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.
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
Tuesday, March 06, 2007
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.
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.
Thursday, March 01, 2007
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.
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.
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
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.
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.
Sunday, February 04, 2007
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.
Monday, January 29, 2007
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.
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.
Friday, January 26, 2007
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.
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.
Saturday, December 23, 2006
Cut out Christmas
It's that time of year again when I'm supposed to write and send Christmas Cards but this year, having become obsessed with the planetary consequences of the The Festive Season, the whole card business seems more pointless than ever. I mean besides investing energy sitting scribbling, signing and sticking, how can I justify all that card, ink, envelopes and stamps, not to mention the thousands of card-miles? And for what? To say hi, decorate a mantlepiece and end up in a recycling box. Not worth it.
But there's no denying the social pressure to conform. And with dozens of beautiful cards arriving each morning and the Carboncopies bringing home fistfuls from their friends, I have to admit the pressure got me. So I made a concession and let the kids send some cards. I mean it's one thing to risk being a social outcast yourself but another to see your kids in the playground with nothing to hand out to expectant friends.
So the Carboncopies got busy - making their own cards. Recycled of course; from newspaper, magazines, birthday cards and paper then stuffed into old envelopes. The productivity of my little eco-troopers was a sight to behold. And while Carbonbaby chewed on sellotape helping elder Carboncopy create complex 3D cut-out cards, little Carboncopy found the quickest method of production; taking one of last year's Christmas cards, ripping off the bit with the picture, scribbling a message on the back and sticking it in a carrier bag for delivery. In the space of half an hour, he'd made 17 eco-cards and saved 17 envelopes.
In the playground the next morning, parents and children dashed around delivering Charity Cards while little Carboncopy handed out his cut-up greetings, looking like a charity case.
Parents looked with bemusement at the scribbly scraps of card he was handing out to their off-spring.
"What's that?" one of them asked him.
"A Christmas card," he replied proudly.
The receiving child passed it to mum for inspection.
"How sweet," said the mum, looking distinctly unimpressed.
I think it's unlikely that card will make her mantelpiece. We can only hope it makes the recycling bin. Perhaps it's not just the thought that counts.
But there's no denying the social pressure to conform. And with dozens of beautiful cards arriving each morning and the Carboncopies bringing home fistfuls from their friends, I have to admit the pressure got me. So I made a concession and let the kids send some cards. I mean it's one thing to risk being a social outcast yourself but another to see your kids in the playground with nothing to hand out to expectant friends.
So the Carboncopies got busy - making their own cards. Recycled of course; from newspaper, magazines, birthday cards and paper then stuffed into old envelopes. The productivity of my little eco-troopers was a sight to behold. And while Carbonbaby chewed on sellotape helping elder Carboncopy create complex 3D cut-out cards, little Carboncopy found the quickest method of production; taking one of last year's Christmas cards, ripping off the bit with the picture, scribbling a message on the back and sticking it in a carrier bag for delivery. In the space of half an hour, he'd made 17 eco-cards and saved 17 envelopes.
In the playground the next morning, parents and children dashed around delivering Charity Cards while little Carboncopy handed out his cut-up greetings, looking like a charity case.
Parents looked with bemusement at the scribbly scraps of card he was handing out to their off-spring.
"What's that?" one of them asked him.
"A Christmas card," he replied proudly.
The receiving child passed it to mum for inspection.
"How sweet," said the mum, looking distinctly unimpressed.
I think it's unlikely that card will make her mantelpiece. We can only hope it makes the recycling bin. Perhaps it's not just the thought that counts.
Wednesday, December 20, 2006
Happy recycled birthday?
“Happy Birthday Mummy,” the Carboncopies cried, racing into my bedroom. They clutched presents wrapped in newspaper, and bounced on my bed as I ripped open the first of their gifts. “Careful, we may want to use that wrapping again,” said the oldest Carboncopy.
“Fair trade chocolate…just what a girl needs. Thank you,” I said, hugging them. They thrust the next gift into my hands and the paper came away without much of a struggle. I pulled two luminous green knobbled rubber balls out of the packaging. “Are they from Anne Summers?” I asked Carbonlite.
“Amazing Dryer Balls,” announced the oldest Carboncopy, reading from the recyclable box. “Save twenty five per cent on dryer running costs and soften fabrics without any toxic chemicals.” The youngest Carboncopy was fed up with all the waiting around and ripped open the last present himself.
“Ecozone Eco Balls,” said his older brother with respect in his voice, lifting out three green spheres in the shape of Jupiter. “Wow. It’s going to be a special birthday, Dad said so. We’re going to follow all of the ‘R’s.”
“Reduce, Reuse, Recycle,” the carboncopies chanted, throwing themselves off the bed like pyjama clad lemmings.
“Happy Birthday, Eco Worrier. I’ll take you out for lunch,” said Carbonlite, helping himself to a slab of Fair Trade Chocolate.
“Where would you like to go?” he asked, as I loaded the washing machine. The Carbonbaby clutched at the glass door, attracted by the brightly coloured Eco Balls. I suggested a couple of fancy restaurants I’d heard about in the Lakes. “Ah, right. I rather hoped we could cycle,” said Carbonlite. “I know a lovely new tea shop which means we can ‘Reduce’ our petrol consumption for today.
“Reduce the bill you mean,” I replied.
The children came in from school with little paper bags. “We’re having a party,” they said. “Don’t come into the kitchen.” They reappeared some time later with sausages from the butcher cut into small pieces and decorated with organic tomatoes, tiny pizza’s made from crumpets with pepperoni toppings, bowls of fruit, raw veg and crisps. They then produced little party bags made out of paper bags they’d begged from the Post Office, decorated with stickers and felt tips, and filled them with some of their favourite miniature toys. And then the room fell silent.
“Happy Birthday to you,” they all sang, as Carbonlite came to the table holding the remains of a chocolate caterpillar cake from my son’s birthday the day before. It was decorated with thirty nine candles. “‘Reused’ cake and candles,” said Carbonlite proudly.
“Blow out the caterpillars bottom and make a wish Mummy,” said the youngest of the Carboncopies.
In the evening we watched a ‘Recycled’ movie from the video shop. We ate chocolates and wine that would never last long enough to be recycled, although I did catch Carbonlite saving his foil wrappers down the side of the sofa. Half way through the movie, I felt cold.
“Have you turned the heating off? On my birthday?” I accused my eco- husband. We snuggled under a quilt quickly produced in compensation.
“My recycled birthday was great. I think we should try to have a sustainable Christmas as well,” I suggested.
“I’ve been thinking about that,” Carbonlite replied. “This Christmas perhaps we should concentrate on the fourth ‘R.’
“What’s that?” I asked.
“ ‘Refuse,’” he answered with a grin. “Refuse all the pointless trappings of Christmas. Say no to presents and definitely no to sprouts.”
Before bed I checked my e-mails. In the semi darkness of my study an e-mail pinged in from The States. “Hello, my name is Rachelle.” it said. “I'm a casting producer with ABC TV's Wife Swap. I'm contacting families who are living ‘lightly’ and came across you. We always look for families with very strong family philosophies, and hope you might consider being on our show.” I sat back and imagined a week with an American family in their air conditioned home, driving a gas guzzling SUV to the mall to stuff myself with pizza, returning for cocktails and Barbeque by the heated swimming pool. Then I thought about my quirky sustainable birthday, compliments of my own little carbon crew. My mouse hovered over the screen as I contemplated the final R; my ‘Reply.’ It didn’t take me long to ‘Refuse.’
“Fair trade chocolate…just what a girl needs. Thank you,” I said, hugging them. They thrust the next gift into my hands and the paper came away without much of a struggle. I pulled two luminous green knobbled rubber balls out of the packaging. “Are they from Anne Summers?” I asked Carbonlite.
“Amazing Dryer Balls,” announced the oldest Carboncopy, reading from the recyclable box. “Save twenty five per cent on dryer running costs and soften fabrics without any toxic chemicals.” The youngest Carboncopy was fed up with all the waiting around and ripped open the last present himself.
“Ecozone Eco Balls,” said his older brother with respect in his voice, lifting out three green spheres in the shape of Jupiter. “Wow. It’s going to be a special birthday, Dad said so. We’re going to follow all of the ‘R’s.”
“Reduce, Reuse, Recycle,” the carboncopies chanted, throwing themselves off the bed like pyjama clad lemmings.
