Greenhouse Gas

Our new boiler is installed. We hope in the long term it will provide substantial savings on energy usage and bills. But in the short term we are instantly rewarded by hot water that is actually hot. In fact it’s so hot it’s scalding. I am in bath-time heaven.

But the heating side of it turns out to be a damp squib. As Carbonlite selected the wall panel that controls the system, we have a tiny digital box mounted on the wall in the hall instead of our usual Starship Enterprise boiler console. At first glance it looks easy to use. But of course it’s a nightmare. No knobs to push, no buttons to flick. Just a series of numbers.

He explains the first figure is the outdoor temperature, which, he points out, is currently 17 degrees. I tell him I don’t care what the temperature is outside. So he moves on to the all important figure of indoor temperature. “It’s 18 degrees in here, which is just about right for the evening,” he says. ”But that’s only one degree hotter than outside,” I complain. “Turn it up!” He refuses, reminding me it’s not cold outside, or indeed inside. I tell him I’ll do it myself. But how, when the whole panel resembles a great big buttonless digital watch? He shows me what to do to reset water and heating, but computerised gadgets aren’t my strong point and it’s all a bit of a blur. He goes out to work and I settle down with a hot water bottle and the manual. Two hours later and I’m no further on. I throw the book on the floor and go to bed.

It’s my birthday. Carbonlite is away and my mother comes to celebrate it with me. She turns up with six bottles of Radox. I line the bottles up in the bathroom so I can scald myself with a different flavour of boiling water every night. It’s lunchtime but unusually the house feels hot. I check the temperature gauge on the digital box. It reads 23 degrees. Inside! The heating shouldn’t be on in the daytime so I look closer and find the panel displays the word, ’fault.’ I shrug. Too bad if it breaks when Carbonlite is away. I have no idea how to turn the heating down or off. What a great birthday present.

As the day goes on the house feels hotter and hotter. My mother is sweating and asks to open a window. But Carbonlite hasn’t quite finished the restoration job on the sashes, and has warned if anyone touches the woodwork, the glass will fall out. “It’s like a greenhouse,” my mother says as we sweat our way through dinner. I fumble around with the manual for a while and stare hopelessly at the digital figures, before giving up.

At breakfast time my mother comes down, her eyes heavy. “I didn’t sleep at all last night in this sauna. How much is all this heating going to cost?“ I know exactly how much the electricity is costing, because Carbonlite has reinstalled the carbon calculator next to the kettle. But as for the greenhouse gas? No idea. Probably all the money we’ve saved this year by installing the new boiler. So much for low energy bills.

I stand at the box in the hall. It still reads 23 degrees while outside remains constant at 17. I never thought I’d long to press the ’off’ switch on the central heating, but I do.

Six baths in seven minutes

There’s only so long you can go on recycling cardboard boxes and composting vegetable peelings and pretending you are sorting out the environment. Eventually there comes a time where you either need to get your photo in The Guardian by getting arrested at a power station protest, or back your green aspirations up with some hard cash. I decide on the latter. Prison wouldn’t suit me.

Carbonlite is pleased. He’s been keen to push some money into greening up the house for years. The first thing is he does is call in Boilerman to find out his views about the latest in energy efficient water and heating systems. We’re talking combi-boilers and zoning. But Boilerman has his own ideas, “A fantastic system that will let you have three baths, then after just seven minutes another three baths! It’s new, it’s beautiful looking and I can install immediately.” My mother, who has joined us for a cup of tea, snorts into her Princess Diana mug, “Even the Radox Queen here would struggle to have six baths in one day!” I try to shush her, but Boilerman isn’t listening, he’s busy describing the sexy curves of the new tank he’d install to facilitate the six baths in seven minutes.

Fed up with going round in circles on the subject of boilers, we turn our attention to the attic. A new roof several years ago left us with little insulation in the loft. Greening it up will be a substantial job. But can we find a builder to even come and give us a quote? Not until the spring, it seems. “Perhaps I’ll do it myself? ” wonders Carbonlite. The re-pointing job to plug the gaps in the exterior wall notches up a similar level of enthusiasm from the building community, and the chances of getting a workman down to view our cellar-with-a-stream-running-through-it are now seeming rather remote.

We move on to the windows: the sash windows that we looked at replacing in the spring. They’re still rotten, but if we can’t get them double glazed, is there any point in paying a thousand pounds a window for their non-efficient replacements? I stamp my feet. “I want to pay someone to make the house more environmentally friendly, and the planet is crying out for people to save energy. Why won’t anyone take our money?” Carbonlite goes online. “I know how we can spend some cash,” he says.

Two days later a special delivery arrives. A very, very long ladder. One by one, Carbonlite rebuilds the sash windows. We have to go with single glazing, but at least some of the gaps are plugged. Boilerman mark II can source the exact system we need. And we look at materials to insulate the attic and consider clearing it out for the first time in eight years. OK, I admit it’s not going to stop a polar bear from falling off his perch of melting ice, but at least it’s a start. Six baths in seven minutes? Clean, but not green; and we can do better than that.

Compost capers

“Ugh. That’s disgusting.” I slam the lid back onto the compost bin. While we’ve been away all summer, nature has gone into full throttle on the vegetable peelings. It’s like a creepy crawly version of Noah’s Ark; there seems to be at least two of every insect on earth crammed under the lid. It’s all wriggling about and it smells like a cow’s bum. Even the eggs have laid eggs. I’m not going to compost anything any more. It’s too foul.

After dinner, I scrape the remains and peelings into the regular bin, announcing to the kids that I’m through with composting. There’s a sharp intake of breath. Even the Carbon-Toddler raises her eyebrows. “I don’t care about the planet any more. I’m through with being an eco worrier,” I tell them. “I’m going back to not being green. It was more convenient…and less…wriggly.” “But…”the youngest Carbon-Copy volunteers...” “Talk to the hand,” I tell him. The conscience isn’t engaging any more.

The drought in Kenya is in every newspaper. National Geographic does a feature on Venice; more at risk of flooding than ever before. The miserable British weather continues. Global warming is ramping up. But I don’t care. I’m not being green any more. The Guardian brings me news of the 10:10 campaign. I read all about it, devouring every celebrity endorsement, and despair that so few of the population have signed up. But I don’t join myself because I’m done with trying to help the planet. My mum has bought a new car. My brother’s flying to his second home in France again. It confirms I’ve made the right decision. There’s no point in making any effort when everyone else undoes it. I only bother to recycle the papers so I don’t have to digest news of any fresh environmental disasters.

Carbon-Lite is down at the compost bin, shovelling the earth out of the bottom of the barrel. It’s not like the top of the bin; all wormy and horrible. It’s fresh, moist and plentiful earth, which he spreads on top of our thin, weedy soil. It’s new life; all healthy and organic. I pick out bits of plastic shrink wrapping and wonder at how all those potato peelings, banana skins and egg boxes have miraculously transformed into this. I’ve always bought my compost in bags from the garden centre before. Suddenly I can see the results of our efforts and it feels good. Like those little green shoots they talk about in a recession. It’s not going to change the world, or save the world, but it is undeniably a positive start. “Ok,” I say to the Carbon-Copies. “I might start composting again.” They jump up and down and cheer. In the compost bin beside them, the worms are wriggling with delight.

