Tuesday, 29 March 2016

The Dirty V Word

This week I dropped the V-bomb and disclosed to my friends and family that for the foreseeable future I’m going to be… wait for it... partially vegan-vegetarian. Their response was suspicion, derision, hilarity  - all the things you’d expect when you make a life change intended to better yourself and the planet at large.



I’m not quite sure why people are so excruciatingly uncomfortable with the idea of someone cutting various foodstuffs out of their diet, but one thing is for sure - it’s not a move you make if you’re trying to boost your street cred. There’s this notion that V’s (vegans/vegetarians) are preachy, self righteous hippy types who just don’t get how the real world functions. Maybe they are. You know who else they said that about? Anti-slavery campaigners. People who choose to cut out unethically-produced animal products are told that ‘your lifestyle choices will never change the system’, that ‘it’s just how the world works’ and that ‘people’s livelihoods are dependent on it being this way’. This is not the first time these arguments have been used to justify a morally questionable practise. And you know what? Things did change, people found other ways to make a living and the world didn’t stop spinning.

Unlike a lot of V-inclined individuals I’m not actually opposed to the idea of eating meat in and of itself. To be honest, I think eating meat is just part of the circle of life. Massinyahi'meatinabanana and all that. What I cannot get onboard with, however, is this -



For those of you who don’t have the time/the stomach to sit through this, it’s 6:40 of animals being maimed, neutered, electro-shocked and crushed alive - fully conscious and anaesthetic-free. Being shackled in racks smaller than they are, being forced to live in conditions so cramped they trample each other to death and are left to rot unnoticed. Being painfully, perpetually impregnated and then immediately separated from their babies (who often are left to scream for their mothers for days before being slaughtered). This is not footage from some overseas scandal about big-chain fast food providers. These are the practises being used by the largest farming companies and supermarket suppliers in the UK. By household names like ‘Bernard Matthews’ and ‘The Happy Egg company’. How is this acceptable?

If people treated their pets like this they’d be facing a fine, a ban from keeping animals and potential prison time.


'A gestation crate, also known as a sow stall, is a metal enclosure used in intensive pig farming, in which a female breeding pig (sow) may be kept during pregnancy and for most of her adult life'

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gestation_crate



If you haven't switched off already, I'm willing to bet the last thing you want is a lengthy sermon on the ethics of what you choose to have for dinner. So I’m not going to expend page space trying to convince you of these (well established) facts:

FACT: Eating too much meat sucks for your health (excessive red and processed meat slices years off our lives)
FACT: Eating too much meat is wrecking your surroundings (deforestation and production of methane gas is wrecking our environment)
FACT: Eating too much meat exacerbates world hunger (due to misdirection of grains and other resources)

Any casual Google search can do that for you. What I would like to discuss (by which I mean 'annihilate entirely'), are the routine arguments used to persuade people out of taking the V plunge. And why they’re a load of crap (incidentally, much like the supermarket milk which is currently available to us. A fresh glass of antibiotics, hormones, pesticides and pus anyone? Yummm.)

1.‘But meat tastes so good!’


Yes, yes it does. ‘Fancy a dirty kebab for breakfast? Hells yeah. ‘2am bacon cheese burger’? Hit me up. But - and maybe this is a product of growing up in a faith that promotes abstinence from sex, drugs and alcohol - to me, ‘I really enjoy it’ is just not an argument for pushing on with something you consider immoral. Also, you can still eat meat without perpetuating the highscale-horrific practises which are just an undivorceable reality of cheap meat. Yus, even if you’re skint. If you can’t afford to buy ethically produced meat at your current rate of consumption, just eat less of the stuff. It’s good for you.

2. ‘But you cutting that stuff out of your diet won’t even make any difference to the system you’re trying to change!’.