“Happy Birthday, Eco Worrier. I’ll take you out for lunch,” said Carbonlite, helping himself to a slab of Fair Trade Chocolate.
“Where would you like to go?” he asked, as I loaded the washing machine. The Carbonbaby clutched at the glass door, attracted by the brightly coloured Eco Balls. I suggested a couple of fancy restaurants I’d heard about in the Lakes. “Ah, right. I rather hoped we could cycle,” said Carbonlite. “I know a lovely new tea shop which means we can ‘Reduce’ our petrol consumption for today.
“Reduce the bill you mean,” I replied.
The children came in from school with little paper bags. “We’re having a party,” they said. “Don’t come into the kitchen.” They reappeared some time later with sausages from the butcher cut into small pieces and decorated with organic tomatoes, tiny pizza’s made from crumpets with pepperoni toppings, bowls of fruit, raw veg and crisps. They then produced little party bags made out of paper bags they’d begged from the Post Office, decorated with stickers and felt tips, and filled them with some of their favourite miniature toys. And then the room fell silent.
“Happy Birthday to you,” they all sang, as Carbonlite came to the table holding the remains of a chocolate caterpillar cake from my son’s birthday the day before. It was decorated with thirty nine candles. “‘Reused’ cake and candles,” said Carbonlite proudly.
“Blow out the caterpillars bottom and make a wish Mummy,” said the youngest of the Carboncopies.
In the evening we watched a ‘Recycled’ movie from the video shop. We ate chocolates and wine that would never last long enough to be recycled, although I did catch Carbonlite saving his foil wrappers down the side of the sofa. Half way through the movie, I felt cold.
“Have you turned the heating off? On my birthday?” I accused my eco- husband. We snuggled under a quilt quickly produced in compensation.
“My recycled birthday was great. I think we should try to have a sustainable Christmas as well,” I suggested.
“I’ve been thinking about that,” Carbonlite replied. “This Christmas perhaps we should concentrate on the fourth ‘R.’
“What’s that?” I asked.
“ ‘Refuse,’” he answered with a grin. “Refuse all the pointless trappings of Christmas. Say no to presents and definitely no to sprouts.”
Before bed I checked my e-mails. In the semi darkness of my study an e-mail pinged in from The States. “Hello, my name is Rachelle.” it said. “I'm a casting producer with ABC TV's Wife Swap. I'm contacting families who are living ‘lightly’ and came across you. We always look for families with very strong family philosophies, and hope you might consider being on our show.” I sat back and imagined a week with an American family in their air conditioned home, driving a gas guzzling SUV to the mall to stuff myself with pizza, returning for cocktails and Barbeque by the heated swimming pool. Then I thought about my quirky sustainable birthday, compliments of my own little carbon crew. My mouse hovered over the screen as I contemplated the final R; my ‘Reply.’ It didn’t take me long to ‘Refuse.’
Monday, October 30, 2006
scary stuff
"Of course we're going to the halloween party. The kids have got new costumes," said a mother in the playground, hugging her darling as I covered my own childrens ears and hoped they hadn't heard. In our house Halloween costumes this year were same as last year and the year before; a witches cape and a bit of improvisation.
We painted out fingernails black with felt tip, pinned rubber skeletons to our back and put on our capes. The carbonbaby was beginning the annual tradition of fighting off her headband adorned with pumpkins on spirals. Each successive carbonbaby had been made to wear it, and all had managed to throw it out of the pushchair before leaving the house.
We approached the party along with an elaborate range of ghouls, Adams family lookalikes and witches. The first thing I noticed on entry was how many babies sat head to toe in their parents arms in full fancy dress. They wore elaborate costumes; mainly black cats and pumpkins. I'd seen the pumpkin outfit reduced to three quid in Asda and wondered how many child slaves in developing countries had given up their childhoods to make it for that amount. It was a big fleecy orange puffball, with hat and accessories, made to kit out a very small child.
"What will they do with all these pumpkins next year when their babies are grown," I wondered out loud. But I already knew the answer. They'd pop out to Asda for a new costume for their little darling. And the pumpkin would join last year's Christmas Party dress as something that was worn once, for a couple of hours at a village party.
We got on with 'pinning the nose on the witch' and doing the 'unlucky dip,' and the kids won a range of treats including sweets backed in plastic and cardboard, plastic spiders had travelled all the way from China to be with us, and scary pencils with little plastic climbing ghosts. At no point did they win an organic pumpkin or toffee apple, or in fact anything that didn't involve plastic.
I went home slightly depressed. Because it's just another of those events that used to involve a bit of bobbing for an apple, that has now turned into a plastic fantastic carbon using nightmare. And while I felt like a scrooge as the whole point of the party was to raise money for the local playgroup, I couldn't help reflect on how many bad practices it was reinforcing to the kids involved.
And the really depressing thing is that what's happening in our village is also happening all over. Today I read in the paper that the whole of Britain is following the Americans in going Halloween mad. Five years ago we spent a total of £12 million on wigs, capes and broomsticks (not forgetting the little pumpkin costumes.) This year the figure is expected to reach £120 million. And that's just in this country. The figures from the States are even scarier. The report that sent shivers down my neck was the one that said in America, three and a half million people buy a halloween costume each year....for their PET.
Happy halloween!
We painted out fingernails black with felt tip, pinned rubber skeletons to our back and put on our capes. The carbonbaby was beginning the annual tradition of fighting off her headband adorned with pumpkins on spirals. Each successive carbonbaby had been made to wear it, and all had managed to throw it out of the pushchair before leaving the house.
We approached the party along with an elaborate range of ghouls, Adams family lookalikes and witches. The first thing I noticed on entry was how many babies sat head to toe in their parents arms in full fancy dress. They wore elaborate costumes; mainly black cats and pumpkins. I'd seen the pumpkin outfit reduced to three quid in Asda and wondered how many child slaves in developing countries had given up their childhoods to make it for that amount. It was a big fleecy orange puffball, with hat and accessories, made to kit out a very small child.
"What will they do with all these pumpkins next year when their babies are grown," I wondered out loud. But I already knew the answer. They'd pop out to Asda for a new costume for their little darling. And the pumpkin would join last year's Christmas Party dress as something that was worn once, for a couple of hours at a village party.
We got on with 'pinning the nose on the witch' and doing the 'unlucky dip,' and the kids won a range of treats including sweets backed in plastic and cardboard, plastic spiders had travelled all the way from China to be with us, and scary pencils with little plastic climbing ghosts. At no point did they win an organic pumpkin or toffee apple, or in fact anything that didn't involve plastic.
I went home slightly depressed. Because it's just another of those events that used to involve a bit of bobbing for an apple, that has now turned into a plastic fantastic carbon using nightmare. And while I felt like a scrooge as the whole point of the party was to raise money for the local playgroup, I couldn't help reflect on how many bad practices it was reinforcing to the kids involved.
And the really depressing thing is that what's happening in our village is also happening all over. Today I read in the paper that the whole of Britain is following the Americans in going Halloween mad. Five years ago we spent a total of £12 million on wigs, capes and broomsticks (not forgetting the little pumpkin costumes.) This year the figure is expected to reach £120 million. And that's just in this country. The figures from the States are even scarier. The report that sent shivers down my neck was the one that said in America, three and a half million people buy a halloween costume each year....for their PET.
Happy halloween!
Thursday, October 26, 2006
Feeling the heat
“Package for you,” said the delivery man, thrusting his electronic notepad into my hands. “Nice day,” he added, as I scrawled my name onto the screen, and accepted a brown package.
“Is it?” I asked, feeling like Eeyore without a tail. From where I was standing, this day was anything but nice. Without even breaking the seal of the cardboard I knew the contents would be disastrous for me and the kids. At the start of half term, the last thing we wanted was another 'expert' book on climate change, spelling out how quickly the planet was combusting and how we were responsible. This innocent little package of words would cast a cancerous shadow over the whole holiday week, by plunging Carbonlite into one of his global depressions. As far as I was concerned we'd only just recovered from James Lovelock's assault on our consciences and household working practices.
The first signs of panic followed the same day, as switches around the house, as if by magic, turned to 'off,'and when I went to take the Carboncopies' tea out of the oven, it was still frozen. Next the Carbonbaby was plunged into a bath only an inch deep, and then followed a whole evening fretting about why the water butt isn't connected to the toilet to flush away the water, rather than taking water from the system. Well what's the point in fretting about that? "You're an engineer aren't you?" I told Carbonlite, "either invent a new system or just enjoy the fact you have water at all. Some people don't, you know."
