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