Wrong. Wrong wrong wrong. Food is a consumer industry. It’s driven by supply and demand. If people stop buying dirt cheap, mass produced meat then people will stop supplying it. If people start demanding ethically produced meat instead, then that’s what they’ll provide. And there are enough people making resolutions about 'responsible eating' for the industry to have already begun making changes. Every restaurant I’ve visited in the past 10 years has offered a vegetarian option. More than ever, menus state the sources of their meat. In London alone there are hundreds of restaurants marketing exclusively vegan/vegetarian food - and many more that serve only organically reared meat. No one who decides to go vegan/vegetarian/organic needs to be a lone wolf.


This question remains though - even if your actions count for nothing on a grand scale, is that a reason to continue participating in something you consider immoral? Like ‘you know what, I’m never going to be able to halt the people trafficking industry, so I think I’ll just go to town on an underage call girl. It’s not like me choosing to have consensual sex with a fellow adult instead is going to change anything anyway’. Is the principle not essentially the same? How do any large-scale reformations to immoral social/political/cultural/industrial practices come about? It’s through individuals resolving ‘I will have no part in this’.

3. ‘But people make a living out of producing meat this way! You’re putting their livelihood in jeopardy!’. 

Actually, changing the way we rear meat would INCREASE agricultural jobs. Organic farming requires MORE labourers than factory farming. Yes, there will be smaller profits for those at the very top, but there will be far greater employment opportunities for others.




So yeah. Some inconvenient truths I have had to come to terms with this week. In short, I have made the following resolutions:

1. Non-organic meat is off the menu.
2. Meat is on the menu once a week at most.
3. Free range eggs or bust.

And, most brutally,

4. No more dairy. That’s right. I feel strong enough about this to forsake camembert and ossau-iraty. Pray for me.




I was raised in a faith which teaches that humans are intended to be custodians over the Earth - guardians who are supposed to manage and look after the natural resources around us, not exploit them to the point of destruction. A faith that, long before we had scientific proof of the dangerous effects of over-eating meat, promoted eating meat ‘sparingly’ and only in times of nutritional need (https://www.lds.org/scriptures/dc-testament/dc/89?lang=eng). (Incidentally this revelation also advises “tobacco is not for the body, neither for the belly, and is not good for man” 100 years before science confirmed cigarettes are essentially coffin nails).




To the compassionate amongst you: please send me care packages of vegan cheese and Green and Blacks 85% cocoa dark chocolate. It’s milk free. And so am I.





Some P.S's:

Here's an article about the production of milk that I just find abhorrent (you're welcome):


And helpful info for anyone wanting to cut unethical meat out of their diets:


Friday, 5 February 2016

These Are A Few of My Faaavourite Things

I’d like to think I’m not an overly materialistic person, but anyone who claims ‘money can’t buy happiness’ has just been shopping in the wrong places. Sure you can’t buy a sunset, the adoring smile of a child or satisfaction of bossing it through a hard level on Candy crush without using any boosters. But I honestly find myself wandering around the house and addressing inanimate objects with a silent ‘hello friend. You make me a happier human’. Here are a few of my possession-recommendations. Only seems fair to share the joy!


Jack Wills sweatpants £39.50 - £44.50


Do you crave the comfort of chav fashion but without the stigma of elective unemployment? Do you enjoy wearing sportswear with zero intention of actually exerting yourself? Cue Jack Wills joggers - making it legit to stay in pajamas all day since 1999. Essentially you’re paying £35 quid more for a bit of iron-on plastic. HOWEVER, is £35 not a reasonable price for your dignity? Plus, they throw in these adorable little anti-fray metal bits on the end of the toggles instead of just tying them in a knot. It’s a bona fide bargain!


As a side note, my mother raised me to shun labels and will no doubt disown me after reading this blog post. C’est la vie. I can now open the door to the Amazon delivery man at 7.30am with pride.


You too can get into unnecessary debt at http://www.jackwills.com/



Clarins Eau De Jardins Body Cream, £29


You know the amazing smell that hits you when you walk onto the beauty floor of a department store? That. In a tube. Smells so good when you put in on it’ll make you want to lick your own face clean.