By the next day, Carbonlite's grey mood had turned into a black smog, enveloping us all and strangling any surviving holiday feelings. A morning of criticisms and interference was followed by a public enquiry into why I'd ruined the bedroom quilt cover. I explained my reasons for dyeing the pale blue cover to match a burgundy room, saving the planet from the manufacture of yet another burgundy quilt cover, but my protestations held no sway. It developed into a full on row in front of the oldest Carboncopy, at the end of which I threw my magazine into his face and stormed out of the house in tears, straight into my neighbour. "I can't cope with it any more. This whole planet can bloody well burn to a frazzle and take him with it." I told the elderly gentleman, whose gentle smile turned to a look of terror.
Over dinner, I gave Carbonlite an ultimatum. "Deal with what you're reading or don't read it at all. Find a way of coping with it. The only way you're using this information is as a weapon against me,and I won't stick around to be gunned down by all your dogma." He attempted to protest, informing me I was in denial, just like most of the planet. "The main emission in this house isn't CO2, it's your anger," I told him. He stormed off, book in hand, feeling the heat of my anger.
“Is it?” I asked, feeling like Eeyore without a tail. From where I was standing, this day was anything but nice. Without even breaking the seal of the cardboard I knew the contents would be disastrous for me and the kids. At the start of half term, the last thing we wanted was another 'expert' book on climate change, spelling out how quickly the planet was combusting and how we were responsible. This innocent little package of words would cast a cancerous shadow over the whole holiday week, by plunging Carbonlite into one of his global depressions. As far as I was concerned we'd only just recovered from James Lovelock's assault on our consciences and household working practices.
The first signs of panic followed the same day, as switches around the house, as if by magic, turned to 'off,'and when I went to take the Carboncopies' tea out of the oven, it was still frozen. Next the Carbonbaby was plunged into a bath only an inch deep, and then followed a whole evening fretting about why the water butt isn't connected to the toilet to flush away the water, rather than taking water from the system. Well what's the point in fretting about that? "You're an engineer aren't you?" I told Carbonlite, "either invent a new system or just enjoy the fact you have water at all. Some people don't, you know."
By the next day, Carbonlite's grey mood had turned into a black smog, enveloping us all and strangling any surviving holiday feelings. A morning of criticisms and interference was followed by a public enquiry into why I'd ruined the bedroom quilt cover. I explained my reasons for dyeing the pale blue cover to match a burgundy room, saving the planet from the manufacture of yet another burgundy quilt cover, but my protestations held no sway. It developed into a full on row in front of the oldest Carboncopy, at the end of which I threw my magazine into his face and stormed out of the house in tears, straight into my neighbour. "I can't cope with it any more. This whole planet can bloody well burn to a frazzle and take him with it." I told the elderly gentleman, whose gentle smile turned to a look of terror.
Over dinner, I gave Carbonlite an ultimatum. "Deal with what you're reading or don't read it at all. Find a way of coping with it. The only way you're using this information is as a weapon against me,and I won't stick around to be gunned down by all your dogma." He attempted to protest, informing me I was in denial, just like most of the planet. "The main emission in this house isn't CO2, it's your anger," I told him. He stormed off, book in hand, feeling the heat of my anger.
Butt out...
The enormous green bucket had been sitting in the yard for a month. The problem was it didn't have a hole in it and I didn't have the right drill bit to make one. And without a hole there was no way to connect it up.
"Why is the water butt empty?" asked one of the Carboncopies nearly filling it himself as he clambered up to inspect it. "Is it because we haven’t had any rain?"
"No, it's because your Dad is full of big ideas and no follow-through," quipped the Washingqueen, dutifully hanging Carbonbaby's eco nappies out to dry.
I let it go, not wanting to risk a retreat to disposables or the tumble dryer. Truth is it has taken four months to get the butt installed, but three of those were waiting for it to arrive due to a surge in demand as a result of drought in the South East. However, I am responsible for the fourth month; two weeks to negotiate over placement and agree how to prevent toddlers drowning in it, a week to buy a drill bit and a further week to get the pipes and joints needed to plumb it into the guttering. Well the details do take time.
But now it's done. And just in time for the rain. And now it's overflowing and the Carbonbaby is soggy as a soggy thing crawling happily around in the puddle between the water butt and the compost bin.
"Why is the water butt overflowing?" asked the Washingqueen, interrupting Carbonbaby's wet play.
"Because the installation is just so efficient," I replied.
And it really has astounded me. OK so I didn't get the details quite right and the overflow doesn't flow back into the gutter but we did gather over 200 litres of rainwater in a couple of hours and that's just the run off from our back roof. It's one thing to read about rainwater harvesting but when you see how much you can collect and watch your kids splashing and crawling around in it, it really makes you wonder why systems like this aren't designed into houses.
So now we have to figure out what to do with it. With just a small yard there's not much garden to water, so I figure there must be ways to use it for flushing toilets, baths, washing clothes or something useful around the house. But I'll have to resolve the overflow issue before I discuss further developments with the Washingqueen. I don't think she'll mind waiting.
"Why is the water butt empty?" asked one of the Carboncopies nearly filling it himself as he clambered up to inspect it. "Is it because we haven’t had any rain?"
"No, it's because your Dad is full of big ideas and no follow-through," quipped the Washingqueen, dutifully hanging Carbonbaby's eco nappies out to dry.
I let it go, not wanting to risk a retreat to disposables or the tumble dryer. Truth is it has taken four months to get the butt installed, but three of those were waiting for it to arrive due to a surge in demand as a result of drought in the South East. However, I am responsible for the fourth month; two weeks to negotiate over placement and agree how to prevent toddlers drowning in it, a week to buy a drill bit and a further week to get the pipes and joints needed to plumb it into the guttering. Well the details do take time.
But now it's done. And just in time for the rain. And now it's overflowing and the Carbonbaby is soggy as a soggy thing crawling happily around in the puddle between the water butt and the compost bin.
"Why is the water butt overflowing?" asked the Washingqueen, interrupting Carbonbaby's wet play.
"Because the installation is just so efficient," I replied.
And it really has astounded me. OK so I didn't get the details quite right and the overflow doesn't flow back into the gutter but we did gather over 200 litres of rainwater in a couple of hours and that's just the run off from our back roof. It's one thing to read about rainwater harvesting but when you see how much you can collect and watch your kids splashing and crawling around in it, it really makes you wonder why systems like this aren't designed into houses.
So now we have to figure out what to do with it. With just a small yard there's not much garden to water, so I figure there must be ways to use it for flushing toilets, baths, washing clothes or something useful around the house. But I'll have to resolve the overflow issue before I discuss further developments with the Washingqueen. I don't think she'll mind waiting.
Wednesday, October 25, 2006
Beating the carbon clock
A dark October morning. I switched on the kettle and began to prepare Carbonbaby’s Weetabix. ‘Beep, beep, beep,’ an alarm went off. A new digital clock on the worksurface read ‘1.87.’ “That can’t be right, unless Carbonlite’s reinvented time to make the planet last longer,” I told Carbonbaby as I slammed her milk into the microwave. The digital alarm went off again. I took the milk back out and inspected the clock. The red digital numbers said ‘1.87 kilowatts.’ I pressed a button and the figures changed to ‘1.872 kg an hour of greenhouse gas.’ I realised this was no clock but a device to monitor the destruction our household was inflicting on the climate. It then informed me I was paying 30 cents an hour for the privilege of warming up the globe.
“Do you two know about this?” I asked the Carboncopies as they ran into the kitchen for breakfast. Of course they did; Carbonlite had them all trained up. Within minutes they were racing around the house, turning everything off and watching the digital numbers rewind. I packed them off to school, then put on the washing machine and dryer, and as an afterthought re-boiled the kettle to see what that did to the scores on the doors. My reprimand from the carbon monitor was swift and shrill; and its’ greenhouse gas figure shot up to 2.200 kg/hr. I had no idea what that meant but feared it was massive. The price had increased too, to 38 cents an hour. I scooped up Carbonbaby, turned off the washing machine and grabbed some plastic bags. I’d have to go out for the day, staying in was way too expensive.
