them something then there’s ways of doing it without ending up with loads of stuff cluttering the house and landfill.” I cast my mind back to the day my brother bought Carbonlite a goat for his 40th birthday instead of season 5 of ‘24.’ He wasn’t exactly overjoyed. But then I think of all the unwanted Christmas DVD’s rotting in the ground for the next 200 years and shiver. The ghost of Christmas future has walked over my grave.

I begin to search charity shops for presents for my extended family and pick up some unexpected treasures. A neighbour offers to sell me some unwanted and unopened games and I accept. I buy baby presents at the nearly new sale. We get down last years cards to make our own tags. My mother rings. “I’ve seen a beautiful rocking horse for the Carbonbaby,” she tells me. I rush to cut her off. “She doesn’t like them, they scare her,” I reply. “Oh good, then I’ll get a baby Annabel. And a cot. And all the accessories.” “She has dolls,” I cry. “Five of them.” “But not a baby Annabel” says my Mother firmly. “They’re all the same!” I shout. She puts the phone down in a huff muttering that we’ll have to come over soon to collect three bin bags full of presents. I suddenly have a vision of last year’s Christmas, surrounded by plastic toys, plastic packaging and acres of wrapping paper and I find I can’t remember a single present she bought them that they’ve still got or have actually played with. I start to feel angry. Such a waste of money and the planet’s scarce resources. Meanwhile, wall to wall adverts play behind me on TV offering cut price sofa’s, hoovers, and thousands of plastic toys. Carbonlite breezes in and smiles. I ask him how he’d improve Christmas this year. “That’s easy, no presents,” he says grinning. The Carboncopies howl. My mother rings again to say she’s seen a ‘ride’ for the Carbonbaby. I sigh, realizing what a lot of work lies ahead to ensure future Christmases for our carbon heavy planet.

Trolley dash

Carbonlite and I go on the local Wheely Good Communities trolley dash. We pitch up at the Square with our bikes to find our neighbour is the only other volunteer dasher, even though it’s a crisp sunny day, one of those days you dream of on gloomy grey mornings. We race along in the sunshine with Carbonbaby in her seat. I try to calculate how much carbon we’ll save by not taking the car, and reckon it’s probably about half a living room full. “This is great, why don’t we do it all the time?” I say to Carbonlite. “Because you always take the car to get the shopping,” he replies. Good point. “Well I won’t in future,” I promise. When we reach Carnforth, I hop off my bike at Weightwatchers. “I’ll pop in and get weighed then see you in the Brief Encounter café,” I tell him.

When I get there, (half a pound lighter) he’s on his second coffee so I join him and order cake. “You can’t have that, you’re on a diet,” he says, swiping it off me. “But I’ve just cycled here so I’ve burnt off about just enough calories,” I say, grabbing it back and stuffing carrot cake into my mouth. “You know we’re really lucky where we live,” I remark between mouthfuls. “We’re a cycle ride from three supermarkets. And how many places can boast that?” “So why isn’t there anyone else out trolley dashing then?” Carbonlite replies. “What about all the Mums and older people, why aren’t they on their bikes too?” “Well, I’m here,” says our neighbour, joining us for cake. But we can’t stay long as I have to get up to the supermarket to return a pack of nappies Carbonlite bought on a rare ‘man shop’ last week. Even the Carboncopies sighed when he came home with the bumper pack, “The baby doesn’t wear nappies Dad, she wears pants,” said the oldest Carboncopy. “Dad doesn’t do shopping,” the youngest Carboncopy reminded him.

I lift the nappies out of the pannier outside the supermarket. “Are you coming in?” I ask. He shakes his head and tells me he’ll look after the bikes. “Shall I take the Carbonbaby in with me then?” He says no, so I leave him outside, tinkering with the gears.

At the checkout I load a basket of vegetables onto the conveyor belt, enjoying the peace and quiet without screaming kids and babies. Someone even packs my pannier for me. But as I’m about to pay, a shout from the entrance breaks the silence. “What are you doing?” Carbonlite stands by the entrance with his hands on his hips. “Shopping,” I reply. “Shopping? But you only came in to change some nappies and I’ve been standing outside waiting for you for twenty minutes.” The assistant smirks, along with the rest of the queue behind me. “Come on, we need to go,” he shouts. “But I’ve got to pay for these.” I tell him. “The Carbonbaby is crying,” he yells. “What am I supposed to do with her out here? You’ve been twenty minutes you know,” he looks at his watch and stomps about in the doorway. Now everyone in the other queue is smirking as well. “It’s a trolley dash?” I remind him, trying not to shout across the supermarket. “A what?” he says. “A Trolley Dash!” I yell, pulling my credit card out of the swiper and legging it outside with the shopping.

We cycle home in the sunshine still bickering. “Right, next week we’ll just do the dash bit and leave the trolley out of it then shall we?” I say. “Look I thought you were just going in to change some nappies,” he sulks, “Anyway, what’s for lunch?”
“Pampers,” I reply, changing gear and dashing off without him.

An all enveloping experience

Carbonlite is in the living room, surrounded by mounds of paper, glueyrubbish and scissors. I glance down at his feet where several bulging carrier bags spill onto the carpet. Each bag is stuffed with used envelopes. A multitude of once healthy trees, pulped, posted and nowpacked into plastic bags.

I lift a bag onto the table. "What are you doing with all this?" I ask him suspiciously. While I'm glad he's moved the piles of bags from the downstairs toilet, I'm fearful of the implications on my tidy living room. "Well, if you look here you'll see I'm snipping the plastic window out of this envelope and cutting out the gum and paste." he says, manoeuvring his scissors around the envelope. "Those bits can't be recycled you see. And now I'm cutting the rest of the envelope into a small usable square. If I stick all these squares together I'm thinking maybe I can make a little book." I struggle not to smile. " A book?" I repeat. "Yes, a little book of paper, perhaps the kids could use it for colouring or something," he explains. "Or we could give them away as Christmas presents."

He looks at me, I look at him, and we both start to laugh. "It's nuts isn't it?" he acknowledges. "But if I don't have a go then what will I do with all these envelopes? I can't put them in with the newspapers for recycling because of all the plastic and glue. There's always the option of composting the ungluey bits on the compost heap, but it's such a waste of good paper. What would you do with them?" We both know my answer before it's even formed. I glance at the bin and then glance away before picking up the scissors.

"I like to do my bit to save the planet," I happily tell Carbonlite as I snip away at a pile of envelopes. He pauses, then sighs. "You know it's a trap, this 'doing your bit' attitude. Cut up a few envelopes, recycle the milk bottles and reuse a bag or two by all means, but don't pretend your 'doing your bit' to stop global warming. You’re still driving. You still use the tumble drier. You flew to Slovakia earlier this year. Do you know how many bags you'd have to re-use or refuse to pay for that one flight? Millions of the things. A mountain of bags the size of Helvellyn. Doing your bit isn't about doing what’s convenient for you. It's about completely changing your life," he says, still snipping out miniature squares and dropping them onto a table now resembling a haphazard mosaic.