All Green Wedding Blues

We receive a wedding invitation through the post. Carbonlite’s old friend, the best man at our wedding, is getting married. Again. But this time he’s saying ’I do’ in an obscure part of Germany. My whole family are invited. I sigh. Here we go again.

The last time we had an invite to a far-flung wedding we debated it for months, talking about whether or not the celebrations were worth the emissions. The planet is still trying to deal with my sister-in-law’s Slovakian wedding which involved five of our family sized bums on airplane seats, plus all the transfers and a long weekend of excursions to Borat-like attractions.

Watching Carbonlite’s brother waltz his new wife around a church hall without taking the fag out of his mouth probably wiped out a year’s worth of plastic bag saving by the population of Hastings, and formed a low point in my eco-worrying life.

So understandably we are reluctant to go. Love miles they call them. A modern wedding in another country is a test; one of the most challenging tests for the eco-minded. Especially if it’s the wedding of someone you like.

Now if I’d been invited to take a mini-break in Germany I’d have no trouble in making up my mind. The devil himself invented long haul mini-breaks.

Carbonlite’s best man and his fiancée have a website. A whole website about their wedding. I go on it, not to check out the wedding list, but to see whether we can get to the ceremony by boat, bike or horse. And the first thing I see is a picture of us. They have uploaded pictures of all their favourite wedding guests onto the site. Saves doing it on their honeymoon I suppose.

There we are, the whole family, grinning like the Waltons. And on the preceding pages are the full families of the happy couple. But when I look closer, I find no trace of his ex-wife or children. I can understand the ex-wife part of the equation, but his two little girls have also been airbrushed out of his life.

Now this puts a whole new slant on things. Not only would we be screwing more polar bears, but we’d be in serious trouble with the ex-wife of our best man. She’s probably gone right off us already after seeing our mugshots on the happy couple’s web display.

Now it’s a no brainer. Love miles plus wrath of ex-wife equals no show. If only all our environmental decisions were as easy.

a giant plastic polar bear on the bar?

Rugby club kitchen duty is compulsory if you want your kids to play rugby.
As a new member, and one of the last to sign up, I am allocated a ‘match’ day as all the easy slots have gone. It's a heavy duty catering job. Bacon butties, coffee’s and squash until lunchtime, then a meal for each of the players.

By midday it’s manic. Tray loads of dirty plates, cups and cutlery arriving by the minute. I throw them into soapy water along with the plastic pint glasses the players have used for squash to quench their thirst after brutal matches.

“Are you washing those? Oh. I’m just putting them straight into the bin,” one of the other helpers says to me, chucking a pile of the plastic glasses into a black binbag. I take a quick look inside it and among the leftovers lie dozens of the see-through pint glasses. But as they’re covered in bits of stew and old teabags, Im not inclined to pluck them out.

As each team finishes their match, they pile in to the clubhouse, muddy hungry, cold and tired. The demand for meals quickens, and I abandon washing up the plastic glasses when I see that all the other kitchen volunteers are chucking them in the bin as well.

We finish serving, mop up and haul a giant plastic bin bag full of rubbish into the yard. I’ve just served two hundred people without having breakfast or lunch myself, and I feel slightly sick. All that waste, much of which I’ve just helped send to landfill. I should have kept on washing the plastic cups.

When I return home, Carbonlite and the kids are watching a David Attenbourgh programme on the i-player. “Come and watch, it’s about polar bears.” says Carbonlite. I am tired and hungry, and frankly not interested in polar bears. But sitting on the sofa is the easiest option. And watching a polar bear try and last out the winter on the ice makes me realise I’m not all that tired or hungry after all. Starving after months without any calories the creature makes it’s way back on to the newly formed ice pack in spring to catch its prey once more, and try and replenish its energy. It's a cycle that has repeated itself for thousands of years. But this year for the first time, the ice is too thin. I hug my son as we watch the bear crash into the icy waters and try without success to haul its giant body back onto ice that continues to crack and break under its weight. It’s pitiful. Even the carbontoddler is now silent. The programme ends and we continue to sit in silence. The empty feeling in my stomach isn’t just down to lack of food.

“I’ve just melted more of that ice,” I say. Everyone looks at me, so I elaborate, “I tossed a load of Ribena cups away today and now another polar bear is going to fall in.” I tell Carbonlite the tale, and confess my part in it.
“We all do it," he says, trying to cheer me up. "...we forget the big picture. That what we do in our own little village can have consequences on the other side of the planet.
"I know people say who gives a stuff about polar bears, I’ve said it myself, but how can you watch that and not care?” I reply.
“Well, what are you going to do about it?” asks Carbonlite?
“Ask the rugby club to use glasses from the bar instead?”
“Think bigger,” he says.
“Make a giant plastic polar bear out of milk cartons and bubble wrap and sit it on the bar every Sunday to remind people that every one of those cups they chuck away is helping melt each new millimetre of ice?”
“Now you’re thinking,”says my mentor.
“I've got an idea,” shouts the eldest Carboncopy, and he runs upstairs. He returns moments later with the dung beetle costume he has made for his school show assembly on Egypt.
“Rugby players know nothing about polar bears. But they do know about Dung don’t they Mum? Sit this on the bar next to the plastic glasses. No one will be interested in Ribena any more."

new best friend

In another day in my cafe life, I pick up the Daily Express and start browsing through. Several pages in is a column by the prolific Richard from Richard and Judy. And within this column is an opinion piece on recycling.
Now I like columns in newspapers and expect a lot from columnists. I expect to be entertained and amused. I also respect a strong opinion, and a bit of topicality.
But while Richard is certainly topical, his dismissal of recycling is ill informed and irresponsible. Sure it’s fine to question the point of recycling, I huff and puff about going to the tip all the time. But even I know it’s important to present a balanced argument. And to suggest that in ten years time we’ll look back and wonder what the fuss was all about global warming is contradicting scientific evidence and giving the sceptics reassurance. Frankly, irresponsible.

With some reservations I show it to Carbonlite and as I predict, he explodes. "You need to write to him," he says, chucking the newspaper on the table.

"Me...write to a newspaper?" I query.
"No to him. That book club tosser." he replies.

The first problem I encounter is that Richard is so famous I have no idea of his surname. That's sorted out by googling him. Then I'm so fascinated by what turns up that I waste an hour. Then I have to work out what to say. I begin by announcing that I've never written to a newspaper or a columnist before, but it's not long before I've got into my stride telling him that there are many people out there who deny global warming through laziness or ignorance and 'opinion' like his only encourages their behaviour. I tell him that his children, and grandchildren, like mine will be left to pick up the pieces of our selfish living in future years. And I inform him that it is a privilege to be given a platform in a national newspaper and along with this privilege comes responsibility. And while I’m sure he would not dream of using this platform to make racist or sexist comments, how can it be ethical to incite people to damage our vulnerable environment even further?

I wonder if it'll scare him? I wonder if I'll get a reply. If I do he'll become my new 'friend,' along with Emma Thompson who is still sending me e mails.