A trip to the supermarket would fill the morning. I’d been putting it off ever since we food audited the house, relying on the organic vegetable box deliveries, and picking up bits and pieces locally. But we were right out of Ecover and the cupboards were bare after the weekend guests had departed. However as soon as I walked through the supermarket doors I realised it was going to be an eco stress-fest, each aisle throwing up a new ethical dilemma as I tried to stick to the strict rules I’d agreed with Carbonlite. The fruit and vegetable section was the first hurdle and I took it at a dash, Carbonbaby trying to grab the brightly coloured fruit flown directly from Barbados. First I ruled out the organic fruit and veg department because of supermarket requirements to package the life out of it. Tomatoes were selected then put back after I noticed the air miles they’d clocked up, as were avocados. The South African sugar snap peas stayed on the shelf along with the long thin beans (from Peru), the 2 for 1 chantenay carrots (double packaging) and the ready to use salad (in a plastic bag, un-local and washed in twenty varieties of pesticide.) I gave Carbonbaby a banana, telling myself unless global warming ramped up significantly there was no way we were going to start growing these locally. I rejected fresh fish, (backed with plastic packaging) the entire convenience and frozen food sections (processed fast food in a box, with a plastic tray and lid, cooked twice over using double energy) and my favourite coffee (to avoid doing battle with the kettle and Carbonlite’s new clock) Organic biscuits and cereal were ruled out because of their unorganic packaging, and as I stalled in the bread section, I noted with alarm that the entire contents of my trolley was a banana skin covered in dribble, and a bottle of Anthony Worrall Thompson’s refillable Fresh and Green bathroom cleaner, ‘derived from natural plant extracts’ with a contribution of the proceeds going to the World Wildlife Fund. Carbonlite would be proud of the amount of boxes that product ticked, but as I approached the checkout after two hours in the supermarket, I had no lunch or dinner in the trolley. I cursed my husband’s rigid eco- rules, before dashing back and grabbing a bag of apples. What could be wrong with apples?
The cashier ripped plastic bags from the stand and handed them to me. “No thanks, I’ve brought my own,” I told her. Unfortunately I’d selected two black bin bags from the cupboard, previously used for the transportation of plastics to the tip. They smelt of sour milk and we both winced. I didn’t bother asking for green points.
At home, Carbonlite was reading about how farmers could change their cows’ diet to produce less toxic emissions. “I bought some lovely apples if you’re hungry,” I told him, “and if we have a raw food lunch it’ll cut down on emissions.” “But those apples are from South Africa,” said Carbonlite pointing at the bag. “Have you any idea how many air miles they’ve travelled, at a time of year when British apples are hanging from every tree?” I put the kettle on in exasperation. ‘Beep beep beep,’ went the carbon monitor, to remind me once more of my greenhouse gas profligacy. I stormed off to check my e-mails and found a leaflet on my desk for a kettle that only boils one cup of water at a time. The literature informed me ‘It’s estimated we boil twice the volume of water needed every time we put the kettle on. Which means twice as much energy, twice as much time, and with a 3kW kettle that’s the same as wasting the energy of around 50 light bulbs.’
I put the leaflet back where I found it. Carbonlite had obviously been internet shopping, and my birthday was just around the corner. Well at least I’d be able to consume birthday tea and cake without the carbon clock beginning its bleeping countdown to doom.
“Do you two know about this?” I asked the Carboncopies as they ran into the kitchen for breakfast. Of course they did; Carbonlite had them all trained up. Within minutes they were racing around the house, turning everything off and watching the digital numbers rewind. I packed them off to school, then put on the washing machine and dryer, and as an afterthought re-boiled the kettle to see what that did to the scores on the doors. My reprimand from the carbon monitor was swift and shrill; and its’ greenhouse gas figure shot up to 2.200 kg/hr. I had no idea what that meant but feared it was massive. The price had increased too, to 38 cents an hour. I scooped up Carbonbaby, turned off the washing machine and grabbed some plastic bags. I’d have to go out for the day, staying in was way too expensive.
A trip to the supermarket would fill the morning. I’d been putting it off ever since we food audited the house, relying on the organic vegetable box deliveries, and picking up bits and pieces locally. But we were right out of Ecover and the cupboards were bare after the weekend guests had departed. However as soon as I walked through the supermarket doors I realised it was going to be an eco stress-fest, each aisle throwing up a new ethical dilemma as I tried to stick to the strict rules I’d agreed with Carbonlite. The fruit and vegetable section was the first hurdle and I took it at a dash, Carbonbaby trying to grab the brightly coloured fruit flown directly from Barbados. First I ruled out the organic fruit and veg department because of supermarket requirements to package the life out of it. Tomatoes were selected then put back after I noticed the air miles they’d clocked up, as were avocados. The South African sugar snap peas stayed on the shelf along with the long thin beans (from Peru), the 2 for 1 chantenay carrots (double packaging) and the ready to use salad (in a plastic bag, un-local and washed in twenty varieties of pesticide.) I gave Carbonbaby a banana, telling myself unless global warming ramped up significantly there was no way we were going to start growing these locally. I rejected fresh fish, (backed with plastic packaging) the entire convenience and frozen food sections (processed fast food in a box, with a plastic tray and lid, cooked twice over using double energy) and my favourite coffee (to avoid doing battle with the kettle and Carbonlite’s new clock) Organic biscuits and cereal were ruled out because of their unorganic packaging, and as I stalled in the bread section, I noted with alarm that the entire contents of my trolley was a banana skin covered in dribble, and a bottle of Anthony Worrall Thompson’s refillable Fresh and Green bathroom cleaner, ‘derived from natural plant extracts’ with a contribution of the proceeds going to the World Wildlife Fund. Carbonlite would be proud of the amount of boxes that product ticked, but as I approached the checkout after two hours in the supermarket, I had no lunch or dinner in the trolley. I cursed my husband’s rigid eco- rules, before dashing back and grabbing a bag of apples. What could be wrong with apples?
The cashier ripped plastic bags from the stand and handed them to me. “No thanks, I’ve brought my own,” I told her. Unfortunately I’d selected two black bin bags from the cupboard, previously used for the transportation of plastics to the tip. They smelt of sour milk and we both winced. I didn’t bother asking for green points.
At home, Carbonlite was reading about how farmers could change their cows’ diet to produce less toxic emissions. “I bought some lovely apples if you’re hungry,” I told him, “and if we have a raw food lunch it’ll cut down on emissions.” “But those apples are from South Africa,” said Carbonlite pointing at the bag. “Have you any idea how many air miles they’ve travelled, at a time of year when British apples are hanging from every tree?” I put the kettle on in exasperation. ‘Beep beep beep,’ went the carbon monitor, to remind me once more of my greenhouse gas profligacy. I stormed off to check my e-mails and found a leaflet on my desk for a kettle that only boils one cup of water at a time. The literature informed me ‘It’s estimated we boil twice the volume of water needed every time we put the kettle on. Which means twice as much energy, twice as much time, and with a 3kW kettle that’s the same as wasting the energy of around 50 light bulbs.’
I put the leaflet back where I found it. Carbonlite had obviously been internet shopping, and my birthday was just around the corner. Well at least I’d be able to consume birthday tea and cake without the carbon clock beginning its bleeping countdown to doom.
Monday, October 23, 2006
Emitting doing nothing
I woke up in the middle of the night, sweating profusely, desperately thirsty and feeling black. I'd been reading George Monbiot's new book, Heat, and in my dreams the planet and I were already burning. Feeling anxious and wide awake I went downstairs to get a drink and came face to face with the Electrisave meter. I introduced the washingqueen to it recently and left it by the sink to remind her how many kilogrammes of CO2 she was emitting each time she boiled the kettle. Not that it made any difference. The meter blinked at me in the moonlight; 0.22kg per hour. That's 1.76kg of CO2 during a night's sleep, well over half a tonne a year. And for what? I looked around to try and figure out what was responsible. The only obvious thing was a 15W CFL bulb on the landing but that could only account for a small fraction of the emissions.
It took half an hour to identify the culprits: a battery charger; a child's night light; a radio, two computers, monitors and speakers on standby; the microwave and oven clocks; two phone handsets; the fridge and freezer; the washing machine at the end of its cycle; the burglar alarm and central heating controller. All sitting doing nothing really, slowly and silently killing us, generate unecessary emissions in the dead of the night.