I check the time. "Well it's nearly school pick up time and I've got to take the kids swimming later so I probably haven’t time to change my life right now," I tell him, "but I do have time to make a little book or two. Come on, we can road test them on the Carbon Copies." I snip a small square of paper out of a large white envelope, and try to work out how many carrier bags would have to be reused as payback for this afternoon’s drive to the swimming pool. Then I recall Carbonliteonce told me a six mile drive produces roughly the same weight in carbon emissions as a bag of sugar. I reflect on this as we enjoy some quiet companionship, cutting and assembling bits of paper.

"We’re home Dad," shout the Carbon Copies, dumping their wet swimming kit on the table. "What took you so long?" asks Carbonlite, sipping on a cup of tea in a living room free of paper, scissors and envelope."Oh, just doing our bit," I say, plonking a bag of sugar on the table. "We cycled to the swimming pool and saved a bag of sugar,"cries the youngest Carbonlite. "No, we saved the planet and bought a bag of sugar," corrects his brother.

Carbonlite smiles when I explain the relevance of the sugar. "That’s great, because I've made all the Christmas presents," he says opening the kitchen door with a flourish and revealing a wide selection of tiny assorted recycled books. "The only trouble is, I can't find an envelope to package them up."

The Anti-carist

'Why did that car just throw coffee at Dad?' asks one of the Carboncopies as we head out of Bridgwater. Carbonlite wipes coffee off his face and jersey as we crunch over the now empty styrene coffee cup lobbed from the window of a Ford Fiesta boom-box. If he had the energy to sprint and catch the youths, I think he'd find a new use for his penknife, slicing tyres and scratching go-faster stripes."Maybe they thought we were thirsty?" I tell my son lightly, but inside I'm sighing. Now Carbonlite has a new platform for one of his rants.

Two weeks in to our cycle tour 'holiday' of Britain, he's quickly become the anti-carist; a motor-hating bicycle vigilante. And the worst thing about it is, I can see he has a point. I pedal on, knowing he is fuming away to himself. Not just at yobs who think it's a laugh to chuck coffee at cyclists, but at all the cars, lorries, campervans and caravans that cut us up, stare-eye us, beep at us or joke 'Can't you go any faster?' as they pass us on the hills. OK, I admit not everyone has been so negative; the long distance lorry drivers have obviously had training and give us a wide berth. Campervans carrying bikes wave as they overtake, and everyone stops for a chat when we stop to refuel at the supermarket or campsite.

On our way into Bristol, four drug-eyed teenagers even put their spliffs out to lend a hand and get us around some difficult gates, but most motorists prefer to watch the show from the safety of their tin cocoon. Traffic is not only choking up Carbonlite but it's choking this country.

South of Bristol, we stop briefly in the pretty village of Chew Magna. The volume of cars speeding down single track lanes to get quickly to the village traffic jam is unbelievable; and parked cars, vans and traffic queues make it hard to negotiate our way through the village. It's sad to see once quiet rural environments strangled like this. And cyclists are second class citizens: given cycle routes and facilities that never match those given over to the car. In the Tesco car park in Taunton we struggle to find a place to park our bikes to do the weekly shop. Give them their due there is a signposted cycle path, but there are only spaces for twenty cycles while the car park must have spaces for five hundred plus cars. Once we've parked our bikes, they are obviously something of an inconvenience to those trying to get their trolleys back to their cars.

In the twenty years I've been cycling, I've never classed myself as a cyclist, more a lass on a bike. A fair-weather biker who scuttles back to her car when the heavens open, but even I can see we've given too much of our country to the car. Just look at the swathes of roads, eating into the countryside with each improvement and widening scheme, the acres and acres of car parks in towns, cities and shopping centres. And all so we can be free to travel wherever we want whenever we want. Does no-one see the price of this freedom?

We follow the cycle path on the M5 road bridge across the River Avon, just yards from the deafening noise of thousands and thousands of vehicles going nowhere on important business, while we try to pick our way along a cycle route littered with shards of broken indicators, glass, straps and debris from traffic accidents. That's the price we pay.

But sometimes we 'anti-carists' and 'lasses on bikes' get our own back on the motorists. On the way to Chepstow, we ascend a steep narrow hill on a B road. We have no idea the local A road is closed for the day. All we can hear is chugg chugg behind us, as two tractors crawl up the hill in our wake. At the top of the hill we pause and pour ourselves a coffee from our flask as the tractors slowly overtake. Then we count the cars that follow. "One, two three" shout the Carboncopies as they help themselves to a biscuit. "Seventy one, seventy two, seventy three" completes Carbonlite with a smile, counting the last of the cars through ten minutes later. Each car waves enthusiastically at us, thinking we are the hold up, unaware that they are now behind two slow-moving John Deeres each pulling a huge trailer. "Shall we invite them to join us for coffee?" says Carbonlite, smiling at a motorist for the first time since the trip began.

Plastic fantastic

I search the kitchen yet another time, opening draws and slamming them shut again, desperately searching for that brash red and white Tesco’s logo, the soft green and gold hues of Booths, or the old familiar ‘Asda price’ carrier. Nothing. Not one single sniff of a bag. It used to be so different. In the days BG (before Green) we had carrier bags full of carrier bags hanging from the walls. Every crevice or shelf in the utilities room with stuffed with them; carrier bag heaven, in a long sock shaped holder. Now we have four ‘bags for life’ that even the Carbonbaby can’t destroy. Only trouble is while I have a bag for life, I don’t have a bag for the bin. As a household we might be fantastic with our plastic, but doing the routine stuff is proving impossible.

My friend turns up with a Tupperware tub she’s bought for me after listening to me moaning on about having nothing to wrap the sandwiches in. “Did you get a bag with it?” I ask her eagerly. She looks at me strangely, “Surely the point of the Tupperware is to avoid using a bag.” But I don’t reply; I’m routing through the cupboard again, trying to find any old scraggy bit of plastic to line the bin with. I give up and leave a pile of rubbish by the sink. I will have to go foraging.