Job done, I put it in the post then sit down to watch the Bafta's and check out if any of my new mates are there.

57 letters

Emma Thompson writes to me. My inbox isn’t generally stuffed with correspondence from Hollywood names, so I read it. 62,000 eco minded people have now signed up to own a piece of airplot land, and as one of them, I'm being urged to petition the 57 labour MP’s that have so far opposed Heathrow's extra runway, in the hope they’ll take the same action in Wednesday's Commons vote about the airport expansion.
I sigh inwardly. While Emma may have nannies and cleaners and all the accessories of a glamorous filmstar life that give her time to write to 57 MP’s, I don’t. And how will I know which ones to approach? What are their addresses? Is a personal letter necessary for each one or will the same one do?

I fill Carbonlite in on my dilemma. He tells me a personal letter is much more effective,
“You’ll get a reply from all of them whether it’s a standard letter or one you’ve taken the trouble to compose yourself. But in my experience they engage more if it’s written directly to them,” he lectures.
Great. Now I have to write 57 different letters. I’ve only just managed to get all the Christmas thank you’s off to the right people, and that’s only because I bribed the Carboncopies to do it for 2p a letter. I wonder if their rate is any different for MP’s?

Then I notice a link. Of course, Greenpeace have made it easy; they’re not going to expect all those thousands of people to sit at their desks for a lifetime, writing to unfamiliar politicians. I follow the link to another website that tracks the movements of MP’s. There’s a mechanism for finding my own MP, and details of current and former bills, votes and speeches, on every subject known to political man. I scan for the word Heathrow and find it under ‘recent searches.’ Emma’s other friends have been here before me.

Unfortunately the link doesn’t bring up the names and addresses of 57 MP’s. Instead it brings up a query in the House of Commons by the MP for North West Leicestershire David Taylor. He complains that within a two hour window on Sunday he received 6,000 e mails from Greenpeace members, most of them living in the South East and none of them from his own constituency. He asks if the house can do anything to legislate against this mail bombing? Jokingly the Speaker tells him to treat Sunday as a day of rest and not read his e mails at all. But then he goes on to reassure the MP that the house will look into the issue.

So now I have the name of one of the 57 MPs. I click on his details, and make it 6001.

56 more still to do. So little time. But the carbontoddler needs collecting from playgroup, so I leave the computer and walk to the hall. After lunch we have a children's party to go to. And the vote is tomorrow. A library run follows, then beavers, then work committments when the kids are in bed.

I start to really feel bad about the other 56 MP's, when I read in the papers that some of them have already been 'won round' by the government. But, in a miserable attempt to deflect the guilt and clear the way for some late night TV watching instead of letter writing, I ask myself whether we should be virtual bombing the MP's that didn't oppose the action last time around rather than the ones who did? Aren't they more of a problem? Is Emma really on top of all this?

I go back to my in-box. In the mailbox, below Emma’s request, is a message from the South Lakeland Action for Climate Change group, inviting me to a talk about what I can do before the Copenhagan talks on November 30th. They’re my local group and I’ve considered getting involved before but never done anything about it. The meeting is in a hall in Kendal. It isn’t going to be full of the great or the glamorous, and I doubt Emma Thompson has been invited. But it’s still national action at a local level. I put it in the diary. And feel a little more able to sleep.

walking the talk

On whim I decide to buy into the Airplot group’s purchase of land near Heathrow to stop the planned new runway from going ahead. It turns out to be surprisingly easy. Much easier than buying a piece of land near Heathrow 20 years ago when we moved to London and couldn’t afford much in the way of property. That purchase, in a run down part of run down Hillingdon cost me £80,000 and took months for solicitors to argue about shared drains and parking. This time I log onto a website, add my details and bingo, I own a few millimetres of West Drayton or Sutton or some other godforsaken village that can’t hear itself think because of increased flights to Heathrow’s other terminals.
Apparently I’m in good company. Environmentalist thesps, members of the mighty Greenpeace, and also quite a few people like me have already signed up, led by Emma Thompson, who, in her own version of Shakespearean prose told Geoff Hoon to “get a grip, Geoff.” Quite right.

While I’m online, I take a peek at the other offerings, and find a campaign to tell Gordon Brown to ‘give coal the boot.’ Well obviously I sign up to that, saying “Get a grip Gordon,” as I click on the button. Perhaps this could become a nifty environmentalist catchphrase that the world could share, a sort of global putdown? If the new American president fails to act on the environment as he has promised, can we all collectively shout at him “Get a grip Barack,” only to find that he springs into eco action?

I enter my details into the boxes designed to help me help Gordon to give coal the boot, but find it isn’t as straightforward as buying Heathrow. It presents me with a map, and asks me to add my footprint to the map. But before that I must choose my shoe. Now choosing shoes is something I’m good at. I come from a long line of women who thrive on choosing shoes. But this isn’t about choosing a fashion statement, a cheap Far East made accessory to be thrown away after a few wears. This is about declaring who I am. My personal shoe identity, with my first name and postcode attached, to be left for all time on the footprint map of the Greenpeace website. The choices are stark. I can be a sandal. Or a cowboy boot. A cowboy boot? Or an army boot. Or a kitten heel. Or a loafer. Or a flip flop. Oh God. What am I?
I should be a welly boot but I don’t want to be. I’d like to be a kitten heel, but if I’m honest I’m not. I can’t even walk in them, let alone stamp out global warming with them. I toy with being a cowboy boot as an ironic feminist statement, but in the end go barefoot. Probably a classic cop out on the Greenpeace shoe labelling front, but at least it doesn’t tie me into in any particular decade, gender or fashion. And if Carbonlite reads it, he might feel guilty about not buying me those M and S slippers for Christmas. I take a look at what everyone else from Cumbria has put in. There’s a few wellies, a couple of sandals and some very uninspiring loafers. And quite a few have opted for the barefoot option. Thankfully there’s no cowboy boots in my neighbourhood. A cowboy boot-wearing environmental activist on your doorstep would frankly be quite scary.

When Carbonlite comes home, I tell him about my new purchase of terminal busting land.
“Good,” he says, picking up the paper.
“Just Good? This is a legal document, like a house purchase you know. I could be summonsed. To appear. At a big enquiry or something,“ I cry. He continues reading the paper. “And I’ may have to turn up barefoot,” I carry on, “Because that’s what I signed up to do on the “Get a grip Gordon carbon coal campaign. And as everyone else from round here will be there in their wellies and loafers, I’ll have to watch my toes.” My husband nods his approval, still reading the paper.
“You haven’t even asked what it cost,” I shout. “To buy Heathrow.”
He finally looks up, “Well? How much did it cost?”
“It was free,” I reply sheepishly.
He goes back to the paper. I stomp out of the room.
“But there may be some costs to follow,” I mutter, wondering if there is such a thing as an environmentally friendly brand new pair of kitten heels.”

carbon coffee

It’s dark outside. Dark and cold and uninviting. The Carbontoddler cries when I remove her from her Tigger sleepsuit and force her arm into as many layers of clothes as I can. With the usual bickering and chivvying, I walk the boys to school then return for my daughter. Today I intend to drop her off at nursery by car, drive to a village seven miles down the road, and work in a cafe, on my laptop. I avoid meeting Carbonlite’s eye as I grab car keys and run out of the door with my daughter and her lunchbox. The temperature outside isn’t very different to inside. Even though it’s the depths of winter, we’ve made a pact to keep the heating off during the day. Carbonlite deals with this by piling on layers of clothes; at the last count he had five. I deal with it by going out..