Apparently it's something of a British habit to waste energy like this; the UK tops the European Energy Waster's League with people in the North West some of the worst offenders. According to recent research by the Energy Saving Trust, Northerners overfill their kettles twice as often as the national average and have more bad energy wasting habits than almost anywhere else in Britain. In the UK 86% of us feel guilty about this kind of energy wastage but 42% are too lazy to change their habits. How depressing. But I guess it helps justify the washingqueen's kettle boiling antics as normal, at least for around here.
But while she may want to carry on being 'normal', I want to see us change our bad habits. Trouble is while I can do my bit, it's not so easy to change other people's habits and I'm getting tired of the endless domestics that begin with me switching something off only to find it switched back on again a little while later. And as the first cool nights of autumn finally arrive and I get my extra jumpers ready, I know the central heating wars are coming; a month of arguments about whether or not it's cold enough to put the heating on, weeks of surreptitious programming, counterprogramming and overriding on the heating controls and then a big argument about the winter gas bill. I'm so not looking forward to winter.
I finished my drink, turned off the chargers, nightlight and computers and watched Electrisave blink a new reduced estimate of our emissions at me, 0.15kg. I guess every little helps. On my way back to bed I noticed the radiators were warm, my thirst perhaps the result of an overheated bedroom rather than my nightmare about an overheated planet. Sometimes, the future feels as black as carbon.
It took half an hour to identify the culprits: a battery charger; a child's night light; a radio, two computers, monitors and speakers on standby; the microwave and oven clocks; two phone handsets; the fridge and freezer; the washing machine at the end of its cycle; the burglar alarm and central heating controller. All sitting doing nothing really, slowly and silently killing us, generate unecessary emissions in the dead of the night.
Apparently it's something of a British habit to waste energy like this; the UK tops the European Energy Waster's League with people in the North West some of the worst offenders. According to recent research by the Energy Saving Trust, Northerners overfill their kettles twice as often as the national average and have more bad energy wasting habits than almost anywhere else in Britain. In the UK 86% of us feel guilty about this kind of energy wastage but 42% are too lazy to change their habits. How depressing. But I guess it helps justify the washingqueen's kettle boiling antics as normal, at least for around here.
But while she may want to carry on being 'normal', I want to see us change our bad habits. Trouble is while I can do my bit, it's not so easy to change other people's habits and I'm getting tired of the endless domestics that begin with me switching something off only to find it switched back on again a little while later. And as the first cool nights of autumn finally arrive and I get my extra jumpers ready, I know the central heating wars are coming; a month of arguments about whether or not it's cold enough to put the heating on, weeks of surreptitious programming, counterprogramming and overriding on the heating controls and then a big argument about the winter gas bill. I'm so not looking forward to winter.
I finished my drink, turned off the chargers, nightlight and computers and watched Electrisave blink a new reduced estimate of our emissions at me, 0.15kg. I guess every little helps. On my way back to bed I noticed the radiators were warm, my thirst perhaps the result of an overheated bedroom rather than my nightmare about an overheated planet. Sometimes, the future feels as black as carbon.
Thursday, October 19, 2006
Political activist
I found an entry in my diary in Carbonlite’s handwriting. ‘Fri 4pm. Meet Tim Farron, Sedbergh.’ I tracked down Carbonlite to the utilities room, labelling the new recycling crates he had begged from the County Council. The room was starting to look like Booths Car Park; at any moment I suspected the Salvation Army to turn up with a skip for clothes.
“Who’s Tim Farron?” I asked.
“Your MP,” he answered, putting the top back on his felt tip.
“I knew the name was familiar. I seem to be spending Friday afternoon with him. Any idea what that’s about?”
Carbonlite put down his pen, grabbed my shoulders and grinned, “Saving the planet of course.”
“I’m not doing it.” The idea of me lobbying an MP about anything was ridiculous. “I can’t. I don’t know anything about the climate. Anyway I’m already doing my bit. I’m recycling everything, look at all these crates for heavens sake.” Carbonlite logged on to a Friends of the Earth website and showed me the screen.
“You don’t need to know anything. It’s all in there,” he said. I sat down, defeated, to read about the biggest campaign Friends of the Earth have ever run. As part of The Big Ask, Friends of the Earth are requesting constituents to visit their MP in person to lobby for a Climate Change Bill. This would commit the government to making year on year cuts in carbon dioxide emissions. According to the website instructions, I was to ask Tim Farron to write a letter to Tony Blair and David Miliband, asking for the bill to be included in the Queens speech for the next parliament-“We need to take this message to where MP’s hear it the loudest- in their own constituencies,” it said. The campaign included full instructions on how to contact an MP, briefing notes, and a pep talk for the nervous, “Don’t be intimidated by your MP, they meet with constituents all the time and they’re keen to meet with you. After all, they want to make sure you’ll vote for them at the next election, so they will be nice to you.”
“Ok, I’ll go,” I told Carbonlite, switching off the computer. “But you’re coming too.”
Tim Farron stood in the doorway of his advice surgery, smiled, and gestured for me to come in. I was the last in a long queue.
“I’ll just bring the rest of the gang,” I told him, scooping up a biscuit covered Carbonbaby off the floor, and calling Carbonlite and the Carboncopies to action. We crowded into the office where our MP apologised that he was running late and could only give us a few minutes as he had an evening engagement with the WI he daren’t be late for. He asked what he could do for us.
“Oh just the small issue of climate change.” I replied, as the eldest Carboncopy took his brother’s neck in a head lock. I embarked on my speech, forgetting the name of the Environment Secretary, and fumbling the name of the bill I was asking to be included in the next parliament. Tim Farron sat opposite, listening intently, and stopped me as I got to the bit about the Queen.
“Actually, I think I’m ahead of you there. I’ve already written the letter,” he said. I stopped mid sentence. What was I supposed to do now? The on-line briefing had taught me how to tackle being fobbed off, how to put my case simply and how to launch in. It hadn’t mentioned how to retreat from his office gracefully. But thankfully he’d done this kind of thing before. He promised to send us a copy of the letter, agreed with the importance of acting now to curb growing emissions, and said he was optimistic the bill would be included in the next parliament. He thanked us for coming to see him personally and putting our case. At this moment the Carbonbaby made some unpleasant emissions of her own, and let out a wail as she smelt the result. It was time to leave.
I emerged into the afternoon sunlight feeling rather pleased with myself. I was now a lobbyist, an environmental activist, the kind of mother who sits in trees to save the countryside instead of sitting in a coffee shop to save on washing up. And if the Queen’s Speech includes a Climate Change Bill I’ll have achieved something bigger than my family; beyond my experience, beyond my own back gate. For a moment I thought of all the new appointments that Carbonlite might add to my diary. What if he tried to send me on climate camp, or to power station protests? What if he made me sit in trees on a regular basis? The CarbonBaby let out another cry. Her nappy was now the most pressing environmental hazard on my radar. Saving the Planet would have to wait.
“Who’s Tim Farron?” I asked.
“Your MP,” he answered, putting the top back on his felt tip.
“I knew the name was familiar. I seem to be spending Friday afternoon with him. Any idea what that’s about?”
Carbonlite put down his pen, grabbed my shoulders and grinned, “Saving the planet of course.”
“I’m not doing it.” The idea of me lobbying an MP about anything was ridiculous. “I can’t. I don’t know anything about the climate. Anyway I’m already doing my bit. I’m recycling everything, look at all these crates for heavens sake.” Carbonlite logged on to a Friends of the Earth website and showed me the screen.
“You don’t need to know anything. It’s all in there,” he said. I sat down, defeated, to read about the biggest campaign Friends of the Earth have ever run. As part of The Big Ask, Friends of the Earth are requesting constituents to visit their MP in person to lobby for a Climate Change Bill. This would commit the government to making year on year cuts in carbon dioxide emissions. According to the website instructions, I was to ask Tim Farron to write a letter to Tony Blair and David Miliband, asking for the bill to be included in the Queens speech for the next parliament-“We need to take this message to where MP’s hear it the loudest- in their own constituencies,” it said. The campaign included full instructions on how to contact an MP, briefing notes, and a pep talk for the nervous, “Don’t be intimidated by your MP, they meet with constituents all the time and they’re keen to meet with you. After all, they want to make sure you’ll vote for them at the next election, so they will be nice to you.”
“Ok, I’ll go,” I told Carbonlite, switching off the computer. “But you’re coming too.”