I start with the village shop. I don’t need anything, but bundle a pile of things onto the counter anyway. But no one asks if I want a bag, and I’m too embarrassed to ask for one. So I pile some more things onto the counter. Eventually the balance is tipped and I’m offered the precious carrier. But just as I’m about to accept, a neighbour walks in. Now I’m torn. I need that bag. But I also feel I should set an example and refuse the bag. “But it’ s recycled…” I argue with myself, ‘…it’s not new.’ The angel and the devil sit on my shoulders arguing about global warming. “Take the bag,” says the Devil. “Save a polar bear,” says the Angel. Eventually the angel shouts the loudest, “If we got all the carrier bags we use in Britain together and extracted all the energy that are contain in those carrier bags, we can run a sixty watt light bulb for four hundred thousand years, or power Carlisle for the whole year.” She’s right, although I’m not sure what Carlisle has to do with anything. “No thanks I don’t need a bag,” I hear myself say. Aargh. I bundle up twenty five different grocery items, trailing toilet rolls and mushrooms all the way down the street. Back home I avoid the kitchen and dump what’s left of the shopping onto the living room table. Luckily its time to get the kids from school. Perhaps they’ll bring their PE kits home in a plastic bag.

“Are mouses grey?” asks the youngest Carboncopy. “Sometimes,” I reply, “Why?” Because if mouses are grey then there’s a mouse by the sink in the kitchen.” I run helter skelter into the kitchen to find the pile of rubbish disturbed and all the bits of food I’m not allowed to compost nibbled around the edges. “That’s it, I can’t stand it any more. I’m going to Tesco,” I shout.

“Don’t forget to take your bags,” say the Carboncopies, running in with four bright blue Bags For Life. “We know you like to save the planet.”

Love miles

Two years ago it seemed like a good idea. A family affair - christening, blessing and hog-roast. No matter it was in Slovakia, with airfares so cheap we promised we'd fly over for an international gathering of the clans. Two years ago we didn't really think about the environmental consequences of our actions, but that was then and it's now we're being called on our promise.

The whole thing has sent me into something of a panic, trying to work out if there's a way to keep a longstanding family promise while honouring our environmental pledge to reduce carbon emissions. The cost of breaking either promise is high; family let-down and the breakdown of Anglo-Slovak relations on the one hand; or two tonnes of extra carbon on our tab, enough to wipe out all this year's emission reductions. Mind you the cost of going wipes out our savings too by the time you've added on all the little extras budget airlines don’t advertise. And cars, buses and trains are no better, environmentally or financially; this party is costly whichever way you travel. But this dilemma isn't about money vs the environment, it's about family and the environment.

It would be easier if others in the family sympathised with our environmental predicament, but like much of the population they just don’t seem to get it or perhaps just don’t care. I've tried explaining but it's deaf ears, counter-arguments and rationalisations. "Well, you were happy enough to fly to New Zealand and back for your holidays two years ago." " Flying isn't a major cause of global warming you know." "You don't think you not flying is going to make an ounce of difference to anything except us?" It's a pointless argument. So it falls to us to decide; to fly or not to fly, that is the question.

After our environmental awakening we'd made a rule not to, but this has really put it to the test. When I weigh things up, I can't seem to balance the scales. In my head I know to fly is 'bad, wrong, environmentally irresponsible' but in my heart I fear the more immediate consequences of family strife, the prospect of which seems far more frightening than long term global meltdown.

George Monbiot describes jetting around to see family and friends as clocking up love miles. He recognises the double-bind we face when trying to visit far-flung loved ones and cut-down on carbon; it's just not possible. In a carbon rationed world something will have to give, and given that not even the greenest of us will find it easy to give up love miles, he reckons there's only one thing that will help us put planet before family and that's grounding the airplanes. For a while last weekend, it looked like terrorists might just do that and resolve things for us, but airport closures were short-lived, security was tightened and flight disruption minimised. It's going to take a lot to stop those love miles.

It's with something of a heavy heart and against my environmental conscience, we're going to put family first. And wipe out in one short flight a year's worth of carbon saving small stuff. I guess putting family first is something we all do in small ways everyday, but it's for family now at the cost of family future and how selfish is that? It's going to be a long haul to recover from this short-haul environmental blow-out.

We're all going on a summer holiday...

As the summer holidays loom, tea time time talk has inevitably turned to 'Where shall we go?' and 'What shall we do?' Just the prospect of spending six weeks at home while the kids run riot is already driving me crazy so that's out of the question. We've got to go somewhere and got to do something, but what?

How about that wilderness trip of a lifetime canoeing down the Yukon? Or a fortnight on safari in Africa? What about biking in Cambodia and Vietnam? Or trekking in China or Nepal? The travel supplements, family adventure brochures and guide books are full of ideas and inspiration. But just thinking of flying five of us to an exotic destination for a hedonistic family adventure doesn't seem very responsible any more. So it's just as well we can't afford it financially as well as environmentally; makes my unfulfilled dreams a little easier to live with.

And so thoughts turned to holidaying at home, which has not been so immediately full of inspiration. After arguing a lot about the best place to go we agreed to compromise and make our destination a journey. So having established that we couldn't go somewhere and that going nowhere was not an option, it was obvious we had to go everywhere. And so emerged a somewhat absurd plan to take on a classic road trip, from one end of the country to the other; from Lands End to John O Groats.

Only thing was we couldn't possibly do it by car; never mind environmentally, just mentally, cooped up in a tin-box day after day, guzzling fuel, enduring the great British summer and accompaniment of traffic jams. No, there's only two green ways to do Lands End to John O Groats - by foot or by bike. And with just six weeks of holiday and three kids, one is clearly impossible and the other..... Well, there's only one way to find out.

The Small Stuff

World Environment Day had sent Carbonlite into a tizzy. He was beavering away at letter writing when I returned from Weightwatchers. ‘Oh God’ I thought, ‘here we go again.’ I went to the shed to get my bike out.

“I thought you had a meeting in Kendal soon,” Carbonlite muttered.
I confirmed that I had, “We’ve been asked to do one thing to make a difference on Environment Day haven’t we? Well I’m going to cycle to my meeting.” I had hoped to pledge to cycle to all of the days meetings but looking at my schedule it would involve seventy five miles of cycling, and I wasn’t that committed to change.

I grabbed my cycle helmet; if I didn’t move quick I was going to be late for my first meeting with a new client and I had at least twelve miles to cycle. “Oh and while I’m cycling to Kendal, Fenella will be buying eco washing balls and Natalie plans to plant and recycle a tree. It doesn’t have to be the big stuff you know.”

At the mention of a couple of our more environmentally aware friends, Carbonlite looked up. “How do you know what they're doing ?”
“Because I asked them to do something for World Environment Day last night. If you want to save the planet, you have to think ahead.” And I waltzed out of the front door.

Just one more thing....

It's UN World Environment Day and the great and good Climate Change and Environment Minister Ian Pearson wants us all to mark it by thinking about our impact on the planet and committing to do one thing differently to reduce it.

Well, that's just great. As if I don't spend enough time already fretting about this. And now the government without the backbone to commit to any radical action to really address the causes of climate change wants me to do more.

