Sustainability

One Sunday several months ago, I was sitting in the courtyard of a lovely little café in Durham called Vennels, eating lunch with various Quakers (as is something of a tradition among the younger – middle-aged people in Durham Meeting) and setting the world to rights (ditto).

F was telling us about how her daughter had spent part of her year abroad in a small town in Oregon where they had taken it upon themselves to live more sustainably and in greater community with each other. Residents could sign up to teach hour-long classes at a community centre for free in anything from knitting to accounting, and consequently share skills which might otherwise have been inaccessible. The council would come and dig a vegetable patch in your garden for free, even planting vegetables for you with the idea that once you had learned to grow and garden home-produce, you could help someone else the next year. I can’t remember any more examples off-hand and possibly they weren’t given – but what had really struck F’s daughter (and consequently F) was the degree to which these people had taken their own initiative. They hadn’t waited for someone to tell them what to do. They hadn’t been pressured into anything and they certainly hadn’t waited for the government to enforce regulations upon them. They had simply seen a problem and together started to work out a solution that would benefit everybody through give-and-take.

There have been various posts from various people recently on what our future holds for us, notably Jenny’s Apocalype or Liberal Democracy 2.0? and Dickie’s Crossroads. As Jenny says, I think the consensus is that the world cannot continue in its current way, and that sooner or later, all too possibly sooner, something is going to have to give. The Transition Towns movement, as I linked to in the comments of the above post, is a movement that is trying to prepare Britain for the time when Peak Oil runs out. Dickie’s argument that sustainability and climate change are two completely different issues is a slightly invidious one in my opinion, but I do think that he is right that the latter is focused on too much to the detriment of the former.

The problem is, is that we’re all waiting around for somebody to tell us what to do about it. We know that it’s happening, yes, and we’ll switch off our lightbulbs and recycle our newspapers like nobody’s business – and then go and sit down at our computers while the washing machine whirrs and sockets give out energy to appliances on standby. We tut at the sheer amount ending up in landfill, but yet we still buy more new stuff because we feel like having a new phone or a different outfit for the evening. I’m not saying that I’m any better here, incidentally, but it’s something I’m trying to be conscious of and something that I think that a lot of people don’t really appreciate – that sustainability is for life, not just for Christmas, so to speak, and that we’re all waiting for someone else to take the lead.

Some of you may have noticed the new icon just below the calendar on the right of my blog. It links you to the 10:10 campaign, a campaign which aims for its members to reduce their carbon emissions by 10% in 2010. And it’s not just about car fuel – it’s about food, it’s about consumer habits, it’s about household energy use, and it’s about promoting a lifestyle which takes notice of the world and the resources around us. Individuals and big businesses need to play their part.

It’s hard, yes. In technological terms we might feel like we’re regressing, yes. But surely we can’t have it both ways? If that technology is contributing to our world’s downfall, we may have to choose between the privilege of using it now and the privilege of living in a society with enough resources to support itself to a basic level in however many years time. Personally I know which one I’d choose in the long run, even if delayed gratification is not intrinsic to our natures.

And maybe everything will sort itself out, and our saving grace will appear, and God will come down from the heavens to keep us happy and rich and safe. We’re so convinced that it couldn’t happen to us that we shut our eyes on the fact that for many parts of the world, it’s already happened to them and they’re already dealing with the consequences. Let’s take our lead from that town in Oregon, shall we, and take some immediate responsibility?

What We’ve Lost

I’ve just come back from a short babysitting job – a nearly-six year old, a three year old, and a nearly-one year old while Mummy went to a concert and Daddy was not yet back from work. I didn’t have to do a huge amount as all three children were in bed, although I did supervise the nearly-six year old when he called out that he “needed a weeeee!”.

What I had forgotten about small children until relatively recently is just quite how endearing they are. Sure, I go gooey about toddlers in cafés all the time (rather to the disconcertment* of J), but in terms of small people who I come across on a regular basis, there are only now a couple who occasionally cross my path – and I very rarely have to pay full responsible attention to them.

