We're all going to hell in a shopping cart

I get very annoyed by the 10:10 campaign. I've never commuted. Or bought (or for that matter worn) disposable nappies. We fitted eco lightbulbs, turned down our thermostats and got into economy gastronomy *years* ago. The council delivered us a little bin for waste food collection this week, and I'm struggling to find anything to put in it (Current contents: some dried out feta, a bit of fish skin and some baklava that wasn't very nice). We went exactly nowhere on holiday this year, though to be fair that had more to do with having to get the roof fixed than with being green. And we had a lovely time staycationing.

So yeah, I could find another 10%, but not without buying a new fridge, a new boiler, or new windows. Only the first of these lies within my means, and there's nothing wrong with the fridge apart from it being 30 years old and full of CFCs that are better off inside it than out in the world.

And 10% of what? Our neighbours are posh students, whose parents are paying their utility bills and who live off ready meals, Dominos pizza and alcopops. You never see anything on their washing lines. You never see anything in their recycling bins. They drive or get cabs everywhere. They couldn't give a shit.

Go a bit further down the road, where incomes are lower and houses are smaller, and it's an orgy of consumption. Primark, B&Q, Lidl, Matalan et al are still piling it high and selling it cheap. And *they're* buying it even cheaper from the world's newly industrialised countries, who will cut every corner, emit every gas and fell every tree necessary to keep the profit margin up.

And there's my *real* problem with 10:10 - at the end of the day, 10% isn't going to make any difference. Sure, there's the low-impact hardcore eco-vegans out there, and more power to them, but they're outside the system. The system isn't going to destroy itself anytime soon, and if it did, what would we replace it with?

This first became clear to me when I watched The Corporation back in 2003. I was mad with big business in all sorts of ways and always have been, but I hadn't fully realised that the basic building block of the modern capitalist economy is pretty much legally obliged to take the course of action that will generate the most money for its shareholders. So you can cycle to work as much as you like, but if your bikes is made in China and you work for the Man, it's all just so much pissing in the wind.

And if your bike is hand-made by artisans in the Black Country, your tyres are fairly traded rubber and you work in an organic swede field, it's still pissing in the wind, but at least you have the moral high ground. Counts for something, high ground, these days.

This is the sort of grumpy realeconomik dialogue that I have with myself a lot of the time. I still cut up my old T-shirts for rags, but only because I was brought up right, not because I think it will save the world. So I wasn't the most welcoming when a bouncy young woman came round the office on Friday to ask us all if we were going to The Wave. No, I said. Why not? she asked.

I wanted to say... because we chose to consume rather than to conserve hundreds of years ago, and painting ourselves blue now won't make any fucking difference. I wanted to point her at this excellent article by Paul Kingsnorth, who says "democracies predicated on giving their consumer citizens what they want are unable to tell them what they cannot have". I wanted to tell her that I was luckier than her, because I was born in the 1970s. Because I am part of the generation who got to ride the last wave, who saw coral without knowing it was dying, who escaped obesity, who knew off-grid freedom, who only had one coat at a time, and who will die, in all likelihood, both after Margaret Thatcher and before all the fish.

But I didn't. I said that I was going to Lancashire because it was my dad's birthday, and there wasn't a train I could get on the Sunday so I had to go on Saturday. Almost as true, but not nearly as honest. But I couldn't bring myself, as my friend L would say, to trample on her flower.

I'm prepared to be proved wrong on this. We may all wake up the day after Copenhagen to realise that the best things in life are, after all, free. But I'm not holding my breath.

joella

Major life event horizons

Me? I'm fine. I wouldn't quite go as far as never better, but my foot has almost repaired itself, Moley's histology was clear, I can walk as far as I like again, and it feels great. Last week I was striding down Cowley Road in the dark and the drizzle, in search of a) paperchain raw material and b) aromatics for preservation purposes (of which more shortly) and feeling... uplifted.

Autonomy is a beautiful thing. I have more invested in it than perhaps I should - which is something I might choose to worry about once I'm done feeling liberated and skippy even though all around me are steeped in seasonal gloom.