Well I want them to do more, to move beyond aspirations and rhetoric and show some real leadership with tough action, even if it might be unpopular. I want to see them toughen up the climate change bill, commit to reduction targets that are based upon best scientific evidence, ban energy inefficient products, invest big time in renewable energy, tax to the max high polluting cars, invest in world class public transport infrastructure, tax, discourage or ban non-essential flying, look seriously at personal carbon rationing, and stop waiting for the enlightenment of the masses or the markets to sort the problem out. It's not going to happen.

So what's my one thing? Well, I'm going to write to my MP and the government and respond to their consultation paper on the climate change bill, asking them to toughen it up.

So, if you''re stuck for an action today, then why not do the same. The Friends of the Earth Big Ask campaign website makes it very easy for you - with letter templates, details of your MP and a way for you to email them directly, making you doubly environmentally pious by saving ink, envelopes, stamps and letter miles. You can email your MP or respond directly to DEFRA's consulation. But don’t leave it too late, the closing date for responses is 12th June.

Go on it only takes a minute or is your planet not worth that?

Apple crumble

What a fuss about half an apple. All I said was it seemed a terrible waste to throw it away. I mean it had only been nibbled around the edges and there was plenty of apple left to offer round, make juice, cook up a crumble or chuck on the compost. That's all I was trying to say but the point got lost in a stupid row.

It was an argument about something and nothing - the fate of a half eaten apple - but it stayed with me for days. And you know why? Because it's not an argument about apple, it's about attitude. The attitude that says it's OK to be wasteful, to bin without thinking, to dispose of the inconvenient or not quite perfect, to not to think about our everyday actions or concern ourselves with how all the small stuff adds up. Like we do most of the time. Like I do a lot of the time. Like the Washingqueen did with said apple.

And it makes me mad; mad with the Washingqueen, mad with myself, mad with the mindless masses that continue living wasteful, carbon guzzling lifestyles, acknowledging the very real dangers of climate change, debating it at dinner parties, making the right noises in the recycling department but still not really sweating the small stuff, preferring instead to put their energies into making excuses. "Well…. does it really matter? I mean what's the point in me bothering if no-one else does? It's not easy being green you know. And besides what difference is one apple/lightbulb/plastic bottle/journey going to make anyway? We all know there are bigger fish to fry than me, bigger problems that need solving elsewhere first eh? "

That's the apple attitude and it will make the world crumble. While we all wait for someone else to do something, making excuses about why we can't.

Small stuff matters, no matter how small. It matters because it makes us more mindful and requires us to take responsibility for our actions and the consequences that follow. It matters because it makes us part of the solution not part of the excuse making problem. And it matters because it may encourage others to do their small stuff too, in their own small ways. And as every charity will tell you, every little helps.

Anyone for crumble?

It's just an apple

The littlest Carboncopy has been up all night with a cough, so I keep him off school for the day. At lunchtime Carbonlite rings to ask for a lift home from the station. He’s been in Manchester for a business meeting. On the way out of the door, the Carboncopy begins to whine. He’s hungry. My first reaction is to give him a picnic lunch, but then remember the new rule. No food in the car. What’s to be done? An apple. A lovely fresh green organic apple, full of vitamin C. Well it’s fruit not food isn’t it? No calories, you see. The Carboncopy munches on it happily as we drive to the station.

“Which platform for the Manchester train?” I ask the ticket man.
“Platform number two, under the bridge and last on the left,” he replies.
“And do you have a bin?” I enquire, feeling like a model citizen, as I hold up the remains of the apple by the stalk.
“Platform number two, under the bridge and last on the left,” he says, without glancing up from his computer.

I carry the apple, arm outstretched through the ticket office and into the tunnel. It has hardly been touched, but bears a neat circle of nibbles all the way around its circumference. The Carboncopy spots his Dad as we turn the corner under the bridge. He runs to him. I pass them by. They clasp each other tightly, while I hold the apple stalk at arms length. Carbonlite raises his eyebrows in a silent question.
“ I’m looking for a bin. Platform number two, under the bridge and last on the left, apparently” I tell him.
“You’re putting that in a bin? Why? It’s a perfectly good apple.” he exclaims.
“It’s a perfectly munched apple,” I say, pointing to the ring of mini teeth marks. “What do you suggest I do with it? ”
“Eat it.”
“No thanks. Second hand spit. Not my thing.” I head off towards platform two once again but Carbonlite grabs me by the arm.
“Take it home then.”
“What for?”
“To eat. You could….make a crumble.” says Carbonlite.
“A crumble. With half an apple?” I ask, turning around reluctantly and starting to walk back under the bridge behind my husband and son, all the time holding the apple by its stalk.
“Yup, its called Recycling.”
“It’s called a stupid idea.”

I catch up with Carbonlite as he reaches the car.
“I’ll drive,” he says.
Oh no you won’t.” I reply. “You can hold the apple. Here, take it!”
“No, it’s yours.” The other passengers who spilled out of the station with us are now staring as I open the door and thrust a half munched apple into my husband’s lap. He puts it on my chair and starts the engine.
“It’s not my apple!” I cry, then, “I can’t believe we’re having this conversation.” I plonk myself down into the seat, once again holding the twig at right angles to my body. “It’s ridiculous and pedantic.”
“It’s a perfectly good piece of food.” Carbonlite replies. “And it’s not me being pedantic. You still don’t get it do you? It’s symptomatic of the way we live and this whole wasteful society. Just because an apple is cheap and easily available, you throw it away.”
“I don’t normally waste them, but I happen to be at a railway station miles from home…and the teethmarks aren’t my own and…it’s just an apple!” I am shouting again.
“Yes it is just an apple and it may seem like a small thing but if everyone in the UK threw away an apple every day of their lives then it’s not a small thing any more. It’s the same as the argument as the lightbulb; if everyone changed to a lower energy lightbulb we could shut down a power station. And in any case, didn’t I ban food in the car?”
I sigh, my thumb and finger aching from holding the stalk..Another argument lost. Our Carboncopy has tired of us and fallen asleep. Carbonlite starts the engine and I am left, like Eve to his Adam, still holding the now discoloured apple. “I am so not going to make you a crumble when we get home.”

A lighter shade of green

Eighteen months ago I knew little about the environment. Sure, I’d heard about global warming but to me it was a global problem. My life was lived at a local level in a South Cumbrian village with three young children providing the challenges of daily life. But my husband had begun to read books on climate change and pay more attention to the news. He talked about the state of the planet as much as he talked about his kids, he got frustrated, he got angry, and then he got to work. Action begins in the home and that’s where he started his campaign to make us a greener family. From being a carbon guzzler like the rest of us, he slowly became Carbonlite, and began to change our household habits in small, at first almost imperceptible ways. Water butts and compost bins started appearing on the patio, he would weigh and catalogue our rubbish, measure gas and electricity on a spreadsheet, log every car mile and question any unnecessary journeys. I put all this down to being one of his Projects. Just as I had been the shed widow, the cycling widow, and the DIY widow at various points of our married life, I was now the green widow. It wouldn’t last.