Tim Farron stood in the doorway of his advice surgery, smiled, and gestured for me to come in. I was the last in a long queue.
“I’ll just bring the rest of the gang,” I told him, scooping up a biscuit covered Carbonbaby off the floor, and calling Carbonlite and the Carboncopies to action. We crowded into the office where our MP apologised that he was running late and could only give us a few minutes as he had an evening engagement with the WI he daren’t be late for. He asked what he could do for us.
“Oh just the small issue of climate change.” I replied, as the eldest Carboncopy took his brother’s neck in a head lock. I embarked on my speech, forgetting the name of the Environment Secretary, and fumbling the name of the bill I was asking to be included in the next parliament. Tim Farron sat opposite, listening intently, and stopped me as I got to the bit about the Queen.
“Actually, I think I’m ahead of you there. I’ve already written the letter,” he said. I stopped mid sentence. What was I supposed to do now? The on-line briefing had taught me how to tackle being fobbed off, how to put my case simply and how to launch in. It hadn’t mentioned how to retreat from his office gracefully. But thankfully he’d done this kind of thing before. He promised to send us a copy of the letter, agreed with the importance of acting now to curb growing emissions, and said he was optimistic the bill would be included in the next parliament. He thanked us for coming to see him personally and putting our case. At this moment the Carbonbaby made some unpleasant emissions of her own, and let out a wail as she smelt the result. It was time to leave.
I emerged into the afternoon sunlight feeling rather pleased with myself. I was now a lobbyist, an environmental activist, the kind of mother who sits in trees to save the countryside instead of sitting in a coffee shop to save on washing up. And if the Queen’s Speech includes a Climate Change Bill I’ll have achieved something bigger than my family; beyond my experience, beyond my own back gate. For a moment I thought of all the new appointments that Carbonlite might add to my diary. What if he tried to send me on climate camp, or to power station protests? What if he made me sit in trees on a regular basis? The CarbonBaby let out another cry. Her nappy was now the most pressing environmental hazard on my radar. Saving the Planet would have to wait.
Saturday, September 23, 2006
From a field in Sweden
Holiday-time but no air miles for us. Our green, lean, household policy means eco-friendly travel and holiday activities. Carbonlite went on a mission to find a suitable destination, poring over maps and becoming over-familiar with tourist information in a range of countries. He emerged triumphant from the bedroom he had turned into Holiday HQ, and thrust a map of Scandinavia in my direction. "Sweden", he announced, already there in his head. "What's in Sweden?" I asked, the only Swedish delights I could think of were ABBA and Sven. "Meatballs, saunas and blondes!" he said, folding the map, "and if we go by ferry - very low emissions."
We took the car as far as Newcastle with the bikes piled high on the roof - even these emissions Carbonlite found hard to offset in his conscience. But at least we weren't flying. Carbonlite tells me if carbon were rationed it's predicted a flight to New Zealand would emit as much carbon as our household for an entire year. Instead we would go by ferry, by bike and by canoe up the west coast of Sweden: a month of low-emission living.
But not exactly low-cost. Carbonlite choked on his beer when he found out how much it had cost on the ferry crossing. And as the Swedes and Norwegians settled in the restaurant, the English huddled in the bar while a giant furry parrot crooned "We are sailing" to the assembled crowd. We wondered if we'd be dining on crisps for breakfast when the eldest Carboncopy won the bingo during a break in the singing. We retired to our cramped cabin in steerage, looking forward to our smorgasbord the next morning.
As we cycled off the ferry, stuffed full of pickled herring and salami, we felt like we'd pedalled into a greener world. Family cycling wasn't a freakshow here, everyone was out and about on bikes. We crossed the city of Gothenburg without having to cross a road, on an intricate network of cycle paths. But we hadn't gone unnoticed: outside tourist information we were collared by the Press, doing a feature on tourism in the city. As Carbonlite bored them in pidgin Swedish about eco-travel, the photographer snapped away at us all on our bikes.
We made our way down the coast, pottering in and out of sandy bays, while local kids plunged from wooden jetties into the sea. On publication of the tourism feature we were greeted with enthusiasm by the Swedes, beers in hand that we couldn't afford, admiring the double-page spread of us on our "human-powered transport" as we travelled past.
In this country there was a definite pecking order: at the bottom of the pile was us Brits, with our low-value pound and bicycles. Then the Swedes, in their campervans with awnings the size of our house, and their smart Volvos. Then at the top, the Norwegians, cruising through in their yachts, rich on the profits of oil. While we were definitely the greenest, a touch of it may have been jealousy!
But we'd soon join the Norwegians on the Swedish lakes in our two big family-sized canoes. "Put the baby at the front", we were advised, "then if she goes overboard the person at the back can hook her out as they go past." Thankfully this was unnecessary, and much to my dismay I began to get hooked on this human-powered transport. It was peaceful and got air into my lungs and power into my muscles. I worried that the idyllic lifestyle there would have a negative impact on my life in the UK. If cycling and canoeing could get us around so cheaply, efficiently and environmentally soundly, would I feel obliged or pressured into ditching the car? (Carbonlite had already spent too much time hanging around chip shops discussing the benefits of alternative fuel.) I tried to sabotage the experience by getting a puncture or hoping for rain, but it was not to be. The roads, and the skies, were as clear as the beaches.
As we stopped for a lazy ice-cream and a swim one hot Saturday afternoon, a stream of people trooped out to ask where we were from. While now used to all the attention, even Carbonlite was surprised by the volume of enquiries. It was when several members of a wedding party came to ask about our nationality that we found out the source of their curiosity. On the back page of the weekend newspaper was a prize crossword, with a picture of us splashed across the centre. "What nationality are these cyclists who appeared in last week's edition?" one of the wedding party translated. "We thought you must be English", said the groom, "the Swedish prefer to drive around Sweden." He took his bride's hand, jumped into the silver wedding Volvo and sped off to a smorgasbord reception, leaving us to pedal on with zero emissions and a green, clean conscience.
We took the car as far as Newcastle with the bikes piled high on the roof - even these emissions Carbonlite found hard to offset in his conscience. But at least we weren't flying. Carbonlite tells me if carbon were rationed it's predicted a flight to New Zealand would emit as much carbon as our household for an entire year. Instead we would go by ferry, by bike and by canoe up the west coast of Sweden: a month of low-emission living.
But not exactly low-cost. Carbonlite choked on his beer when he found out how much it had cost on the ferry crossing. And as the Swedes and Norwegians settled in the restaurant, the English huddled in the bar while a giant furry parrot crooned "We are sailing" to the assembled crowd. We wondered if we'd be dining on crisps for breakfast when the eldest Carboncopy won the bingo during a break in the singing. We retired to our cramped cabin in steerage, looking forward to our smorgasbord the next morning.
As we cycled off the ferry, stuffed full of pickled herring and salami, we felt like we'd pedalled into a greener world. Family cycling wasn't a freakshow here, everyone was out and about on bikes. We crossed the city of Gothenburg without having to cross a road, on an intricate network of cycle paths. But we hadn't gone unnoticed: outside tourist information we were collared by the Press, doing a feature on tourism in the city. As Carbonlite bored them in pidgin Swedish about eco-travel, the photographer snapped away at us all on our bikes.
We made our way down the coast, pottering in and out of sandy bays, while local kids plunged from wooden jetties into the sea. On publication of the tourism feature we were greeted with enthusiasm by the Swedes, beers in hand that we couldn't afford, admiring the double-page spread of us on our "human-powered transport" as we travelled past.
In this country there was a definite pecking order: at the bottom of the pile was us Brits, with our low-value pound and bicycles. Then the Swedes, in their campervans with awnings the size of our house, and their smart Volvos. Then at the top, the Norwegians, cruising through in their yachts, rich on the profits of oil. While we were definitely the greenest, a touch of it may have been jealousy!
But we'd soon join the Norwegians on the Swedish lakes in our two big family-sized canoes. "Put the baby at the front", we were advised, "then if she goes overboard the person at the back can hook her out as they go past." Thankfully this was unnecessary, and much to my dismay I began to get hooked on this human-powered transport. It was peaceful and got air into my lungs and power into my muscles. I worried that the idyllic lifestyle there would have a negative impact on my life in the UK. If cycling and canoeing could get us around so cheaply, efficiently and environmentally soundly, would I feel obliged or pressured into ditching the car? (Carbonlite had already spent too much time hanging around chip shops discussing the benefits of alternative fuel.) I tried to sabotage the experience by getting a puncture or hoping for rain, but it was not to be. The roads, and the skies, were as clear as the beaches.