But it's not been as simple as that of late. Firmly on the good news side, ex-housemate S has safely delivered Baby Particle, full size (him), full complement of faculties and accoutrements (also him, though she's no more partial than usual), intact perineum (her). All hail womankind for managing something so improbable on a stupefyingly regular basis. It truly is an ordinary miracle.

We were on call to look after Baby Tungsten (henceforth known as Big Boy Tungsten) during the birthing proceedings, so we needed to get special dispensation - or what M calls (from his boarding school days) Per - to go away for the weekend before in order to attend the wedding of L & H. Per was granted, and we headed off to Wales on the Friday night.

And I'm not normally a great one for weddings, but this one was exceptional. The venue was like an upmarket Tudor youth hostel - remote, slightly chilly, roaring open fires, huge scope for conspiracy and improvisation. We hung out in rooms with panelling. We harvested sloes. We bathed in a huge cast iron tub. And of course we celebrated the marriage of the lovely bride and groom.

We came home on the Sunday, relieved to hear that S's waters remained unbroken. But sadly, very sadly, her dad died late that night. It wasn't completely unexpected, he'd been ill for three years, and she'd been up to Lancashire to see him a week before, but still a huge shock. There were a couple of days where it wasn't clear if she would be able to go to the funeral, but the NHS intervened in the form of something called a membrane sweep (don't look it up, it will make you feel ill, but needs must), and baby Particle arrived bang on his due date.

So S and her young man and Tungsten and Particle were all able to head north. And we went too. I was last in that church for S's mum's funeral 12 years ago, and that was incredibly sad because it felt like we were all too young for this to be happening. Her dad was 80, but there was a four day old baby who will never know either of his mother's parents in the congregation, and that was incredibly sad too. But my hat is off to the lot of them. There were tears all round, but it was a good do.

I find myself increasingly fascinated by the art of preservation - I have sloe gin and sambuca, gherkins and beetroot on the go at the moment, and I am hoarding things for a remnant-based art project that M doesn't quite know about yet, or at least hasn't fully acknowledged. I wonder if these things are somehow linked.

joella

When I grow up, I want to be an old woman...

I took time out to go and see Michelle Shocked play the Drill Hall yesterday. The Drill Hall is one of those venues where my possible pasts catch up with me big time, and I am amazed to see how so many of them have made it into the present.

I went (up) to Cambridge in October 1988, aged 18, outwardly stroppy and inwardly terrified. I look at some of the photos from that first year and I really cannot believe my own balls. But I guess that's what being 18 is all about. There was nobody like me (there still isn't, but hey, there's nobody like anybody, I know that now) but after a couple of weeks I met E, who was from Cheshire and wore leggings and DMs. I was from Lancashire and wore leggings and DMs, and for a good while we clung onto each other like two ports in a storm. She had a very cool older brother, who was in a band called Wild Bill Harzia and the Malarial Swamp Dogs (if memory serves) and who, more importantly, was in a position to get me a ticket to see Billy Bragg play the Corn Exchange.

Now, I'd had a ticket to see Billy Bragg before. In September 1987, he'd played Blackpool Opera House and E had sorted us out with good seats. But then about five days before the gig, round at our friend D's, he'd held me by the throat and punched the wall next to my stomach. It was one of those nights that creates a spike on the graph of your life. That was the end of me and E, and not before time, but I always kind of regretted not holding out for my ticket.

So there I was, on 16 November 1988, at my first Billy Bragg gig. I went on my own. I still have the T-shirt. And the poster. It was another of those nights... and the support act was Michelle Shocked. She blew me away. Short Sharp Shocked is still one of my favourite albums of all time.

What I didn't know then was that 1987 was a big year for her too - she came over to the UK for the first time, played the Drill Hall, and that was the start of something big. This was a kind of 20 years on celebration of that, and the journey. And it was moving. Michelle Shocked has made it into the present big time. She played Memories of East Texas, and I cried, like I did when I first heard it 20 years ago. It's so weird to have an adult life that stretches out so far, with these powerful constants in it. In many ways she's a thoroughly modern heroine, and I am in awe. But these days she's also a serious god-botherer, and, you know, whatever works, but personally I can't be doing with that sheeeeeit.