But it did, and through his efforts and obsessions, I was dragged kicking and screaming into the reality of what it means to be on this planet at this time in history.

He transformed our children into Carboncopies of himself; eco worrying Carbonlite miniatures who hassle me as relentlessly as their Dad continues to do. Around here, you don’t necessarily need to leave the room to have the light or computer switched off, and putting on the heating requires a family conference.

Making our lives and our home more environmentally sound has been a long, and at times difficult process. We live in an old and draughty former village post office, with thick walls and thin, crumbling windows. We don’t have a garden to house all the necessary compost heaps, recycling crates and water butts that being environmentally conscious requires. We are both self employed and money is often tight. At first I offered endless resistance to my husbands plans, clinging onto the notion that I should prioritise the needs of my own family above those of our ailing planet. Even now I stumble at some of the major hurdles. Where Carbonlite would happily do without a car, I argue that we live in a village five miles from the nearest town and our children need to be shepherded to swimming lessons, football practice, cubs and nursery. Where Carbonlite would do away with the boiler and central heating for eleven months of the year, I hate to be cold in my own home, and love to relax in a bath. Where Carbonlite would live on left over scraps and home grown tomatoes, I worry about my children having a balanced diet. All this provides the same tensions and conflicts in our house as it must do in many homes around the UK.

Some things have changed. I now call myself a cyclist, enjoy using human powered transport, and despair of those who drive the school run. We eat organic and local. We wear extra jumpers around the house. I’ve even managed to tackle my addiction to the washing basket, wearing the same clothes for more than one day, and using the washing line instead of the tumble dryer….most of the time. On the bigger issues like the car, the house, and wasting energy and resources, we still bicker and fight, and try to convince each other of our arguments. But then that’s all part of bringing the global down to a local level isn’t it? We aren’t environmentalists, just a Cumbrian family trying to be more aware, and paint ourselves a deeper shade of green. The blog entries here and now on the Westmorland Gazette site are part of a blogging project we’ve been working intermittently on for 18 months, part of our attempt to understand each other, to grapple with the everyday demands of juggling family and an environmental conscience, and to wade through the barrage of information that’s published every day about our changing world. And while it won’t save the planet, it might help save our marriage when faced with some of the tough decisions we’re all going to have to make as our climate hurtles towards chaos.

Less is more

To my mind going green is very simple; it's all about less. Consume less, travel less, waste less, use less. Trouble is achieving this always seems to involve more; more hassle, more time and often more money. The more you look at it, the more you realise becoming anything more than the palest shade of green touches all aspects of household life - food, waste, shopping, water, travel, work, leisure, holidays. Beyond making simple changes (like your lightbulbs) becoming a darker shade of green means changing habits, changing routines you just don’t think about day to day, routines that have served you well for years, unconscious routines that are hard to change. While I find the idea of greening simple, it's still a challenge personally. And then there's the Washingqueen.


To make a change in any household you not only need to change your own habits, you need to nudge, cajole and persuade your housemates to change theirs too. And if they don't believe in the same things you do, have the same fervour, enthusiasm, sense of urgency or aptitude for change then things get harder still. Let's just say the Washingqueen and I have different interests in this, move in different ways and at a different pace. I try to think of it as a healthy tension, especially when I'm completely exasperated by her lack of buy-in to my latest green scheme.


Still, the Washingqueen has come a long way in her greening, so much so she wants to change her name to Ecoworrier. It's a change I support and reflects a change in her and the progress we've made in 18 months of trying to keep being green high on our household agenda while bringing up three kids, trying to keep food on the table, empty the washing basket, earn a living and share a little of the experience through our blog. She's campaigned hard to persuade me that we should publish our blog more widely through the Westmorland Gazette, to encourage others to think greener, act greener, be greener. Well, put that way it's a project I can only support. I hope that something of what we share here, despite being one more thing for me to do will help us all with the greatest problem of all, how to live with less.

Inconvenient truths

I’ve heard on the greenvine that Al Gore has been in the UK recently, training businessmen and eco enthusiasts to deliver his environmental lecture and slideshow ‘An Inconvenient Truth.’ As the official Eco Worrier of Burton I am wounded that Al hasn’t selected me to be one of his disciples to spread the message about global warming.
“Can you believe he asked Richard Branson and not me?” I grumble to Carbonlite as we swat fruit flies in the kitchen on an unseasonably hot day. “Richard Branson. What’s he ever done for the environment except pollute it with his stupid planes?”
“Well,” says Carbonlite, ever the voice of reason, “he’s promised to invest £1.6billion pounds over the next 10 years into to lowering our dependency on fossil fuels.”
I glare at him momentarily before replying, “Ok, fair enough. But what -apart from chucking 1.6 billion pounds at it - has Richard Branson ever done for the environment?”
Carbonlite charges at the flies with a sweeping brush, pushing crowds of them out of the velux window. “He’s joined the steering board of the Energy Future Coalition and has set up a good few of bio-fuel refineries in US.” Unworried by Carbonlite’s broom, the flies zoom straight out of one window and back in through the other.
“Ok, apart from promising 1.6 billion pounds, being on an energy coalition, and building a heap of oil refineries, what has Richard Branson ever done for….”
“Well he’s related to the guy who founded the World Wildlife Fund,” Carbonlite interrupts, “…and apparently he’s planning to turn the British Virgin Islands into the first entirely renewable energy powered Caribbean island.”
“All right, all right, Richard Branson is an international environmental hero, and I’m just a nobody,” I say irritably.
He grins at me and pushes gently on my arm with the brush. “Look, put it this way, if Richard Branson just gives that lecture once to his senior managers, that’s thousands of people educated about global warming in one stroke. How many people are likely to turn up to your Inconvenient Truth lecture in the memorial hall on a wet Tuesday night?”
“Every green convert counts,” I sniff, before quickly formulating a new plan. “You know what? I’m going to write to Al Gore to see if I can get on the next round of his training courses.” I reach for my laptop as Carbonlite puts down his broom, defeated by the fruit flies. Clouds of them are now storming the living room. “Cheer up, even Al Gore would say it’s not easy being green…unless you’re Kermit the Frog,” I reassure him, already wondering if Mr Gore will be listed in the Yellow Pages under Environmental Winners or Presidential Losers.

Before very long I have a raft of addresses for Al, but where to send my request? To his publishers, his campaign officers, his film company, his home, his UK or US office? The White House? All activity has now stopped in the kitchen but there’s a cacophony of banging outside. On the patio Carbonlite seems to be building a big wooden box with a lid.
“This is where all the flies are coming from. The compost bin. I’m going to box ‘em in,” he tells me. Typical. While I’m faffing around trying to contact Al Gore, Carbonlite does something environmentally practical. I’m never going to get the hang of being green.