I order a coffee and try to shut out the guilt. Not only have I left Carbonlite at home to suffer in frosty silence with a massive workload, but I’ve used the car for a short journey again. Why? Because I’m a pathetic fair weather cyclist. I just can’t motivate myself to open the shed. I know it’s damaging; economically, environmentally and also physically; I'm putting on weight faster than the carbon mother in law gets through a litre of whisky.
Disgusted with myself, I pick up a magazine. “The lazy girls guide to going green” the cover shouts at me. I sigh, opening it to page 64. “If you’d like to save the planet, but think it all sounds like too much hassle, here are some easy tips that won’t turn your life upside down.” Why not turn your life upside down? It might be fun. It might save the future for your kids. Resistant as I can be to some of Carbonlite’s improvements, we at least both understand that life, post Al Gore can never be same again.

It's all the usual stuff about buying an eco kettle, sealing the gaps, washing clothes at a lower temperature, and turning off the tap mid teeth clean. I’m mildly interested in the fact that I’ll save more energy if my fridge is full. But the only time a car is mentioned is to inform me that driving is more efficient if I put more air in the tyres. But air never trashed a polar bear. What about emissions, petrol, unnecessary journeys? I leave my coffee to go cold; while it might be unleaded, it tastes too much of carbon.

The gift of gold?

A copy of National Geographic lies unread on the table. I tidy up around it. It’s been there for weeks; a reminder of Christmas past. Carbonlite wanders into the room and sprawles down on the sofa. I grab the magazine.
“I’ll just take this for recyling,” I say pointedly.
“But you haven’t read it yet,” he exclaims.
“It’s my magazine,” I tell him. My only Christmas present. I start to flick through it, grumbling under my breath how friends got expensive handbags and gold jewellery, while I got a magazine. Not even a year’s subscription, just a magazine. Even baby Jesus got gold for Christmas. A pair of M and S slippers would have been fine. Why does even my Christmas present have to be an education?

At the recycling bin, I pause. Something in this glossy magazine is glinting at me. It’s a global obsession that’s worth more than human life. A glittering industry that’s rotten to the core. In the world’s most remote places, whole families risk their lives so we can have cheap earrings. To extract a single ounce of gold, the amount in a typical wedding ring, 250 tons of rock and ore are taken from the ground, from vast open pit mines where accidents are commonplace, and chemical or mercury poisoning is a daily hazard. Villagers in the high altitudes of Peru work for 30 days a month for free; dirty, backbreaking work, without any pay. On the 31st day their reward is a single shift, of four hours or maybe a little more, where they are granted permission to haul out and take away as much rock as their shoulders can bear. With a bit of luck this sack may contain nuggets galore and make them instant millionaires. More commonly it contains nothing, or perhaps a few dollars of gold flecks which will barely feed their family, once miller and merchant have been paid.

All that human misery and exploitation. But what of the environment? Thanks to huge mining corporations, the gold now left in our world only exists as traces in remote and fragile corners. What was once untouched rainforest housing thousands of species is now razed and turned into pits that can be seen from space. Diggers carry out tons of earth each day in the search for the golden grail. The gold is processed with the help of mercury, and the chemical effluent is piped straight to the bottom of the sea.

I fiddle with my wedding ring. I take it off. I roll it around in my palm, examining its texture and shape for the first time in years. I look at how the light falls on it, and smile when I read the inscription. Sure, its precious. Sure it’s valuable. The question is, is this symbol of our union worth the human and environmental sacrifice that it took to make it? I put it on the table. I leave the room. My ring finger feels strange. I haven’t taken my wedding ring off in almost a decade. Ten years? Where did that go.
“I’m going for a bath. I’ve left something on the table for you,” I call to Carbonlite in the living room. He’ll either think I’ve read the feature and be pleased I’ve decided to do something about it, or he’ll think I’m leaving him, and might reassess what I’m worth.

the silver enemy

“You’d better take your Christmas presents home with you today as we’re off to the Caribbean soon,” says my mother, clearing the dinner dishes.
The Carbon-copies, the Carbon-baby and I have made a quick dash over to Liverpool for the weekend. The carbon cost of a 100 love miles to see granny? 30 kg’s at my reckoning. But it’s nothing like the environmental cost of a cruise around the Caribbean. I bite my tongue and stifle my opinions about those climate-corrupting fun factories and the 24 hr buffet fuelled hedonism that she indulges in three times a year.
“I just hope you’re cutting down on clothes this time,” is all I say, referring to the start of her last cruise where she was fined £93 in excess baggage after stuffing more than 40 evening dresses and ball gowns into her suitcase and trying to get on a plane.
“I wouldn’t say I’m cutting back, but we’re definitely not taking the fancy dress pirate costumes this time,” she says. “I think half of that fine was probably the weight of the parrots.”

She brings in the pudding, scooping out a large helping of tiramisu, while informing me my brother will be flying his family to his French second home for Christmas. I sigh.
“I can’t help but feel a bit jealous,” I tell her. “I can’t imagine justifying flights like that for fun again.”
She looks up at me in astonishment, and the spoon of tiramisu does a nosedive into a bone china espresso cup. “Not fly again? Why not?” I shake my head.
“Haven’t you heard there’s a climate crunch going on mum? Don’t they cover the environment in the Daily Mail?”
Her response is a snort. “Oh, don’t give me that climate change nonsense” she says. “That’s Carbonlite speaking, not you. You like shopping and going on holiday. Has he been indoctrinating you again?”
“I do NOT like shopping,”I begin to shout. Why do all my family seem to think I spend my days shopping?
“Most of my clothes come from Oxfam,” I tell her, banging my spoon into my bowl.
“Not that lovely coat,” says my Mother, “that’s from Boden. I saw the label when I hung it up.” I enlighten her to the fact that it was once from house of Boden, but not for at least two owners.
My mother shudders. “Please don’t mention that to your sister. I don’t think she’d ever speak to you again. And by the way I don’t want any second hand clothes for my Christmas presents thank you very much.”
I remind her that she’ll be cruising the good ship lollipop by then, destroying the future for my kids.
“Well thank heaven I won’t be around by then,” she says.
I stand up and push my chair back. “That’s just typical of your generation,” I cry. “It’s only 90 years since the war you know. Think what they had to live on…darned tights and marrow soup. You’re the first generation to have everything and you abuse it. Fat pensions, a house that will net you a quarter of a million in disposable income, cheap short haul flights, and cruise ships the size of the Starship Enterprise. And you think you can leave the mopping up to my kids? Why should they have to spend their adult years continually cruising Cumbria because the sea levels are so high due to your carbon addiction?”
But she’s not listening. “A nice case of wine would be fine for my Christmas present,” she says.