I came away with a whole range of things to think about, none of which I'd really expected. And I'm still thinking about them. I feel a bit like the walking wounded. And not just because of my foot.

joella

Don't it always seem to go, you don't know what you've got till it's gone

I've just been out on my own, for the first time in nearly a fortnight. Only to the Co-op, and only because I'd run out of wine. M would have gone if I'd asked him to*, but he's not drinking at the moment, and it didn't seem right. 

So I took off my slippers and put my trainers on, and limped slowly down the road in the clocks-gone-back drizzle, sniffing the air like a dog and obstructing the hordes clattering down behind me on their way out to tick another box on their student experience checklist. 

It still hurts to walk. In a 'you probably shouldn't be doing this' sort of way. I have a stitched up wound with various non stitched up bits opening up off it. If it was on my head or my arm or pretty much anywhere except the side of my foot, I think it would be better now, but despite doing *almost nothing* for what feels like forever, keeping it clean, keeping it dry, adding Sterastrips to give the stitches a helping hand, every day it still bleeds a little. 

I have evolved two modes of moving around. The first involves just putting weight on the ball of my foot. You can move quicker that way, but your leg soon cramps up. The second involves putting weight on ball, heel and instep. This can only be done very slowly... any attempt at speed makes you feel like the whole thing might bust open at any moment. Which it might. 

You do of course, at least if you're me, spend much of this time thinking about people who have to walk a long way with wounded feet, and what fucking agony that must be. Or people who can't walk at all. 

My whole life is geared around having functioning feet, I just never realised. And while I usually find the termtime walk to the Co-op fairly oppressive, what with the non-compliant rubbish that the council will never collect, the badly parked Minis that I want to run a key down, the shitty dance music emanating from every window, and the clouds of posh girl perfume that just don't mask the stale smoke and the ghd-singed hairspray... tonight it felt kind of liberating. Look at me! I can walk to the shop! Buy a bottle of Soave and some houmous! Walk home again and put my foot up! I don't care that it's raining! I don't care that I'm in your way, but I will of course let you past if you ask! No, I don't need a bag! Yes, I have a Co-op membership card! I am part of society!  

The odds are that my foot will be completely fine at some point soon. I hope I will remember to celebrate full foot functionality, and also to get a little less annoyed by shit that doesn't actually matter. 

joella

*In fact, M has been a gold-standard boyfriend throughout this whole experience. Except for coming home with No Added Sugar Ribena, but that was an honest mistake.

The wide awake club

God knows, I'm bad at most things, but I'm good at sleeping. It can be hard to get me into bed, but it's nigh on impossible to get me out of it. I can sleep for England. I love to sleep. My Significant Ex and I once slept through the burglar alarm going off at his mum's and the police coming round with his elderly key-holding great aunt to check the place out. We woke up five hours later and wondered if we'd forgotten to set it. 

So why am I awake? I've been awake since four. I'd like to blame the students, who generally get home around that time on a Tuesday morning, but I can't - we discovered the joy of term time ear plugs last year, and haven't looked back. No, I just woke up. I put the light on and finished my novel, then I turned the light off and lay in the darkness for an hour, and then I thought fuck it, I'll get up. This almost never happens. I am not one of those people who creeps round the house in the small hours making cocoa and listening to the World Service. 

I was out last night, had a few drinks. I did have a lychee martini (which, incidentally, tasted like heaven on earth), and gin can mess with your head, but that doesn't account for it. It wasn't one of those panicky fast forward did-I-say-anything-unforgivable depth of the night hangover awakenings. Not even close. 

I'm worried about work things. A sort of mild, bottled panic that might pop its cork anytime but hasn't quite yet. I am over-committed and under-resourced. That's just how it is, probably, I need coping strategies that I haven't managed to develop, but probably will. But normally, when I'm not there, I'm pretty good at not thinking about it. I don't get paid to wake up at four in the morning, you feel me?