Two days later, the sun is still shining and the fruit flies are in heaven. They’ve now got a beautiful wooden villa, with free buffet 24/7, plus if they get too hot, they can have a quick dip in the water butt, then retire into our house for a quick joust with Carbonlite and his broom. There are now thousands of them swarming into the kitchen, probably looking for directions to the compost holiday resort. Carbonlite is permanently installed on the kitchen worktop with a broom in one hand, a pan lid in the other, and a tea towel wrapped around his face; our very own domestic gladiator.
“What have I done?” he cries. “They’re so happy with their new home they’ve invited all their friends and relatives from the city to join them.”
“Come on Russell Crowe, we need to empty the peelings into the compost bin.” I tell him, grabbing the green mini bin from under his feet. What was once a quick chore of dropping potato peel into the bin is now a two man job requiring nerves of steel as the flies wage war against the humans trying to invade their new sauna. I make a mental note to ask Al about compost heaps and fruit flies, and add his reply to my future lecture on Inconvenient Truths.

Blushing Green

We are expecting weekend visitors and it’s bringing me out in a rash. Jenny is an ex BBC colleague and Mark is a barrister. They live in a house on the river in Kew with their two young children. Their children are well behaved and quiet. Their house is new and modern. I fear we will look like a Cumbrian version of The Beverly Hillbillies, and they’ll wish they’d remained in suburbia.

The latest green war to be triggered in the Carbon household is about the kettle, or more specifically the lack of it. I scowl at the flask, sitting on the kitchen surface, an unassuming silvery tube that’s now ruining my life. At the start of every day, Carbonlite boils a full kettle and fills the flask, screwing the lid on tight. All boiling water for cooking or drinking is to come from this flask. The whole process has totally put me off my coffee; practically the only vice I have left.

“I can’t understand why no one has come up with a kettle that’s insulated like a flask,” says Carbonlite as he dunks his biscuit into a flask facilitated cup of tea.
“I can’t understand why anyone bothered to invent a kettle when everyone could have a tepid cup of coffee like this one,” I reply, polishing the unused kettle with a dishcloth and wondering how to sabotage its aluminium partner. Then I catch sight of Carbonlite's frown. “Yes, yes I know. The average person has 4.3 cups of tea a day and if you boil a full kettle for just one mug you can cause up to 8 times the carbon dioxide emissions."I quote the figures without thinking about it. "But see it from my point of view. Im being force fed lukewarm water with a tea bag dipped in 4.3 times a day. It doesn't make for a relaxing tea break. Although there is a plus point to all this. The water is so lukewarm by lunchtime that it doesn’t melt your biscuit when you dunk.”
“No dribbles down my jumper, so no laundry needed either,” says Carbonlite, delighted by his own cleverness.

“There. A nice shiny kettle for Jenny and Mark,” I say deliberately. Carbonlite doesn’t reply so while I’m on a roll, I get in a quick dig about how many of our mugs are chipped and cracked. And unfortunately crockery cracks and colour clashes aren’t restricted to our mugs. Since we started going green, we haven’t replaced any broken china, but simply bought odd pieces from charity shops. Now we have a selection of plates for five, unmatching bowls for four (with cracked glaze) a random drawer of cutlery and thirty chipped mugs.

And as there has also been a ban on buying sheets for several years (“Whats wrong with all those pink stripey ones your Mum gave us?”) making up four extra beds proves a headache. Before long I am shouting at everyone because I can’t find a quilt to match a pillowcase. Then I notice how thin the quilts seem and start shouting at Carbonlite for forcing the kids into inadequately togged bedding. Eventually he storms in and holds the labels up to my nose.
“ A twelve…it’s a twelve…that means it’s a winter quilt, not a summer one. The children are NOT cold at night.”
“Yes we are,” shouts the oldest Carboncopy from his bedroom.
“But not when we have our hot water bottles and our socks on and our blankets,” his brother replies.
“Except when Daddy fills the hot water bottle from the flask,” they cry in unison.

I move on to the next bedroom and stuff a kingsize quilt into a double duvet with blue ink stains on the front. I lie it onto the bed and try to smooth out the creases, wondering if I should explain to Jenny and Mark that I would have done the ironing except it isn’t good for the planet. (The one rule imposed by Carbonlite that made me cheer out loud!) I almost weep as I think of that other world in London that our friends still inhabit; white cotton percale pillows match white cotton percale duvets, people go shopping for garlic presses and fancy bottle openers and kettles aren’t black market goods. As we clean the bathroom in a show of togetherness, I brief my husband on how to treat our guests. “Don’t go on about waste, don’t keep turning the heating off all the time they’re here, and whatever you do make their tea with HOT water.”

I’m interrupted by the sound of a doorbell, and the Carboncopies rush off with Carbonlite following. I clean the toilet and go downstairs to greet my friends. They are standing in the living room shivering.
“It’s cold today,” says Jenny, giving me a hug.
“Never mind,” says Mark. “We’ve a cup of tea on order.”
I can’t face going to check up on Carbonlite. I’ll know from the biscuit dunking whether it’s a flask or a kettle job.

The good old days, the green old ways

I got collared by one of the elder members of our community recently; a lovely old woman who just loves to talk. A lot. She usually collars the Washingqueen but she was out so I got my ear bent instead. Now I don’t have much patience when it comes to small talk but as I half listened to her stories of ‘the good old days’ and her complaints about the pace of life today, the other half of my mind got wondering whether she might actually have a point, if I could only be bothered to listen.

I mean who said more, faster, cheaper, is progress? That growth, economic development, increased prosperity, new technology are good, necessary, the way forward? Why can’t progress mean going backwards? Perhaps that’s the kind of progress we need right now. But it does seem to go against the grain, in fact it goes against everything I’ve ever been subconsciously indoctrinated with in our society.

It’s easy to dismiss ‘oldies’ fond recollections of the good old days as the rose tinted musings of dinosaurs, technophobes or others unable to adapt to the demands of modern living. But perhaps they’re right; perhaps things were better back then. When people couldn’t afford a car, shopped locally, walked to work, grew their own veg, holidayed in Blackpool, heated just one room, bathed once a week, owned less, consumed less, made do and mended.

When you get down to looking at the make-up of your great big environmental footprint, it doesn’t take more than a degree in common sense to realise that actually many of the good old days good old ways are actually green old ways. Maybe we really do need to go back to the future.