The eldest Carboncopy looks up from his pudding. “Mummy, I know that you buy some presents as well as Father Christmas,“ he says. Now I can no longer stay at the table, but start pacing round it.
“Now is not the time to shatter my illusions about Santa,” I yell at him. To diffuse the tension, my mother clears the plates and takes them into the kitchen.
“I’ll just put the kettle on again. Now would like a nice bit of brie before we go and admire my new outfits?” she trills.

ride the climate rollercoaster

Carbonlite and I are climbing steeply. We push ever higher and suddenly the whole of Coney Island bay stretches before us. But no time for admiring the view as we hurtle over the edge and shoot back to earth, screaming and waving our hands in the air along with 50 other riders.
The rollercoaster we’re all on is the usual mix of anticipation and terror. But this is no ordinary ride. With the help of a screen, a short film, a dose of audience participation and some facts from our host, we are riding the Climate Change Rollercoaster.
“London’s underwater and two thirds of the world’s glaciers have gone,” he shouts as we plunge downhill, screaming. “Oh crikey moses the whole climate system has gone into reverse,” he bellows, as we wave out hands wildly in the air.

I glance at Carbonlite and he catches my eye. Just for a change I’m responsible for organising our latest eco outing; to a climate change stand up comedy night at our local theatre. Our entertainment is provided by the Carbon Detox writer and climate change campaigner George Marshall, who runs an environmental charity and teaches others to lecture about the world’s problems. But tonight he tackles the issue through humour; highlighting our denial strategies, pointing out the eco stereotypes, myths and contradictions, and making us laugh at an issue that others portray as dry, boring, or downright scary.

We disembark the rollercoaster and our comedy coach continues with an education about evil carbon twins.
“Last year I dropped in on my neighbour to settle some minor boundary dispute,” George tells us. “There was a walloping four-wheel-drive tank in the drive, his house was as hot as a sauna with the back door open; every room was lit up like an operating theatre by halogen spots and a 1.8 metre plasma screen TV was going full throttle in the corner. As soon as I saw his house I realized all the energy that my own energy efficient house and low impact living was saving was being used up by him.”
He pauses for a moment before throwing his hands in the air in despair. “I might just have well have run cable between our houses and sent all the energy that I was saving over there.”

On the way home Carbonlite and I discuss our evil carbon twins and who they could be.
“Well it isn’t our next door neighbours,” I say. “One heats their whole house with just a single real fire; I’ve seen her out collecting fuel. And the other goes on the Wheely Good Communities trolley dash to get her shopping.” But I admit it could be some of my friends, many of whom still fly for fun and breed 4x4’s faster than they produce children. And as for my mother, currently and always ‘off on a cruise,’ well she sucks out more energy savings than a family of sextuplets. I’m thinking all of this out loud when Carbonlite interrupts.
“Don’t you get it? You’re my evil carbon twin,” he says, “I go biking to make more space on the road for your tin box. I wear an extra jumper all day and you blow our carbon rations on heating the house at night. I replace all the lightbulbs and you….”
“Hey ok, ok.” I say, my hands up in the air. “I might be your evil carbon twin but we’re stuck on this climate change rollercoaster together. So you’d better hold on tight to me and we can ride the cyclone. Let’s face it baby, I could be the only thing between you and the abyss.”

road miles

We had barely been on our summer cycling holiday for a few hours when a message pinged into Carbonlite’s in-box. It was a request from a TV company making a ‘new iconic British road movie.’ Would Carbonlite be interested in sharing his views about alternative transport to the motor car? Would he? Several long texts later he had given his opinion on the car versus the bike to a very happy researcher.
“They’re very good but you’re too keen.” I tell him, reading back through his texts. She’s going to ask you to be on her programme and then stitch you up like a kipper on a tricycle.”
Carbonlite grabbed a bicycle off the car roof and started to load it with luggage. “No she won’t, she’s just doing her research,” he said. Her enquiry was a timely one as we were just leaving our car in a car park in Portsmouth for six weeks while we cycled across Northern Spain.

Carbonlite’s correspondence had obviously made him think. In fact he started to get quite evangelical. For the next six weeks, he pushed his message on all of us, as we pedalled up and down the hills of Spain.
“Cycling is such a positive alternative to travelling by car. It brings you back into contact with the elements, terrain, the natural world, your physical being and other people.”
“You’re quite right,” I agreed on the first week of our holiday.
On the second week he pressed on with his argument. “There is no insulation, no tin box, no protection from the sun, rain, storm, wind. You feel the weather and know what it is. You know the terrain more intimately too; feeling the rise and fall of the road, noticing the slow drag, that gentle run down, that hill you never sense in the car.”
I nodded, despite the fact that the hill I never sense in the car was taking me to the brink of exhaustion.
On the third week he really got into his stride as he cried, “Feel your legs working, your heart pumping, the air in your lungs! Feel yourself growing stronger on this hill.” By now even the Carbonlites started to put their fingers in their ears and hum loudly as they pedalled. But Carbonlite carried on regardless, sure only of one thing; the superiority of bike over car.
“On a bike you are part once more of the social world of pedestrians and that special club of other cyclists amongst which there is a camaraderie you don't get amongst drivers – the passing nod, wave or hello, a recognition of someone else who is willing to make an effort to get where they want to go.”

On our return, the car was waiting, but it was a few days before I got around to using it. I’d completely got out of the way of it. And when I did use it, I found I agreed with some of Carbonlite’s sermon. Ok the car was both convenient and fast, but where was the feeling of the wind in my hair and my connection with the land, with the weather, with the road? I felt like I was pinned in to a tin box, and hardly used it for the rest of the week.
Instead I rigged my bike up with baby seat and carried on biking. I hardly noticed the hills coming into the village. I hardly felt the miles. And I was saving money. Even a short ride to Deerslet tea rooms was saving me both petrol money and carbon emissions. Carbonlite on the other hand having cycled 1000 miles with ease, cricked his back on a bus while trying to accommodate a lady with a generous girth. Now he couldn’t cycle at all, and had to drive everywhere. Suddenly I was the queen of green and he was the lowly peasant.

The TV researcher got in touch to ask if he’d be on the programme, as predicted, a request he politely declined. He mentioned this fact as he was getting in the car to visit the osteopath, wincing as the torn ligaments in his back gave him grief.
“Want a lift?” he said?
“In that tin box? No thanks,” I replied hopping onto my bike.

Feeling the pinch

The tumble drier sounds like an aircraft coming in to land. I’m worried it’s going to cause a house fire if I use it again. I’d buy a new one, but it’s the third appliance to break down this month. They always go bust in three’s don’t they? So no more tumble drying in the carbon household for a while.

And then the gas bill comes in at £550. I express my shock that six months of heating can cost that much.
“Three months,” Carbonlite replies. “And it was summer. We shouldn’t have had the heating on.”
He goes around the house turning the lights off and shouting at people to unplug everything and switch off computers instead of leaving them on standby.