Specifically, I'm furious with several of the powers that be at NGO X, who have turned our IT helpdesk into an ITIL-compliant Service Desk. There is a poster on the wall which says 'are you being served?'. Well, possibly, technically, if telling me that the thing I am asking for is not on the list of things that are now permissible counts. You can close that call and hit your target. I've been served, but I've not been *helped*. I'm just looking for another workaround, and feeling sad for the guys who used to be able to help people. While I was lying in the dark, I hit upon the workaround I can use, and wondered if it contravened any policies, and wondered if I cared if it did, but I'm not so sad that this would have actually woken me up. 

My foot hurts. I'm bored of not being able to walk properly. I haven't been able to get to the allotment and water my cabbages. I'm slightly allergic to the dressings I'm using so my foot is itchy as well as sore. I just want it all to heal up and go away. In the back of my mind is the thought that it might not. All reasonable enough, but you know, sleep helps, and I'm tired. So WTF?

I used to go for a weep in Wantage at 7am every Tuesday. It was the hardest thing in the world getting up for that. There's something about the early morning mind that's easier to access, apparently. No wonder, given the chance, I normally sleep till 11. 

joella

Hurty foot update

This isn't a very good 'after' photo: there are still strips covering the stitches and there was a bit of bleeding which I haven't been able to wash off yet. 

But let's just say it hurts. Not so much when I'm not doing anything, but a lot if I try and walk on it. They did warn me. I did say 'yes of course I'll take it easy'. I didn't quite realise I wouldn't have any choice. 

Which made it all the weirder when, nine hours after I can back from hospital, when I was lying on the sofa full of wine, painkillers and macaroni cheese, the doorbell rang in an urgent kind of way. It was the students from next door -- the side we like -- asking if we knew how to turn their water off as their toilet had exploded and the bathroom was flooding. So I grabbed a walking pole and hobbled round. We got the water off but the toilet didn't have an isolator. 

So M followed with my tools, and I ended up breaking all the rules of plumbing: don't do it when you're a bit pissed, don't do it in your favourite trousers, don't do it when you can't walk. Nothing too drastic - just cut the pipe to the toilet and stuck a cap end on it so they could put their water back on, but they couldn't believe their luck, and I woke up the next morning in a codeine haze thinking 'did that really happen?' 

Guess it did. And, as the nurse said, Moley's in a pot now. I wanted to ask how she knew I'd called her Moley, but I guess it's a pretty common name. 

joella

Feet and millimetres and clay and spirits.

I've called her Moley Cyrus. She's 8mm long, and she's coming off tomorrow. 

I won't be digging for a bit, so I made the most of the glorious weather today, and went down to the allotment to plough the fields and scatter (aka pull up a lot of bolted lettuce and weeds, and plant out some spring cabbages that likely won't survive our current plague of whitefly). 

The sun was going down, and it was just me and J from over the way left on the site. "Don't overdo it," he said, as he loaded up his bicycle. 

One of the many, many reasons I love my allotment is because I get to hang out with people like J, men who are either retired or very partially employed, who practically live on their plot (they have sheds, and quite likely *have* spent the night there on occasion), whose wives probably despair of them in a well-at-least-I-know-where-he-is-and-I've-not-had-to-buy-an-onion-since-1983 sort of way, and who are generous with both their advice and their surplus apples. 

I'm fine, I said. Beautiful day, isnt' it? 

It is, he said. I just spent the last half hour drinking whisky in the sun and doing nothing. 

I'd guessed whisky was one of the many things J keeps in his capacious bike basket. He has that look, and occasionally that smell, about him. But he has asparagus beds, and has just single-handedly built his own polytunnel. I aspire. 

He checked I had a key on me, in a delightful slightly pissed courteous way, and took his leave. I stayed there a while longer, pulling out the bad stuff and leaving in the good. 

Listening to: See that my grave is kept clean - Diamanda Galas

joella

Free at the point of use

I have this brown mark on my foot. It just kind of arrived a couple of years ago. My mother said I was getting old. I *am* getting old.

Over the summer, my friend N came to stay. A few years ago she went into hospital Up North (where she lives) to have a mole removed from one of her eyebrows. You can see the scar if you know where to look, but they did a lovely job. More importantly, while it turned out to be a Bad Mole, she has since been given the all clear.