As we stopped for a lazy ice-cream and a swim one hot Saturday afternoon, a stream of people trooped out to ask where we were from. While now used to all the attention, even Carbonlite was surprised by the volume of enquiries. It was when several members of a wedding party came to ask about our nationality that we found out the source of their curiosity. On the back page of the weekend newspaper was a prize crossword, with a picture of us splashed across the centre. "What nationality are these cyclists who appeared in last week's edition?" one of the wedding party translated. "We thought you must be English", said the groom, "the Swedish prefer to drive around Sweden." He took his bride's hand, jumped into the silver wedding Volvo and sped off to a smorgasbord reception, leaving us to pedal on with zero emissions and a green, clean conscience.
Friday, September 22, 2006
How embarrassing?
I got caught out yesterday. I was out for a cycle with carbonbaby and running late to get back to pick the carboncopies up from school. What to do? No time to go home first so I decided to stop off and pick them up on my bike. So what?
Well, it's not exactly an ordinary bike. It's a tandem (you know a bike for two), with kiddy cranks on the back (so a kid can ride stoker and reach the pedals), and a child seat behind and a trailer tagging behind (well where else are you going to put baby?) Oh and it's bright yellow with a luminous flag and one of those bright orange sticks that pokes out into the road to force cars to keep well clear or be scratched.
OK, so it's a bit unusual and we look like a reincarnation of The Goodies but I like it. It's fun, practical and I can take the carboncopies and carbonbaby out and about without emitting any carbon. So what's so embarrassing?
Was I embarrassed? No, not really. I rode up, left the bike outside the school gates, grabbed carbonbaby from her trailer and went to collect the carboncopies as usual.
Were the kids embarrassed? No they seemed pleased to see 'Maizie' (their nickname for the corn coloured bike), dropped all their clobber over carbonbaby in her trailer, climbed up onto their seats and urged me to ride them home.
So what's this posting about then? Well, according to an anonymous source, one mum in the playground was seen pointing in our direction proclaiming, 'Look at that. How embarrassing.'
Well, I'm not sure I get it but maybe I should expect it for doing something a little bit out of the ordinary. It's disheartening though and another small barrier to change. It's hard enough changing habits and tweaking your lifestyle when people around are encouraging and supportive. But for many (perhaps even my dear washingqueen) even little comments like that can be enough to put them off trying.
Fortunately, I am of stronger stuff and Maizie will ride again. Cycling helps keeps us fit and carbon free, which probably can't be said for the mum in question. Now that's what I call embarrassing.
Well, it's not exactly an ordinary bike. It's a tandem (you know a bike for two), with kiddy cranks on the back (so a kid can ride stoker and reach the pedals), and a child seat behind and a trailer tagging behind (well where else are you going to put baby?) Oh and it's bright yellow with a luminous flag and one of those bright orange sticks that pokes out into the road to force cars to keep well clear or be scratched.
OK, so it's a bit unusual and we look like a reincarnation of The Goodies but I like it. It's fun, practical and I can take the carboncopies and carbonbaby out and about without emitting any carbon. So what's so embarrassing?
Was I embarrassed? No, not really. I rode up, left the bike outside the school gates, grabbed carbonbaby from her trailer and went to collect the carboncopies as usual.
Were the kids embarrassed? No they seemed pleased to see 'Maizie' (their nickname for the corn coloured bike), dropped all their clobber over carbonbaby in her trailer, climbed up onto their seats and urged me to ride them home.
So what's this posting about then? Well, according to an anonymous source, one mum in the playground was seen pointing in our direction proclaiming, 'Look at that. How embarrassing.'
Well, I'm not sure I get it but maybe I should expect it for doing something a little bit out of the ordinary. It's disheartening though and another small barrier to change. It's hard enough changing habits and tweaking your lifestyle when people around are encouraging and supportive. But for many (perhaps even my dear washingqueen) even little comments like that can be enough to put them off trying.
Fortunately, I am of stronger stuff and Maizie will ride again. Cycling helps keeps us fit and carbon free, which probably can't be said for the mum in question. Now that's what I call embarrassing.
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
Lord of the flies
It all began with the bin. It was rather like an episode of the X files, the way the bin began to mutate and multiply. We started the week much as usual with our old familiar green wheelie bin, always identifiable by its smell of old nappies and stale pepperoni pizza, but by Friday it had spawned an entire alien bin species, all over the patio. Giant black plastic bins towering over blue squatting bins, dalek like compost bins dallying with dwarf bins, brightly coloured recycling bins clamouring for attention on the stone flags. Now while I'm fully aware that the plastic packaging on the kids toys could take the next four hundred and fifty years to biodegrade in landfill, and that my own household is personally responsible for a significant chunk of the 25 million tonnes of waste that we ferry to the dump each year, I hadn't realised that recycling it would be so bin intensive.
Carbonlite's campaign to transform our household practices had hardly got off the ground with the bins before the postman arrived with a jiffy bag full of worms, the beginners kit from Wiggly Wigglers to kick start the heap. Just what a girl needs to go with her Weetabix and semi skimmed. Needless to say building a suitable home for the worms was a man's job. The male variety of the Carboncopies jostled to help with the affordable housing scheme on the patio, while I looked on anxiously from the third floor window. Soon I got into the swing of compost creation, as the smart green mini bin by the sink saved me a good few trips to the wheelie bin. It happily swallowed up everything vegetable including the chard mountain in the fridge ( chard being the unwelcome visitor in the organic vegetable box. ) Egg boxes fitted nicely in there too, it was a pleasure to offload all the half masticated jam sandwiches. I even braved the worms in the main bin, closing my eyes and hoping the contents of the mini bin wouldn't end up missing their target and decorating my new pink pumps. I was proud of my efforts in food recycling, and felt it was a substantial start to my new role as planet protector. Admittedly it's a bit of a challenge given that we've only got a small yard with tiny flower beds and no lawn, and the compost bin is a central feature of the garden. I read my leaflet from CAT on the latest cold composting techniques and felt my eco-education was progressing nicely. But I knew my harmonious relationship with the natural world couldn't last.
When the weather warmed up the area by the sink became a hive of activity. Our country kitchen started to resemble a riverside camp in the Scottish Highlands as the midgies arrived in chard-hungry packs and began a sit-in in the mini bin. Then I was ambushed in a lunchtime raid. Expecting the usual placid encounter with a rotten pile of worm infested rubbish, I opened the patio compost bin and was bombed by an SAS midge flying squad. As I squealed and ran, the mini bin went flying into the air and deposited several rotten avocados and a load of swede peel onto the Wendy house roof. I sprinted round the garden as if a swarm of bees were at my tail, much to the amusement of Carbonlite, eating his lunch on the patio, copy of The Ecologist at hand to swat any flying beasties.
"Don't worry about the fruit flies, it means nature is doing her bit. But best not to empty it in the daytime I find," he advised, stabbing a cherry tomato with his fork.
"They vomit on everything and then suck it up again" I wailed. "Anyway how would you know? Have you actually once emptied the bin?"
"I put a load of toilet roll tubes in there yesterday," he said cheerfully. "Don't forget to put the lid back on will you, we don't want the worms to escape." I retreated to the downstairs toilet to empty the washing machine that resides there. Thankfully the room was still a bin free zone. But Carbonlite had other ideas. "I found one of the non disposable nappies rotting in the washing basket." I reassured him there was no way it could rot as I clear the washing basket every day. "We need a nappy bin," he said, delighted at the thought, and a ten minute debate ensued about the toxicity and concentration of babies' wee in a mixed wash. The result was the arrival of yet another bin, this time filled with water; perfect for a baby on the crawl. Now if the water butt doesn't drown her, she can go swimming in diluted urine. I took a recycled supermarket plastic bag full of rubbish out to the wheelie bin. There I found myself once more under attack, this time by mummy and baby fruit flies who had found a new home.
Carbonlite was by my side in a flash. "Ah well, if all the food waste was in the compost bin, then they wouldn't set their sights on that one would they?" Then I knew the answer, to get on the internet and order one last bin, tall, thin and husband-sized. It wasn't easy 'going green' but at last I was engaging with recycling!