He reminds me of my father. “It’s like Blackpool illuminations round here” my dad used to say every time someone turned on a light. He used to compost things too, and make soup from anything past it’s sell-by date that was lying around in the fridge. In fact my dad had us on a cabbage soup diet long before it became a fashion fad. I used to think he was just miserable, but now I have a new respect. He saved energy, discouraged waste, and kept the bills down. If my dad had ever got a £550 gas bill, he’d probably have had an angina attack down by the compost heap while drinking a beaker of cabbage soup.

I stare at the bill and try to think of an excuse. “It’s been a rainy summer” sounds a bit pathetic. “Gordon Brown is to blame with his 40% price hikes,” is convenient but not strictly true. I’m still trying find a way to wriggle out of it when I pull up at the petrol station and find it costs £75 to fill my car up with unleaded. When did that happen?
On the way home, I imagine cutting the bottom out of my vehicle and pushing my legs through, powering the vehicle along from Carnforth like the crew from the whacky races. I am angry that my car costs so much to fill. But then, I reason, a litre of petrol is no more than I’d pay for a cup of coffee. Coffee is a renewable source, you just drink it, grow some more beans and hey presto. But our fossil fuels can’t be renewed. They’re highly precious, having taken millions of years to produce, and masses of effort to extract. They’re a dwindling resource and we’re terrified of them running out, and yet we waste them on trips to Carnforth that we could cycle without breaking a sweat.

I think back to my green resolutions two years ago and the excruciatingly slow progress I’ve made. I cycle sometimes, but not often enough. I put the fire on when a jumper would do. I hang out the washing only when it’s sunny. This “eco worrier” needs that financial pressure to make her worry harder. As a family it hurts when we’re out of pocket with the gas and petrol bills. But as a mother of future generations, the price of carrying on as we are is far more alarming in the end. When our homes are flooded and our fossil fuels run out, we’ll dream of tough bills and petrol at £1.20 a litre.

I pick the Carboncopies up from scouts. They run in and switch on the lights.
“Hey, it’s like Blackpool illuminations round here, turn them off.” I say.
“What’s Blackpool laminations?” asks the youngest Carboncopy.
“Grandad’s favourite place,” I reply, thinking fondly of my elderly eco relative, who turns out to have been way ahead of his time.

Turf wars

I was putting the Carbonbaby into her car seat when I noticed a yellow ‘post-it’ note on my windscreen. In neat writing it chastised me for taking up two parking spaces on the village square, and suggested I park in the Royal Hotel car park instead. I looked around, wondering if it was a joke and I was on candid camera? But no, the note was serious, and signed by a neighbour. I walked around my car, parked outside my house, wondering if I’d made some terrible error of judgment. In fact I had to concede my neighbour was correct; I had taken up two spaces. I probably do it all the time as my parking is rubbish.

I found myself thinking about this note over the following week. My neighbour was right. I shouldn’t be taking up too spaces on the Square. I shouldn’t be taking up any. Why has such a focal point and natural meeting place in the village become a car park, and when did this happen? For the first time I started to notice who was parking outside our house, and how jammed it had become at night. I began to see just how full the Royal Hotel and memorial hall car parks are by the end of the day. And it worried me. The modern obsession with having a car, or two cars (and sometimes three and four cars) for each family has created a big problem for a village like Burton in Kendal that wasn’t built for any cars at all. Our reliance on the motor means we don’t want to walk far to get to them. And we regard parking as a right, not a luxury.
I wondered what would happen if the new owners banned parking in the Royal Hotel Car Park? Would people be forced to part with one of their cars altogether if they could no longer put it anywhere at night? Then I got to thinking ‘What if the square went back to its former glory and became a village square again?’ A centre point of the village; with children playing and people stopping to have a chat and waiting for the bus without being surrounded by stationary metal boxes.

I told Carbonlite my concerns and together we brainstormed how we could make our village square a greener place. “I’ve got it!” he said, “Let’s make it a greener place. Literally. Guerilla gardening.” He gave me an article in The Guardian, about eco minded people making urban places more attractive by planting grass and seed by stealth. “We wait till they’ve all driven off and we lay turf. Then it becomes a real village green.” I laughed it off. It was such a blue skies idea.

Then I mulled it over. What if we weren’t the only people in the village who would like to see the square become a greener place? What if all the green fingered in Burton were potential guerrilla gardeners. So what’s the price of turf these days? A quick search of the net told me I could turf the whole square for £500. “I’ll pay for it myself,” said Carbonlite.

So what do you think, villagers of Burton in Kendal? Would you like your village square to become a square again? Or how about it becoming a green? Surely a turf war between Burton residents in the future is a higher price to pay. After all, how long before our cars start to outnumber our homes and drives and we start to fight amongst ourselves for available street space? It’s your village. What do you want…a green clean environment or a giant car park?
Answers on a ‘post-it,’ but not on my windscreen please. Alternatively drop us an e mail at burtonecoteam@btinternet.com or write to the Burton News. Let’s get this debate going. With your help, I’m looking forward to sunbathing on the village green next summer.

A package holiday?

“We ought to take a package holiday sometime,” says Carbonlite as we cycle down to the farmers market in Milnthorpe. The hedgerows are flush with wild garlic and the breeze pushes pink blossom under our wheels as our feet spin in the sunshine. On this glorious day I don’t feel the need for a holiday and I’m curious Carbonlite should put forward the suggestion. “A package deal? You mean a fortnight in a Spanish hotel with all our drinks included?” I ask. “No,” he replies. “Not that type of package holiday. More of a ‘packaging’ holiday really. No cardboard, plastic or glass coming into or out of the house. For a week.”

Once I’ve got over the disappointment of no free booze, I begin to mull over his idea. A week’s ‘package holiday’ would cut down the endless trips to the tip to recycle plastic and cardboard, which I always end up having to do. And it might force me to shop more healthily and locally. But why wait for the peak of summer to liberate myself from the burden of cereal boxes and tetrapacks? Why not start straight away? And where better to start than a farmers market? I don’t mention anything to Carbonlite; my transformation into package holidaymaker will be a surprise for him at dinnertime.

My first purchase is easy. A loaf of wholewheat bread. I’m slightly concerned it’s been driven in from Liverpool that morning, but reckon the package-lessness of the product will cancel out the road miles. Joyfully, I ask the scouser bread man to drop it straight into my pannier next to the tool kit and the bicycle lock.

I then pop over to the olive stall and drool over green and black delicacies in their big curved yellow bowls. Simple and delicious. But where to put them? Olive man can’t just tip them into my pannier like bread man did. After cursing myself for not bringing a range of Tupperware tubs on my cycle ride, I decide to give olives a miss. But now olive man is all fired up to make a sale. He starts pushing an assortment of olives my way on cocktail sticks. And when he gets no interest he moves onto the pickled garlic. To stop him charging at me with any more sharp sticks I grab one of the large plastic containers stacked up next to the bowls and fill it up. “Climate death by olives and feta cheese,” I mutter to myself, “and the first failure on the Carbon family package holiday front.”