She spotted the mark on my foot when we were both curled up on the sofa watching TV and said 'has anyone looked at that?'. No, I said. 'Go to see your GP', she said.

So I booked an appointment via the EMIS system. I've been going to the same GP practice for over 10 years, and I think it's great. I got to see the doctor I always try to see - one of the partners, who is also a trained homeopath and the closest thing to a British bluestocking I can imagine. She had a student in with her, and they both looked at my foot. 'Need to refer that, I'm afraid,' she said, and filled in a form. It was ticked 'urgent', which alarmed me slightly. I took it downstairs and gave it to the receptionists.

A couple of days later I got a phonecall at work from the Dermatology department at the Churchill, who'd called me at home and got the number from M. She offered me a 9.30 appointment the following Tuesday. I said I *could* make that, but I was supposed to be in an all day meeting that day, but I wasn't working on the Friday? She said I could come at 9am on Friday instead. I said thanks. She said she'd send me a letter to confim but it might not arrive on time, but there was a map on the website. I said thanks. I took advantage of this. 

[NB The letter did arrive on time, but I didn't open it, which I'm quite glad about, as it told me I had an appointment at a Tumour Clinic and I should try not to worry.]

I turned up at the appointed hour, and was directed to Waiting Area 2, where five minutes later a doctor called me in and asked me some questions. Do you want to see my foot? I said. I want to see all your skin, she said. We went into an examining room, I went down to my bra and pants and she looked at all my various moles. Right, she said, we do need to get the consultant to look at that foot. There will be a short wait.

She handed me one of those hospital gowns with no back, and went back into the outer office. I put it on, then lay down on the examining couch to read my book. After a couple of minutes, I put my socks back on, as it was a little chilly. Five minutes later, she came back in. Are you ok? she said. The consultant is coming soon.

Five minutes after that, he burst through the door with a student in tow and bearing a special mole magnifier. I took my socks off and he had a good look. Then he talked about the ABCD of moles to the student and got her to have a look too. Colour was his main concern. Can I see? I said. It was a bit tricky because of the angle, but I could see that it might look basically brown, but is actually very splotchy.

How did you get here? he said. I got dropped off, I said. How are you getting home? he said. I'm going to walk, I said. Ah, he said. Not if we take this off now. Oh, I said.

Well, we don't have to do it today, he said. But I want that off in the next two weeks. Because of where it is, you won't be able to walk for a few days, and you'll have to take it very easy for a couple of weeks to make sure it heals properly.

Oh, I said. I'm supposed to be going to Brussels next week for work. Not if we take it off today, he said. Oh, I said. Is the week after next ok? I mean, is it dumb to wait?

It's fine, he said. Chances are it's not melanoma but not worth the risk of leaving it there. There's something not right about it.

OK, I said. Thanks.

So I got dressed, the first doctor took an MRSA swab from my nostril (I have no idea why), and gave me a green form and a white form, which I took back to reception.

The receptionist took the white one, and directed me down the hall to the surgery appointments office. The woman in there looked through her bookings. It looks full, she said, but I keep a few slots hidden for two-weekers like you. How about 1.30 on the 14th?

Great, I said. She gave me an appointment card and a leaflet about minor surgery, and I walked home via the public right of way across the golf course.

When I got home I opened the original letter they'd sent me, where it did say that they also treat private patients. One wonders what extra you'd get for the money.

And while the ultra-specialist part of my care so far has been delivered via a male consultant, who was brusque but not bossy, every other contact I've had has been with a woman. And they've all thought about how I might be feeling and what else might be going on in my life. 

So I have to say to Ms Death Panel Palin and her freakish ilk: if this is socialised medicine, you guys should Bring It On. 

joella

Celebrations

It's been a month of earthly and other-worldly delights.

Walking tours. Two of them. Both on the same weekend, celebrating P's 60th birthday and discovering many things about London. The first one accompanied Radical Nature, an exhibition at the Barbican, which I could not wholeheartedly recommend. The dolphin embassy is hilarious, and Agnes Denes's wheatfield is spectacular, but most of the 21st century 'interventions' are fairly excruciating.