What tonight really reminded me of is just the magic and enthusiasm of still being young! How real pleasure and excitement can be derived from a cuddly flower toy, how school is fun and can you ask me some sums?, and the glory of a playpen filled with brightly coloured balls. When you’re that age, everything is just so easy and simple, or it seems it from an older perspective. Knees are bashed and toys are scraped but you’re best friends by 7 o’clock when Mummy comes to put you to bed. Bedtime stories are aplenty – currently residing on my floor, waiting to be wrapped for T’s three year old, are copies of ‘Where The Wild Things Are’ and ‘The Gruffalo’s Child’. The Big Bad Mouse who lies in wait for gruffalo pie is enough to give anyone the shivers if you turn the lamp down low!

And yes, I know that I’m talking about the lucky ones, and yes, I know that there are children out there who don’t receive that magical childhood and all the rest of it. But even for those children who are less fortunate, I just find myself in love with the pure, uncomplicated humanity that they carry with them. I often think it’s something that adults could learn from.

x

*word?

Personal Definitions

How do you define yourself? I define myself as many things – a student, a Brummie (perhaps of the less stereotypical variety), a mathematician, a geek, a sewist, a Quaker, and so on and so forth. Essentially, though, I define me as me.

I was having this conversation with some friends the other day on the way back from a picnic. One of them has just got together with a new guy, and it’s looking serious already. We were talking about their future, in a loose hypothetical way, when something really struck me. H was talking about her career, her wants, and her life in general purely in terms of his. That’s all good, I suppose, from the point of view that by marrying someone you are tying your life into theirs and that somewhere along the way that is bound to involve a certain amount of compromise. But her aims in life seemed to revolve purely around her prospective husband’s – to quote, she would rather be the wife of a successful businessman than a successful businesswoman herself.

I’m sure that a lot of this stems from H’s rather traditional upbringing (; her mother will ‘allow’ her to leave home only in order to marry someone deemed suitable), and if that is what will make her happy then I wish her all the best. But at the same time, she is a highly intelligent postgrad, with strong views and ideals of her own, and is a lovely person to boot – and instinctively I don’t like the idea of H being transformed into ‘the wife of whoever’.

And for all I can see only too easily how it happens, I despair in the same way at those mothers (and yes, sorry guys, it does tend to be mothers) who find their personalities and lives absorbed into that of their children’s.  Whenever I come into contact with women pushing a pram or pushchair, I make a real effort to engage with them, to meet their eyes without simply going gooey over their children, however cute the children may be. There are many things that I dread about potential motherhood and that’s a whole long story for counsellors to get their teeth into, but one of those is losing my identity to my children. I find myself feeling guilty sometimes for that childhood perspective of my own mother – she was my Mum, not C, not a primary-school teacher  or an English/European Thought graduate or a keen walker. I guess that’s one of the things that I’m consciously trying to make up as I’ve grown older.

I’m quite pleased, for that reason, that J’s friends seem to know me as ‘Lucy’, not ‘J’s girlfriend’. I like having my own identity. It’s something I plan to hang on to.

Apathy and Activism

I wasn’t glued to the TV or the internet at 9pm on Sunday night, waiting for the news of the European Elections to start trickling through. In fact I waiting for that exact news – but I was standing at the edge of a hall in Pity Me, Durham, with a green rosette on my chest and hand in hand with J, the Lib Dem contingent behind us and the BNPs in front of us. Seated at the tables in a horseshoe were dozens of exhausted council workers and in the middle were 116,213 votes exactly, each one sorted, checked, counted, checked, and finally tied in a bundle of 100 to be placed on the appropriate pile. Our job as party representatives had been to scrutinise the counting process, flagging up any votes that had been placed incorrectly through malpractice or, as was much more likely to be the case given the sheer numbers involved, through human error.

