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.
Saturday, 20 November 2010
Why I love the Archers
I’m in my early twenties, and though I’ve never been one of those ‘popular’ people, I’m human enough to have managed to get myself a boyfriend, a career (of sorts) and a handful of friends. And yet people look at me with horror and revulsion when I admit that I listen to the Archers.
I love the Archers, truly. I even love the jaunty theme tune – better still, the strange sea shanty version that comes with Sunday's omnibus.
The reason why, is that it is so unlike the hyper-reality of soaps such as Eastenders and Hollyoaks. In ordinary soaps, murder, blackmail and adultery are a daily occurrence; in the Archers this week the most controversial thing to happen was a spot of gambling – all in aid of the British Legion, of course. The safe, rural realms of Ambridge are like a great big emotional hug when you’re feeling world-weary. If I want violence and all the nastiness of the human race, I’ll turn on News 24 and catch it up in one go – I don’t need to be drip-fed five days a week in thirty minute slots. The Archers, on the other hand, is pure, unadulterated escapism.
The reason why, is that it is so unlike the hyper-reality of soaps such as Eastenders and Hollyoaks. In ordinary soaps, murder, blackmail and adultery are a daily occurrence; in the Archers this week the most controversial thing to happen was a spot of gambling – all in aid of the British Legion, of course. The safe, rural realms of Ambridge are like a great big emotional hug when you’re feeling world-weary. If I want violence and all the nastiness of the human race, I’ll turn on News 24 and catch it up in one go – I don’t need to be drip-fed five days a week in thirty minute slots. The Archers, on the other hand, is pure, unadulterated escapism.
Why I give two hoots about the royal wedding
As Prince William and the impossibly glossy Kate Middleton announced their engagement this week, I found myself experiencing a flash of excitement. I'm not alone, I know - the media instantly pounced on the story as if it were an offering from the Gods; this many days later they're still feasting on it. Most of the 'ordinary' people I've spoken to couldn't care less. Especially here in Cornwall. The monarchy and Westminster government aren't exactly high on the Christmas card lists of many Cornish people; significantly less so since the 'Devonwall' fiasco reared its ugly head.
"What does it matter to me?", comes the unrelenting reply to my statement of royal-wedding-excitement. In truth, a royal wedding carries no real importance to anyone, and seems a shameless display of wealth in a period of hardship. The media muses upon how the celebrations might reflect this 'age of austerity', in the same breath as debating which designer dressmaker may be awarded the honour of outfitting the Royal Middleton.
But I do seem to care about the wedding, the engagement, the ring (ahh), the hope of a wonderfully sculpting white gown. In the face of all logic, and a certain amount of incredulity, I think that this may be one of the most exciting things this year. And the reason why is that in this aforementioned age of austerity, the coupling (not literally, of course) of a prince and his future princess has an appealing fairytale air about it.
It's not every day that a person the press are determined to brand 'a commoner' finds her prince - literally - and settles down to the life she's always dreamed of. Yes, it'll be hard and I don't envy Kate Middleton her life within the patriarchal royal family. But in spite of that, the couple seem genuinely in love and have waited eight years to make sure that they're making the right decision.
It's very easy to be pessimistic in life, and ordinarily I favour this pessimism. However, just for once I shall be entering fully into the spirit of optimism and imagining Their Royal Highnesses departing in their horse-drawn carriage, straight into a fairytale sunset.
One thing though - I draw the line at the celebratory china.
"What does it matter to me?", comes the unrelenting reply to my statement of royal-wedding-excitement. In truth, a royal wedding carries no real importance to anyone, and seems a shameless display of wealth in a period of hardship. The media muses upon how the celebrations might reflect this 'age of austerity', in the same breath as debating which designer dressmaker may be awarded the honour of outfitting the Royal Middleton.
But I do seem to care about the wedding, the engagement, the ring (ahh), the hope of a wonderfully sculpting white gown. In the face of all logic, and a certain amount of incredulity, I think that this may be one of the most exciting things this year. And the reason why is that in this aforementioned age of austerity, the coupling (not literally, of course) of a prince and his future princess has an appealing fairytale air about it.
It's not every day that a person the press are determined to brand 'a commoner' finds her prince - literally - and settles down to the life she's always dreamed of. Yes, it'll be hard and I don't envy Kate Middleton her life within the patriarchal royal family. But in spite of that, the couple seem genuinely in love and have waited eight years to make sure that they're making the right decision.
It's very easy to be pessimistic in life, and ordinarily I favour this pessimism. However, just for once I shall be entering fully into the spirit of optimism and imagining Their Royal Highnesses departing in their horse-drawn carriage, straight into a fairytale sunset.
One thing though - I draw the line at the celebratory china.
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