As a penance I move on to the vegetable counter and ask the assistant to tip the carrots and onions straight into my bag. Then I stroll to the opposite stall. I need a new quilt cover as ours is beyond repair. But all the quilts are wrapped in cardboard and plastic. As a compromise I unwrap the quilt, pay for it, then hand over the packaging to the sympathetic saleswoman. “So good to see a young person caring for the environment,” she trills as I shove the quilt deep into the pannier around the vegetables and olives.

Finally it’s over to fish man. Now this stall is good. Freshly caught fish and seafood, all laid out on ice filled platters. No polystyrene, no cardboard. Just a thin plastic bag that I can recycle, if I can get the smell of smoked haddock out of it. I slap it into the pannier, heave it closed and return to the bike.

“Have I got a treat for you,” I tell Carbonlite. I reach for the black pannier. Inside is a warm fish with a split bag and a brand new bleach white quilt now tie dyed with fish juice. As I pull it out of the bag to assess the damage, a Greek salad of olives, pickled garlic and feta tumble onto the kitchen floor. Meanwhile the bread is a funny shape and has a distinct whiff of onions. “You’ll notice I’ve started our package holiday already,” I say. “But I’m not very good at it yet. I think I’ll need a bit of practice. ” “Take an extra suitcase next time perhaps?” Carbonlite suggests with a grin. “Perhaps two. One for the fish and another for the duty free.” I reply, grinning back and plonking a bottle of wine from the local Spar down onto the table. Planning my next market trip in finer detail, I pour a glass of Chardonnay and pick flakes of smoked haddock from the buttonholes of the new addition to the bedroom.

The Eco Chick hatches

I attend a pub quiz in the village. “What tree does palm oil come from?” the quiz-master asks. It’s the final question of the night and up until the last round only one point lay between my team and another for top position. The team turn to me. “Come on then Eco Worrier, what tree does palm oil come from?” “Well my initial response is the palm tree,” I reply. “But that can’t be right as it’s too obvious.” So I rack my brains about palm oil. I know palm oil is bad. Super bad. Bad, bad bad. And I know it’s encouraging the decimation of much of the rainforest of the world just so we can have longer lasting processed foods. But what I don’t know is…what tree it comes from. “It’s definitely from trees in hot areas,” I say. “Coconut?” someone weakly suggests. We decide on Mangrove as it’s the only tree we know that grows in paradise aside from the coconut or palm tree, even though I know they tend to grow in swamps and their ingredients are unlikely to enhance my Flora Light.

Of course the answer is palm, and of course we lose the point. But while the team go home thinking they could have won the wine, I am cursing myself for my lack of detailed knowledge about…well anything, but particularly the green principles I claim to live by. The thing is, I read the papers every day, shaking my head at the carbon profligacy of Western governments. I know that 4x4’s are instruments of global destruction. I know that those pretty islands you see advertised in the Sunday Times are going to be underwater by 2020 and that the coastline of Norfolk is crumbling away. But ask me about the specifics of global warming, of the icecaps melting or carbon footprinting and my mind is a blank page and my grasp of the real facts is, to be honest, a bit woolly. It’s partly that I get much of my information second hand, from Carbonlite or even the Carboncopies. I read reviews of books on global warming but never get around to reading the actual books. And it’s not even like I have to go and buy them. They’re a toppling tower of eco words next to the towel rail in the bathroom, and they’re all over the bedroom floor like a green carpet. Carbonlite says I don’t read them because I’m in denial. And I suspect he’s right, although I couldn’t furnish you with any specific details about the problem.

The next day I pick up the eldest Carboncopy from school. His teacher rushes up to me. “We were talking about trees and, playing the devil’s advocate I said to the class that it was fine to chop them all down. But your son stood up and protested. He told the class that trees take in all the bad air- the carbon dioxide- and turn it into oxygen so that we can all breath good air.” Obviously I am pleased with his brilliance. But also a bit cross that a seven year old could come up with that explanation when I’m still wondering which type of tree she’s thinking of chopping down. For a moment I wonder if I’ve got a ‘swampy’ on my hands before my son bobs into view. “Which tree produces palm oil?” I ask. “Palm.” the eldest Carboncopy and his teacher answer in unison.

At home I rifle through George Monbiot's extensive explanation of how we are doomed. I briefly consider reading Mayer Hillman’s definitive book on the state we’re in. Then I put them both down and log on. To the ‘Eco Chick’ website. Well a girl’s gotta start somewhere.

No prizes for points

Once upon a time I had my weekly supermarket shop down to a fine art. Not any more. In an ever warming world, not even the purchase of a sausage is a simple process. Today I stand over the frozen food counter holding my usual selection of pre- cooked Weight Watchers meals. But something is stopping me putting them in the trolley. My Personal Carbon Counter. And no it’s not Carbonlite. And no I’m not having an affair. I curse under my breath and put the boxes back. Then I pick them up again. Then I put them down. Unable to make up my mind, I shuffle around the counter. Now I look like I need the toilet. It used to be so clear cut. In the past I could dash around with a trolley in half an hour, buying everything the Carboncopies need to keep them alive and healthy, and everything I need to keep me under ten stone in weight. Having ‘found’ my thinner self after three lots of childbirth, I’ve been obsessive about counting points.

But that was before I visited Booths with a carbon footprint specialist. Now carbohydrates are no longer the enemy. I’m now resolved to count a different kind of carbs; the carbon emissions clocked up by the manufacture, processing and delivery of our food. That’s a whole other set of points from the ones clocked up by eating too many crisps, and not quite so easy to calculate either. A Weight Watchers Chicken Tikka packaged meal used to put six points on the fridge door chart. Simple, easy to calculate and written on the box. But tot the same dish up in carbon points and it’s… a lot of points. For a start it’s been packaged twice, once with plastic, then with cardboard. Then it’s been cooked twice, or it will have been by the time I get it into my stomach. And there’s not very much food in it, which means you have to eat other things with it to feel satisfied. Or I do anyway. It’s not exactly locally produced. And it’s meat, which means the animal will have had to be fed and kept in a warm place before meeting its’ fate at the hands of a Weight Watcher butcher.

I try to calculate how many carbon points that might be and fail. So I abandon the dinner. Fruit and vegetables you would think would be more simple. But they’re not. I know where each fruit is coming from, but if it isn’t grown locally I have no idea whether it’s been air freighted or got here by ship. And as its winter, there aren’t many local fruits available. For the further flung foods my adviser told me to opt for fair trade wherever possible, so I pile some bananas into the trolley. I move to the lettuce. The words of my friendly carbon adviser ring in my ears, “Now that could be a disaster area,” he said as I reached out to grab a bag of the ready washed stuff. “It’s processed more than it needs to be and packaged unnecessarily. You might get some vitamins, but practically no calories. Just consider where it’s come from and how much you’d have to eat to sustain yourself.” I put the bag back on the shelf. Until that moment, the activity of lettuce consuming seemed a thoroughly happy, healthy, green thing to do. But evidently it isn’t always. “There’s a good chance it’s been flown from Florida,” my fellow shopper pointed out, “Air freighting lettuce has surely got to be the world’s most pointless activity.”