Durham did not have any council seats up for election, due to the restructuring into a unitary authority that happened one year (two years?) ago. Our three European seats went to Labour, Conservative and Lib Dem, once each. The Labour count was much higher than I expected – it’ll have certainly been higher than the national average, I assume – but even that was down on normal when you consider that much of the North East of England has never even considered voting for anyone else.

I have nothing to add on the subject of the BNP, UKIP, and the increasingly far-right tendencies of the Tories to what has already been said over at Jenny’s blog. The hard fact is that every seat that the far right have gained, both in Britain and across Europe, is as a result of people voting for them, and not enough people voting in order to counteract the effect.

But this leads me on to Jenny’s question. What’s done is done, but what the hell can we do about all this now?

I suppose on a grass roots level it’s about motivating interest in politics, and trying to get informed debate going so that people know what they’re voting for (and why they’re voting for).

The next level up from that is getting involved in either activism or actual politics. I am not a member of the Green Party – J and I were there on invitation to help out a party member who we know from Quaker Meeting – but discussing the statistics and tactics, and feeling part of the whole electoral process has at least temporarily fired up my enthusiasm for getting involved properly. The system is undoubtedly flawed, yes. I had a pang of sympathy for the 400-odd ballot papers that were discounted for having ‘FUCK YOU ALL’ or ‘NOT FIT FOR GOVERNMENT’ scrawled across them – but the fact is that this is the system in which we presently have to work. Are we going to stand aside in protest at a system and let those manipulative people who have no such qualms take it over while we sit around debating the respective merits of various democracies, and wondering why things are getting really shit?

[And here I intend(ed) to go into a political discussion of a rather more philopsophical bent. It may yet happen. Stay tuned. But time slips on, and if I don't publish at least this first entry soon then it will be lost to the nether regions of my 'Draft' pile forever! It's been sat there a good few days already.]

4th June

This is a post which is hopefully preaching to the converted, but a reminder and a plea nonetheless to get out and vote today if you can. Vote for anyone. Vote if nothing else to keep the BNP out of the European Parliament – this one’s proportional representation per region, which is more likely to give an edge to small parties. Spoil your ballot paper if you don’t care or don’t trust any of ‘em. Vote postally at home, or in person away, but vote, vote, have your say, stand up against the über-right-wing minority who are threatening policies of racism and hatred, make your voice heard!

Oh, and remember: this is a European Election for most of us, in addition to a local council election for some. Therefore if you’re not electing a new MP for whatever reason, it has really very little to do with Gordon Brown. Yeh? Good.

Absurdity

I would like, ladies and gentlemen, to present you with an absurdity of the highest order. The background is thus:

After just over 18 months dedicated service, my trainers have fallen apart. As in, there’s rubber dangling off one of the heels and the entire inner sole came out when I tried to remove my insole. Oh, and they’ve had duct tape holding together the inside of the heels for a while. But they’ve been excellent, comfortable, supportive trainers which I have certainly got good mileage out of, and the uppers are absolutely fine still so it seems a shame to chuck them out. Unfortunately, though, today’s development (the rubber heel) means that I really can’t wear them any longer.

Mindful that this day was going to come sooner or later, I’ve been half keeping my eye out for some new ones. The problem, though is this: I need supportive, comfortable trainers in a narrow-fitting women’s size 9.

And they simply don’t exist. I’ve been into every shop I can think of. I’ve dealt with the normal rude reaction from customer service assistants who just don’t get why their paltry choice of ugly, ‘fashion’ trainers aren’t suitable for six miles a day on Durham’s hills and why I’m frankly insulted that that’s all they have to offer for long feet. I even bought a pair of ‘walking trainers’ from Millets which were fine in principle, but in practise their phenomenal depth meant that tying the laces tight enough to make them stay on seriously hurt my ankles after about half an hour – so they’re going back.