Global slamming

“Look how many aluminium milk bottle top lids I’ve collected.” I tell Carbonlite, showing him a vase full of shiny round buttons…“you know, I reckon I’ll have this planet saved by teatime.” But Carbonlite has been reading his scary climate change books again and he’s pessimistic that we’ll exist at all beyond next Christmas. “Well if everyone is doing their bit like me….” I argue. “But they’re not are they?” says Carbonlite gloomily. “…and even if you and I save up a bottle top mountain the size of Helvellyn, it’s still not enough. We’ve got to get out there and convince people to change their habits.” I tell my husband that standing on a recyclable soapbox in the village square isn’t my thing. “I’m a creative,” I announce, “And I’ve decided to become a poet.” Carbonlite picks up a bus timetable and a large collection of books. “Well, let’s hope your sonnets have the power to hold back rising sea levels and tsunamis,” he says as he packs his rucksack for a visit to the library.

When he returns, I’m halfway through my first masterpiece. He reads it over my shoulder. “You’re writing a poem about your weight?” he asks. I tell him I’ve decided to develop myself by entering the poetry slam at The Brewery Arts Centre in Kendal. He looks blank. “It’s like Pop Idol for poets,” I explain, “Everyone is given three minutes to hog the microphone then the audience vote for the best two performance poets. They go through to another round, then the overall winner goes on to a regional final later in the year to compete for the title of ‘Slam Champion of Cumbria.” Suddenly Carbonlite is fully engaged, asking how many people turn up to enter and spectate, and whether there are any guidelines on subject matter. I go through the rules in further detail with my increasingly cheerful husband. “Fantastic,” he says, when I’ve finished. “You can be Cumbria’s first green poet, and I’ll come and cheer you on.”

The compere Marvin Cheeseman announces my name for the second time of the night and I walk into the pink stage lights accompanied by clapping and cheering. Half an hour earlier my poem about dieting went down a storm and landed me one of two places in the final. This time I am carrying an accessory; a green mini compost bin. I smile at the audience and ask if they like my new handbag. Everyone stares at the grubby home composting bin. I assure them it’ll catch on in fashion circles, and that Posh and Becks might soon be photographed in LA with matching compost handbags, although theirs will be branded with a Gucci logo, rather than a sticker highlighting the foolishness of home composting chunks of cheese. Through the pink glare of the lights, I see Carbonlite gesturing at me to get on with the poetry. So I open my compost bin, and pull out my script. But I hardly need it. For just under three minutes I am an eco ‘Eminem’; an unstoppable one woman anti- global warming poetry machine. I inspire greatness, perspire greenness, rewire people’s collective conciousness. I am a planet saving, carbon shaving, offsetting, unjetting queen of green. A prophetic, poetic, global worrier. I forget I’m at The Brewery and imagine I’m on a world stage. I am now Al Gore, Bono and Swampy rolled into one. In my rap, I recount my struggle as a born again green; my squirmy encounter with the Wiggly Wigglers on the patio, the burgeoning recycling HQ in our downstairs loo, the bottle top mountain that will save the polar bears, and my colourful relationship with the mini compost bin.

The whistle blows. My three minutes are up. Suddenly I’m not a global eco warrior, but Eco Worrier from Burton in Kendal. As I amble off the stage I remind myself that Al Gore had to begin somewhere, although admittedly he started by coming second in the race for American President, while I am being crowned runner up at a poetry event in Kendal. I return to my seat and sip on a spritzer. The panel awards me three nines. Now the other finalist takes to the stage. He is young and looks like a teenager. In contrast I now look like Pam Ayres. He raps an accomplished, word perfect poem about the boredom of being young and aimless on a Friday Night, and by the end of three minutes he looks bored of us as well. The audience panel votes. He gets two nines and one ten. He also gets forty quid and the chance to be crowned slam champion of Cumbria at a future event. I get a book of the nation’s favourite love poems and a cheer from the crowd.

When I return to my seat, Carbonlite gives me a hug. “You are the Cumbrian slam champion in my eyes and I’m proud of you. But now I’m even more depressed. It’s so typical. This audience chose dossing about on a Friday night over saving our precious planet and resources. What are we to do?” He looks for reassurance, but I have no answers; just a bunch of words in the shape of a poem.

Turkeys do vote for Christmas

As a mostly vegetarian household, the recent outbreak of bird flu in Suffolk (UK) was seen here as more of a turkey style humanitarian disaster than a threat to the Sunday dinner table. It seems somehow symptomatic of society's cock-eyed view of the world that culling 159,000 turkeys in the interests of protecting human health goes pretty much unquestioned as being a right and proper course of action. Reaction to this bird-flu induced slaughter seems to have been governed here mostly by the inherent self interest of humankind or in some cases a certain sympathy for workers at Bernard Matthews who have been at risk of infection or lost their jobs as a result of the ensuing slump in turkey sales.

Now it's not that I don't appreciate the logic of all this, given the risk of the H5N1 virus mutating into a form capable of wiping millions off the human population, although it might just be one of the less humane but more viable way of reducing carbon emissions. No, my point is who speaks for the turkeys? Especially the one's that weren't infected, that might have been infected or were just at risk of infection. The most I've heard people say is that they were going to be slaughtered anyway, you know it was just like Christmas came a bit early for them. Only the turkeys didn't get a vote. They never do. But if they did, what would they do? Wisdom has it they wouldn’t vote for Christmas and they sure as hell wouldn't vote for it to come early.

Now I may be struggling to make a connection here but the washingqueen made me feel a bit like a turkey voting for Christmas when I signed the online petition on the Number 10 website asking the government to introduce carbon rationing. "Why on earth would you want to do that?" she asked incredulously, "bring all the misery of rationing upon us voluntarily?" "Because if we don't act now…" I began but knew I was wasting my breath. Last time I looked I was one of about two thousand citizens signed up to support this petition. Compare that with close on TWO MILLION people who signed up to protest at the vaguest threat of introducing road pricing in the battle against congestion and transport emissions. Clearly the unimpeded right to use our cars and emit carbon irrespective of greenhouse gases or congestion is far more important. And given all the scientific concensus about the impact of continuing such a business as usual approach, I can only conclude that these two million good citizens really are turkeys voting for Christmas and voting for it to come early. Not only that, but given the irreversible nature of the changes taking place and the fact that the full consequences of our self interested action will be visited upon future generations, we're not just voting for Christmas for ourselves, but casting votes for an early Christmas for our children and grandchildren too. Collectively we seem to have even less sense than the turkeys we slaughter. All the while believing we're acting in our own best interests. What capacity for delusion.

Big feet are getting smaller

Well, the wait is over. After another four years of painstaking research, debate and analysis, the IPCC's Working Group 1 Report has confirmed the climate change threat as real, present, dangerous and almost certainly one of humankind's less clever creations.

Here at the familyecoproject we've undergone similar painstaking research, debate and analysis, drawing on Mayer Hillman's recommendations for calculating your carbon emissions, and concluded (at about the same time as the IPCC) that our carbon footprint is big and shrinking, a bit like the world's glaciers.