These days as I move around the supermarket, I’m much more aware of how much things are packaged. Why is cereal both bagged and boxed? Why are cakes individually wrapped then boxed as well? Why are so few brand of toilet paper recycled? Why isn’t more washing powder eco friendly? “Have you brought your own bags?” asks the checkout assistant when I finally make it to the till. Have I brought my own bags? Like Russian dolls the Bags for Life tumble out of a holdall.

At home I tell Carbonlite how confusing it all is. I’m also ashamed that my desire to be thin is still outstripping my desire to be green. “Why do I do?” I ask him. “Actually, I think I might be able to help,” he says, producing a manual from the shelf. “Grow our own food?” I read from the cover. “But we haven’t got a garden.” “We don’t need one,” he replies. He opens the book at a square of earth, only four foot by four foot, growing sixteen different vegetables. “…only thing is, you’ll have to pop back to the supermarket to buy a trowel.”

Furniture matters

The living room is full of furniture. Dismantled wardrobes line the hall. When our friends announced they were moving to Australia, I asked them to pass on anything they didn’t want to take or couldn’t sell. I couldn’t face the thought of perfectly good wardrobes and tables ending up on the tip. So now we have new furniture, lots of it. “Do you only ever make friends with people who are about to emigrate?” asks Carbonlite’s sister, climbing over a wardrobe to get to the kitchen. She’s referring to the fact that our house has been almost entirely furnished by other people and their house moves.

7 years ago we moved to our Burton family home from a tiny two bedroom cottage in London. At that point we only had a bed, a wardrobe and a kitchen table. Luckily, shortly after our arrival some Swiss neighbours moved back to Switzerland, leaving us with a couple of unwanted set of chests of drawers and a wardrobe they’d have otherwise taken to the tip. Another friend moved to London and only had a small van, so our furniture collection expanded further. A further friend decided that Far Sawrey was too far to take three single beds, a filing cabinet and a mound of duvets, so we inherited them too. And so it is that our home is an eclectic jumble of…well, other people’s jumble. While other people’s houses are a reflection of their tastes, ours is a reflection of our ex-neighbours’ shopping trips.

But it doesn’t stop at the furniture. It was when Carbonlite really got into the green stuff that word began to spread. Now people regularly turn up with bikes, helmets, tyres, printers, files, and my personal favourite…back copies of Hello Magazine. My brother sent a pristine Ford Mondeo our way because he already had three cars in his drive and wanted rid of it. People constantly arrive with bags of clothes for the kids, which the children love, saving me a small fortune on the high street. When they grow out of them I give them away to others, a small scale community fashion industry.

Most of the time it’s great, we get free furniture, as well as saving it from being wasted and causing landfill emissions. At other times I wonder why I don’t get the chance to go shopping like other people and buy the things we really want, that reflect our personality and personal wealth. Sometimes I wonder why we accepted the huge 1970’s office sideboard that stretches the whole of our living room. And our crockery has depleted so drastically that we fight over cereal bowls in the morning, but don’t buy any just in case some bowls come our way for recycling. Last week we stayed with friends in Kew. Their newly refurbished house looking out onto the river is every home owners dream. But I couldn’t get past the spoons. When they opened their drawers and revealed a collection of soup, dessert and teaspoons that made me drool, I had to confess to the green eye of ‘spoon envy.’

But every spoon matters. Every impulse purchase puts another kettle or teapot into landfill. An American scientist recently told the world that the ‘Arctic is screaming,’ as a result of global warming. This is a direct result of our consumerism. Every time you take a wardrobe or microwave to the tip because it’s ‘not your colour,’ then the screams get louder. Next time you’ve tired of something, offer it to a neighbour or friend. They might need it, or know someone who does. Or contact Carnforth or Kendal Freecycle, and someone will immediately take it off your hands. On the other hand, if you’re thinking of emigrating and have a particularly nice set of spoons….

Basket case

Six weeks ago the washing machine broke. To a family that processes one load of dirty washing and sometimes two almost day of the week, this was quite an inconvenience, especially as a call to Indesit established the repairman couldn’t come for a fortnight. When small mountains of washing started appearing throughout the house, I braced myself to brave the launderette. Did they still exist outside of Eastenders? I was reliably informed there’s a good one opposite the chippy in Carnforth. Perfect.

I took six huge bin bags of washing. Lugging them into the launderette gave me backache, but otherwise it wasn’t an unpleasant experience. I loaded up three big washers, bunged in nine quid and a bit of powder, and sloped off for coffee at a local cafe. Half an hour later it was all over and I bought chips to surprise the family with on my triumphant return home as the whiter, brighter Washing Queen of Carnforth.

The washing machine man showed up after two weeks and diagnosed the fault but didn’t have the right part to repair it. After he left I assessed the overflowing washing basket and decided it was time for another chip and laundry run. But here’s the thing. This time I went with less washing.

On Christmas Eve he showed up with the right part. But it was faulty. So in the new year I was back to the laundrette. But my six bags had now become two. As the weeks progressed the sheer effort of lugging loads of laundry in the winter weather from house to launderette and back again discouraged unnecessary washing and drying. The Carbonbaby was able to wear her skirt three days on the run if I prevented her from smearing jelly and ice cream into the denim fabric. I began inspecting the Carboncopies clothes to see if they could be recycled for another day. I employed Carbonlite’s legendary sniff test on his clothes, (much to his delight,) and put them back in the wardrobe if they passed. Everything from tea towels to sheets started to have a longer shelf life. As a result the laundry decreased by about a third and I rediscovered a life without being chained to the washing machine. I had more free time, and I didn’t need Carbonlite to point out the maths; we saved money on electricity and washing powder, but more importantly the planet benefited from my reduced use of my domestic machine.

But why did it take a defunct washing machine to change my habits? I’ve been trying to be environmentally conscious for the last two years so why hadn’t I tackled this issue before now? The simple answer is the washing machine is too convenient to resist. If loading the machine was as difficult as in my mother’s day where the unreliable twin tub blocked the kitchen for the day, with it’s overflow pipes filling the sink and everyone sweating over the steaming piles of laundry, then I might think again about dropping clean washing into the laundry basket. On a trip to Samoa a few years ago we discovered room service laundry meant the maids took the washing down to the river and beat it with sticks. If this was our only method of doing the laundry, I suspect we might wear our socks for one more day.

I tried to research just how ungreen our washing habit is. But the facts weren’t easy to find. The best estimate I found was that about £800 million of electricity is needed to pass 500 billion litres of water through UK washing machines, tumbledryers and dishwashers every year. 90% of UK households have a washing machine and each one averages 274 cycles a year, (so Im not alone in my daily wash) with each cycle using 50–120 litres of water (14% of household water use). But the main figure I was after was carbon emissions. Assuming the lifespan of an average washing machine is 11 years, apparently 1.6 pounds of carbon dioxide are emitted for every kWh of energy consumed. If that sounds a lot, that’s because it is.

The man from Indesit eventually returned with a part that worked. He was overjoyed to sort us out; more happy than I was. The white dalek in the corner of the utilities room sprang into life, exterminating stains and nasty niffs as efficiently as ever. The Carboncopies miss the chips. I miss coffee time in Carnforth. But laundry rationing and sniff tests continue.