A fascinating but disturbing article in yesterday's Sunday Telegraph revealed that a huge amount of food sold over the Christmas period first sees light in Britain when it's placed on the supermarket shelf.
Importing food isn't a new thing - before the outbreak of the Second World War a staggering amount was imported from overseas. France, Denmark, Belgium, Holland and Luxembourg previously supplied 1, 750, 000 tons of the stuff. It's an unpleasant but undeniable truth that paying to have food flown thousands of miles across the world is cheaper than growing it five miles down the road. But why? And is there no way that this can be changed?
The Telegraph reports that the staple of the Christmas diet - turkey - may land on our plates from Brazil, Chile, Poland or France. Goose might have plodded along on Hungarian or German soil (well, only if it were free range), while that Scottish classic, salmon, is really from China.
It's all too easy to turn a blind eye to where your food comes from, and in these times of austerity most of us simply can't afford to buy according to our morals. We know that vegetables from the UK will suppport local farmers, but when those from Spain or Israel are half the price, this becomes an expensive principle to stick to.
During the Second World War, the UK was forced to 'mend its ways' and turn to itself for produce; and though times were hard, people managed. In today's world of speed and convenience, food importing has become out of control. It might seem an obvious statement, but if we cut the overseas competition British farmers might stand a chance - and British food might become far more affordable.
Monday 13 December 2010
Thursday 9 December 2010
Why I'm a mad cat woman
No, I don't mean in a rubber-clad Michelle Pfeiffer sort of way (perish the thought!) Like the horrific realisation that you've driven away with your handbag on the roof of the car, it came to me - I'm turning into one of 'those women'. Those slightly mental, deeply boring cat women.
For quite some time I've known that I'm slipping into an early middle age. You only have to look at my previous post to see that. As well as the Archers my interests include baking, gardening and looking at National Trust houses. I'm comfortable in my prematurely sagging skin (metaphorically of course - I still have the arrogance of a taut complexion), but the cat thing really took me by surprise. I'm not just a mad old woman; I'm a mad old cat woman. The sort that has far too many of them and loses them under the sofa for days at a time. Or instead talks to cats, about the cats and about anyone else's cats. Except I don't have a lot of cats; just one very demanding one, Claude.
The sickening truth came to me today when I realised that I had regaled three separate individuals with the same story about Claude's habit of looking out of the window at the birds and making an unearthly breathing noise when he sees one. I tell this story (for anyone that's missed it) with a mixture of incredulity and pride. I do impressions of him, which must be the most unnerving visual ever.
I talk to Claude when we're alone, and when other people are around I give them the benefit of Claude's side of the conversation, voiced in a strange, nasal tone for no reason at all. If this were a baby I'd be the sort of pushy mother that gets embroiled in "my child's far more intelligent than yours" debates at playgroup.
I think the reason lies in my recent move from full time employment to freelance writing. I'm around the house a lot more, and like an old married couple the two of us have fallen rapidly into a routine. Used to my presence, Claude is becoming clingier by the day and won't settle unless he's on my lap or at my bedroom window watching for birds (deja vu, anyone?)
It's evident to me how far the condition has degenerated: I've just dedicated a whole blog post to my cat. There's nothing for it but to keep your distance - and for God's sake don't engage me in conversation.
For quite some time I've known that I'm slipping into an early middle age. You only have to look at my previous post to see that. As well as the Archers my interests include baking, gardening and looking at National Trust houses. I'm comfortable in my prematurely sagging skin (metaphorically of course - I still have the arrogance of a taut complexion), but the cat thing really took me by surprise. I'm not just a mad old woman; I'm a mad old cat woman. The sort that has far too many of them and loses them under the sofa for days at a time. Or instead talks to cats, about the cats and about anyone else's cats. Except I don't have a lot of cats; just one very demanding one, Claude.
The sickening truth came to me today when I realised that I had regaled three separate individuals with the same story about Claude's habit of looking out of the window at the birds and making an unearthly breathing noise when he sees one. I tell this story (for anyone that's missed it) with a mixture of incredulity and pride. I do impressions of him, which must be the most unnerving visual ever.
I talk to Claude when we're alone, and when other people are around I give them the benefit of Claude's side of the conversation, voiced in a strange, nasal tone for no reason at all. If this were a baby I'd be the sort of pushy mother that gets embroiled in "my child's far more intelligent than yours" debates at playgroup.
I think the reason lies in my recent move from full time employment to freelance writing. I'm around the house a lot more, and like an old married couple the two of us have fallen rapidly into a routine. Used to my presence, Claude is becoming clingier by the day and won't settle unless he's on my lap or at my bedroom window watching for birds (deja vu, anyone?)
It's evident to me how far the condition has degenerated: I've just dedicated a whole blog post to my cat. There's nothing for it but to keep your distance - and for God's sake don't engage me in conversation.
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