Through extensive studies of old utility bills, meter readings and MOT certificates, we have scientifically proven our historical (pre-2006) household carbon shoe size to be 16, the five of us accepting collective responsibility for 16.15 metric tonnes of direct CO2 emissions per year. (although I'm sure most of it is down to the others)

In the last year (to Feb 2007), by freezing to death by day, walking and cycling to keep warm, holidaying more locally, banning incandescent bulbs, draughtproofing doors and windows, and being more careful about leaving appliances on standby, overfilling the kettle and other miserly touches, we've managed to get down to a size 13.

So that's great news isn't it? We've made a 20% reduction in our emissions in a year, way beyond the 3% per year target we set to keep us on course to meet a 60% reduction by 2030 and 80% by 2050 as Hillman implored us to do in his book and one of my growing collection of eco-bibles "How to Save the Planet".

The bad news is that with our 2006/7 emissions coming out at 13.01389 tonnes per year, as a household we (well the others mostly) are still emitting some 723kg more than the UK household average which Mayer believes should be working to reduce its emissions to 12.29009 tonnes per year this year, then 3% less than that next year and so on.

In summary we're 20% down but still 6% over average, moving in the right direction but still oversize and need to keep the pressure on. I suppose it's not that surprising given our big (c)old house, rural lifestyle and regular long distance travel for work, but if carbon rationing becomes a reality, and it is a possibility (there's even a petition you can sign to ask the Prime Minister to introduce it), such excuses will count for nothing; we'll need to keep counting the carbon, and address our excess emissions or pay the penalty.

So our first year report says something like well done, some good work but not yet good enough. More effort needed. Keep at it. I don't think the washingqueen will find it too inspirational.

New Years Resolutions

Well, it's been yet another week of climate change headlines with the IPCC preparing to release their latest report reminding us of the seriousness and urgency of the climate change threats, while the great and the good of the WEF have been meeting in snowy Davos and discussing the need for global action to reduce carbon emissions and improve the prospects for skiiing at future summits. Let's hope the news that glaciers are now shrinking three times faster than in the 1980's will encourage them to get their finger out.

Shivering around the table in our ice-house, struggling to believe it's been the second warmest January on record, it's nice to be able to tell the washingqueen that our efforts are part of an emerging global plan.

We're almost a year into our household carbon reduction programme and by the end of this week will have a reliable baseline from which to plot our way into a lower carbon future. After a year of painful monitoring of our gas and electricity consumption, car and public transport usage and other carbon emitting habits, our year end carbon accounting will be followed by the announcement of our 1st annual carbon footprint.

And while the washingqueen may hope that is the end of it, it is really only the beginning. The future is not about measuring your carbon footprint but about reducing it, year on year on year. So, when the numbers come we'll be having a summit of our own with a view to making some New Year resolutions and an action plan to improve the state of the little planet that is our household. I fear the washingqueen may prefer to kick me into orbit.

Thermostat wars

With the new year came a new conflict. As winter cold and rain seeped in through our limestone walls and poorly insulated windows and doors, Carbonlite and I went to war over the central heating thermostat. Snatched stealth visits to the downstairs loo (home of the thermostat panel) soon turned from amusement to obsession. As the Carboncopies ran to school at the start of term, our carefree Christmas household emissions were curtailed and the radiators were already cooling. With a new year’s resolution of cutting our emissions, I took the recommended action and put on an extra jumper. But at my computer next to the kitchen, a gale blew under the door, feet turning to ice in double socks. I soldiered on, ignoring the onset of grumpiness, having just found out that our household heating emissions for last year came to four and a half tonnes of carbon dioxide, emitting more harmful gases than the family car. I made coffee, and warmed my hands on a half empty kettle. But thoughts of a warm living room kept creeping in and for a moment I imagined myself snaffling elevensies with my bum against a hot radiator. All of a sudden I felt as ungreen as an American President. I nipped into the loo and quickly flicked the thermostat switch before guilt set in. A light came on, and a ready brek glow spread through me at the thought of being warm once more. I returned to my desk and typed away with renewed energy. Carbonlite came down for lunch and entered the downstairs toilet. I listened through the door but heard nothing. Perhaps he hadn’t noticed my indiscretion? Perhaps he’d turned a blind eye to the tiny light? Perhaps the house would be warm enough for cheese on toast in comfort? Then behind my desk the radiator seemed to visibly sag. Carbonlite had flicked the switch.

We arranged for a man with a green plan to come and advise us. He told us energy efficiency measures could save two tonnes of carbon dioxide a year, and offered a range of practical ideas for sealing keyholes and blocking doors, insulating attics and double glazing windows. But our listed building status and original sash windows scuppered this, so the man with the plan revised the plan and recommended secondary double glazing at a cost of five hundred pounds per window. Although aware that radical insulation action could save us a few hundred pounds a year, we had no ready cash for windows. So Carbonlite took budget emergency action on the bedroom sashes, sealing crumbling paintwork and bolting down wood. While this kept us warm at night, it also trapped the condensation and each morning our windows resembled a winter wonderland as condensation clung to the panes, melting onto the wood and rotting woodwork. Carbonlite handed out cloths and instructions on wiping them down.

I raised the cloth to the glass and swept it across the misty pane. My arm became covered with a strange substance, which clung to my wrist and fingers like spiders web. In a panic, I pulled and ripped, and it wrapped itself around my other hand. On closer inspection I realised it was cling film. This explained why I had nothing to wrap the sandwiches in, but not why a window cleaning session had turned into a scene from a low budget science fiction movie. Suspecting a DIY insulation technique I questioned Carbonlite. “It’s home made double glazing,” he replied. “Don’t look at me like that, it’s a recognised technique. Well it is environmental circles anyway.” Carbonlite’s mother came to visit and gave us her motherly wisdom. “Heat one room and close all the doors. You’d think you were all born in barns.” Now I had almost no time to work as I spent all day closing doors and wiping down windows. But I was still cold. I considered lighting a fire in the chimney next to my workstation, but remembered we’d instructed the builders not to line the chimney to save money and while I wanted my home to be warm, I didn’t want to set it on fire. “The most effective insulation is to turn the heating off and wear outdoor clothes inside,” said Carbonlite, now walking around in two fleeces and a cagoule. “I bet Tony Blair doesn’t make Cherie turn the heating off during the day,” I shouted from the loo. “Perhaps you should have married him then,” Carbonlite called back from the kitchen. Suddenly feeling cross, I flicked the thermostat to ‘on,’ piled up the recycling crates in front of the panel to hide the light, flushed the loo and closed the door behind me. It might only be minutes before Carbonlite discovered my environmental recklessness, but at least until then I’d have warm toes.