The walking tour, though, was brilliant. We thought we would be visiting private green spaces not normally open to the public. Instead a softly spoken man with a satchel and a passion for tiger moth caterpillars showed us wild plants and flowers growing in obscure corners and crevices around the complex. Catch it if you can... as C pointed out, the botanist who leads it looks like he might disappear back into the brickwork at any moment.

The following day we explored Subterranean London, and learnt how John Snow worked out what was causing the cholera epidemic in Soho in 1854, and how Joseph Bazalgette banished it forever out by sorting out sewers in a big way. Kind of sobering to think about all the cities where people still get cholera because their shit runs down the middle of the street, and then remember that it was only 150 years ago that happened right in the middle of London. Amazing. Also recommended.

Over in art world, for M's birthday I took him to 'experience' Susurrus in the Botanic Gardens. Verdict: hmm. It's a glorious time of year there, so I'd say take your own iPod, stick on something mournful and lovely, like say the new Unthanks album, walk slowly and forget about the play.

I finished Infinite Jest, all 1079 pages of it. I am rather haunted by images of broken, addicted people in a broken, polluted world, but it's also hellishly funny. If you have the time, it's worth the time.

I went out for dinner with my Significant Ex (preceded by beer in the Wheatsheaf where they now have Proper Pint Jugs, very excitingly) and came home with Here Come The Snakes, which I haven't heard for years, since my tape of his album was destroyed by the tape deck of the 2cv. For years that was my very best tape, HCTS on one side and Stone Roses/Stone Roses on the other... but while the latter album is now near-ubiquitous, the former is hard to find except in expanded expensive reissued form. As great lost albums go, they don't get much greater than this one, and I stuck it on, turned it up, and had a large glass of red and a little weep. No shame in that, every now and again.

The allotment produced so much stuff last week (mostly potatoes, but also chard, French beans, carrots, gherkins, and lettuce) that I had to bring it all home in a wheelbarrow. Add this to last month's stellar red onion haul and the squash still to come and I'm coming over all Little House in the Big Woods.

Only *they* didn't have to deal with the annual migration of the Brookesalikes. But I'll save my griping for another day. There's digging to do.

joella

Season to taste

A couple of weeks back, when ex-Saturday-job-comrade N and her family came to stay, we went to the Elder Stubbs Festival. We'd probably have gone anyway, it is a highlight of the East Oxford summer calendar. But it was even more fun with a bunch of Lancastrians-turned-Mancunians, who boggled gratifyingly at the patchouli-and-patchwork people, the wicker sculptures, and the bands who all sound like Hawkwind. This scene somehow blends seamlessly with whatever the collective noun is for upscale off-road pushchairs full of Boden-clad kids. We played NGO X bingo, and it didn't take long to get a full house.

But the festival's raison d'etre is mental health awareness. The allotment site has strong links with Restore, a fine organisation which also runs a cafe, garden and craft shop round the corner from us. The party bag contained a copy of One In Four magazine, which I found myself reading in bed the other day. It had an article about SAD, which I thought was a bit odd, as *I* struggle with summertime, but I thought I was unusual.

But then I realised that the magazine was nine months old. Maybe it's because we got there late.

And then I carried on reading, and discovered there is also 'reverse SAD': rare but real, apparently. I wouldn't claim anything like full-blown depression, it's more that some days are edged with black. The sunnier the day, the deeper the edging. As soon as there's a chill in the air, I rest a little easier, despite the price of gas. So yeah, I can vouch for the existence of the summertime blues, and minimal research confirms I'm not alone.

But I can also vouch for the therapeutic value of growing stuff. Or, for that matter, just having your hands in the earth. I have spent hours over the last few days digging the summer's spent allotment beds, breaking the big chunks into little chunks, pulling out the couch grass roots and making a pile of weed spaghetti. The soil needs to be in the right heart (as I believe it's called) before you can do this ... too dry and you'll never break it up, too wet and it sucks you down. Right now, our soil is perfect for it. Most people don't do it by hand, but I'm cool with that. Then I put my jumper on and smile inside.

joella