After the final blow was dealt this morning, then, I went net-searching in earnest, and came across a pair of hopefuls. They were on a manufacturer’s site so I called the number in order to find out where stocks them, particularly hopeful because the manufacturer in question had been identified by a shop assistant as producing women’s size 9s. Brilliant! I phoned them. Next (of all places) will be stocking some size 8s in a couple of weeks, hopefully. They don’t make size 9s in summer, only in winter.

Read that again.

This company doesn’t make women’s size 9 shoes in summer, only in winter.

What is wrong with these people??!!

( I have gone through this shoe-problem of mine many times in the past. Does wonders for your self-esteem, that your feet are too BIG to get shoes, particularly nice shoes. God, what would somebody with such BIG and UGLY feet want with nice shoes?)

Observation

: a girl, about five, in Northfield Sainsbury’s. Playing with an un-bought doll, with a tag that read ‘My First Baby’.

Does no-one else find this worrying?!

Fees Petition

Someone invited me to this Facebook group, which contains a link to a petition here concerning the potential removal of a cap on university tuition fees.

I’m not going to write a big rant here or now, but suffice to say that although I have not joined the Facebook group, I immediately went and signed the government petition. Yes, the higher education funding system is desperately in need of a review, but it would be simplistic and short-sighted to imply that raised (and variable) fees will solve the problem. Such a measure would only serve to exacerbate the class divide in this country whilst overlooking the rather more pressing issues in higher education and just trying to blindly throw cash in the hope that some of it might end up in the right places.

*sigh*

Lost and Found

A very long time ago, about last Friday, I lost my purse. I am certain that I had it when I left home at 5pm, and equally certain that it wasn’t anywhere in my room come Saturday morning. I searched for it high and low. I combed my room, retraced my steps of the night before, and on being resigned to the fact that I wasn’t going to be able to pay for a bus fare to Sainsbury’s, let alone buy any food once I got there, I went and rather grudgingly cancelled my bank card.

Friends have been lending me money this week until the new card comes through (and I have been discovering, rather to my dismay, quite how much I actually spend), but it’s still not pleasant, losing a purse. The only other ‘official’ thing in it was my driving licence, which is big enough in itself when you consider the implications of handing somebody else your ID, but it was the other stuff – y’know, the student society cards, shop points cards, my home library card – that I was really sad to see go and were going to be a hassle to replace. Along with the fact that I’m quite attached to that purse.

But then I received a phone call from my Dad yesterday to say that it had been returned! Some kindly soul, name and address not supplied, had picked it up off the pavement and sent it to the address on the licence. They’d taken the cash from it, but that was only about a tenner – less, I’ve no doubt, than it would have cost to replace the purse’s contents. Which you’d hope, y’know, is what anyone would do if they found a purse in a similar situation (cash theft aside). But it’s just nice to have one’s faith in humanity restored once in a while.

Marriage

I went to a mixed school. I am at university with a lot of hardline Christians. I am twenty-one, which is not an unreasonable age for this sort of thing, and hell, I’d've been past my sell-by-date years ago in some parts of the world.

So I can cope with people getting engaged, even though it scares the hell out of me that people of my age are getting ready to spend the rest of their lives together. I can cope with the fact that a friend of my age has a two year-old (just about). I can even cope with friends a year older than myself getting married because, y’know, they’re big and old and into the scary real world. What I am finding difficult to cope with is today’s discovery that one of my Facebook friends from the year below me at school, has got married and is now about seven months pregnant, while in what I think might still be her first year of university.

It’s not that I disapprove particularly. It’s  just, like, big. And scary. And I’m not that old and I’m not that responsible and I want my Mummy, not to be someone else’s Mummy! Not that I’m going to be for the immediate future, but y’know… When people put ‘Married’ on their Facebook relationship status, they don’t actually mean it, right?

“_____ _____ got married on Friday. No, really.” :-S!