Carbonlite's campaign to transform our household practices had hardly got off the ground with the bins before the postman arrived with a jiffy bag full of worms, the beginners kit from Wiggly Wigglers to kick start the heap. Just what a girl needs to go with her Weetabix and semi skimmed. Needless to say building a suitable home for the worms was a man's job. The male variety of the Carboncopies jostled to help with the affordable housing scheme on the patio, while I looked on anxiously from the third floor window. Soon I got into the swing of compost creation, as the smart green mini bin by the sink saved me a good few trips to the wheelie bin. It happily swallowed up everything vegetable including the chard mountain in the fridge ( chard being the unwelcome visitor in the organic vegetable box. ) Egg boxes fitted nicely in there too, it was a pleasure to offload all the half masticated jam sandwiches. I even braved the worms in the main bin, closing my eyes and hoping the contents of the mini bin wouldn't end up missing their target and decorating my new pink pumps. I was proud of my efforts in food recycling, and felt it was a substantial start to my new role as planet protector. Admittedly it's a bit of a challenge given that we've only got a small yard with tiny flower beds and no lawn, and the compost bin is a central feature of the garden. I read my leaflet from CAT on the latest cold composting techniques and felt my eco-education was progressing nicely. But I knew my harmonious relationship with the natural world couldn't last.
When the weather warmed up the area by the sink became a hive of activity. Our country kitchen started to resemble a riverside camp in the Scottish Highlands as the midgies arrived in chard-hungry packs and began a sit-in in the mini bin. Then I was ambushed in a lunchtime raid. Expecting the usual placid encounter with a rotten pile of worm infested rubbish, I opened the patio compost bin and was bombed by an SAS midge flying squad. As I squealed and ran, the mini bin went flying into the air and deposited several rotten avocados and a load of swede peel onto the Wendy house roof. I sprinted round the garden as if a swarm of bees were at my tail, much to the amusement of Carbonlite, eating his lunch on the patio, copy of The Ecologist at hand to swat any flying beasties.
"Don't worry about the fruit flies, it means nature is doing her bit. But best not to empty it in the daytime I find," he advised, stabbing a cherry tomato with his fork.
"They vomit on everything and then suck it up again" I wailed. "Anyway how would you know? Have you actually once emptied the bin?"
"I put a load of toilet roll tubes in there yesterday," he said cheerfully. "Don't forget to put the lid back on will you, we don't want the worms to escape." I retreated to the downstairs toilet to empty the washing machine that resides there. Thankfully the room was still a bin free zone. But Carbonlite had other ideas. "I found one of the non disposable nappies rotting in the washing basket." I reassured him there was no way it could rot as I clear the washing basket every day. "We need a nappy bin," he said, delighted at the thought, and a ten minute debate ensued about the toxicity and concentration of babies' wee in a mixed wash. The result was the arrival of yet another bin, this time filled with water; perfect for a baby on the crawl. Now if the water butt doesn't drown her, she can go swimming in diluted urine. I took a recycled supermarket plastic bag full of rubbish out to the wheelie bin. There I found myself once more under attack, this time by mummy and baby fruit flies who had found a new home.
Carbonlite was by my side in a flash. "Ah well, if all the food waste was in the compost bin, then they wouldn't set their sights on that one would they?" Then I knew the answer, to get on the internet and order one last bin, tall, thin and husband-sized. It wasn't easy 'going green' but at last I was engaging with recycling!
Thursday, April 27, 2006
In the grip of a morbid fever
I've been reading the recent James Lovelock book, The Revenge of Gaia, in which he offers his latest prognosis on the health of planet earth. Lovelock's view of the earth as a living system was seen as radical and hippyish for years but not these days. His deep understanding of climate change is now widely accepted and his metaphor of the earth well developed, accessible and powerful in its ability to explain complex issues in terms a layman can understand.
Lovelock sees himself as the earth's physician, his role to help diagnose what is causing the morbid fever that is taking hold of his patient, and to recommend treatment. But he has some very bad news for the friends and family of mother earth; she's in the grip of a progressive disease with a limited range of outcomes; either she'll die and the disease with her, or she'll live and eliminate the disease or, patient and disease will struggle with each other until they achieve some kind of symbiosis. Of course humankind is the disease and the last outcome is looking extremely unlikely, especially if we continue with business as usual. Like he says, it's pretty grim news for friends and family and I really don’t know whether or how I might begin to explain that to my kids.
Sometimes I think we've been reenacting this global tragedy in our household in the three months we've been doing this experiment. I have the washingqueen down as the patient and arrogantly put myself in the role of physician, trying to advise her on how to be more green and sensitive. Trouble is I think she has me down as the disease, trying to destroy the delicate balance of our household, established through years of living together and deeply embedded in our daily routines. Adjusting this balance takes time and the last few months has had a greater than usual incidence of arguments and flare-ups as the patient has resisted treatment, mistaken it for disease and struck back with terrifying force. But overall, little by little, and I think the washingqueen would agree with me on this, at a household level we have been making gradual progress towards a new balance.
Of course there's lots more we could do but at least we have begun to take more seriously the need to do our bit and to start to do it. I just hope and pray that humankind will have the wit, wisdom and foresight to be able to do something similar at a planetary level. If Lovelock's predictions are true, and they have good currency amongst the scientific communities, then we should all prepare for a big shakeup of our planetary habits - whether we initiate them ourselves or wait for mother earth to take her revenge for causing her fever. And I fear mother earth will be far more vengeful than my sweet washingqueen.
Lovelock sees himself as the earth's physician, his role to help diagnose what is causing the morbid fever that is taking hold of his patient, and to recommend treatment. But he has some very bad news for the friends and family of mother earth; she's in the grip of a progressive disease with a limited range of outcomes; either she'll die and the disease with her, or she'll live and eliminate the disease or, patient and disease will struggle with each other until they achieve some kind of symbiosis. Of course humankind is the disease and the last outcome is looking extremely unlikely, especially if we continue with business as usual. Like he says, it's pretty grim news for friends and family and I really don’t know whether or how I might begin to explain that to my kids.
Sometimes I think we've been reenacting this global tragedy in our household in the three months we've been doing this experiment. I have the washingqueen down as the patient and arrogantly put myself in the role of physician, trying to advise her on how to be more green and sensitive. Trouble is I think she has me down as the disease, trying to destroy the delicate balance of our household, established through years of living together and deeply embedded in our daily routines. Adjusting this balance takes time and the last few months has had a greater than usual incidence of arguments and flare-ups as the patient has resisted treatment, mistaken it for disease and struck back with terrifying force. But overall, little by little, and I think the washingqueen would agree with me on this, at a household level we have been making gradual progress towards a new balance.
Of course there's lots more we could do but at least we have begun to take more seriously the need to do our bit and to start to do it. I just hope and pray that humankind will have the wit, wisdom and foresight to be able to do something similar at a planetary level. If Lovelock's predictions are true, and they have good currency amongst the scientific communities, then we should all prepare for a big shakeup of our planetary habits - whether we initiate them ourselves or wait for mother earth to take her revenge for causing her fever. And I fear mother earth will be far more vengeful than my sweet washingqueen.
Friday, March 31, 2006
A holiday in your own back yard
When I first mentioned the idea of holidaying in our own backyard, the washingqueen was none too impressed. "I'm not spending our Easter break sitting in the garden watching a community of composting worms devour our kitchen waste," she explained politely as she scraped dinner scraps into her new kitchen caddy. Of course she'd misunderstood me; what I meant was we should go local rather than heading off to Europe and running up tonnes of reckless holiday carbon emissions.
It took a couple of weeks for her to come around to the idea, a couple more weeks for us to figure out a plan, and now all that remains is a couple of weeks to execute it. We're lucky to live in an area of outstanding natural beauty and for the next two weeks, we're reducing our emissions at home to zero and heading off to explore the area on our own home made low emission eco tour. We'll be posting details of the tour on our other website so if you want to know more follow this link.
It took a couple of weeks for her to come around to the idea, a couple more weeks for us to figure out a plan, and now all that remains is a couple of weeks to execute it. We're lucky to live in an area of outstanding natural beauty and for the next two weeks, we're reducing our emissions at home to zero and heading off to explore the area on our own home made low emission eco tour. We'll be posting details of the tour on our other website so if you want to know more follow this link.
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