Stock up here:







Leather notebook


Do you have profound thoughts? Is your daily to-do list just too hot for a WHSmith spiral notepad to handle? What you need, is a pungent leather notebook. It’s the best favour the unappreciated genius can do themselves. Makes writing a shopping list feel like you’re Hemingway penning your post-combat memoirs. Combine with apartment that smells of rich mahogany for best effect.


BONUS TIP: In times of austerity, can be transformed into a tasty stew








Molton Brown Peppercorn Bodywash, £18


The first time I encountered this was as a child in my Uncle’s uber-trendy Antwerpian apartment. As a child, Uncle J was Uncle Culture, Uncle Jetsetter, Uncle Bringer-of-exotic-gifts  - in short, a bit of classy bloke. So I didn’t quite get why the man I considered the epitome of cosmopolitan-cool would want to smell like a roast dinner. One cheeky sniff later and I was a lifelong convert. I kid you not, this stuff is incredible. The best kind of manly stink.


Guys: Wash with this, and beautiful women will prostrate themselves on the floor before you, offering you their firstborn sons in exchange for one whiff of your armpit.


Ladies: do not buy this for your man. Wash with this, and beautiful women will prostrate themselves on the floor before him, offering him their firstborn sons in exchange for one whiff of his armpit.


You can buy it here:


Asda organic apple baby bars £1.99 (or £1.60 if you’re lucky)


Baby food is infamously revolting, but whenever we get these in, my offspring don’t even get a look-in. They are sososo tasty. I get fat off them by breaking them into fruit yoghurt or slying one when I’m on the phone to a loved one and they’re going on about some nonsense for forever and a day. With them being a bit smaller you can be on number 7 and still be telling yourself you’re eating responsibly - which is pretty much top of my snack-choosing criteria. WARNING: tastegasm almost guaranteed. Avoid eating in public to sidestep ‘When Harry Met Sally’ type humiliation.


If you’re too lazy to walk to the supermarket:


Neom Candle, ‘Happiness’ £30


These badboys are not overly cheap, but they are the unprecedented boss of scented candles. I have one in ‘Happiness’ and it’s so convincingly summer-gardeny that you feel like you should be having a hayfever attack just from stepping within 30 feet of it. The scent is super pervasive and lingers forever without making you feel like you’re in a changing room full of trigger-happy 13 year olds who’ve just discovered the joys of deodorant.

This candle is close to my heart as it saved my life during the puke and poonamis of early ‘16. I was elbow deep in the stuff and couldn’t smell a thing. If I shut my eyes I could almost believe I was in skipping through tulip fields of Holland rather than on all fours, scooping cottage cheese into an Asda carrier bag.


You can thank me later:


Personalised Vintage Typewriter Cushion £35



Ok, so this is not everyone’s taste, but my the point here is not so much the cushion as the source. Not On The Highstreet and Etsy are the besssst for the quirky uniqueness of back-alley hole-in-the-wall type shops but + the insurance of a reputable mediator and - the threat of being mugged.



Anyway the story behind this cushion… My husband is not renowned for his cutesyness. But when we were dating he left a sneaky message for me on my typewriter, which I didn’t even notice until several days later. He totes wrecked the piece I was working on. But it was the nicest thing :) And kind of epitomises that period in our lives for me. So now I have a tangible reminder of it that sits in our front room every day.



You can get all sorts of weird and wonderful personalisable stuff here http:www.notonthehighstreet.com/ and here https://www.etsy.com/uk/.

And in case you want ma cushion:
http://www.notonthehighstreet.com/snapdragon/product/personalised-vintage-typewriter-cushion



Happy shopping u guyzzz xox

Saturday, 30 January 2016

4 Things They Don’t Tell You About Becoming a Parent

Zis veek, I have been sailing the high seas of early-parenthood and thinking a lot about some glaring omissions made in the universal ‘Parenting For Dummies’ guide. Here, for you all to read, are some ponderings what I have pondered.


1. When your child is born, they shouldn’t say ‘congratulations’, they should say ‘welcome to the Big Brother house’.

Firstly, going to the toilet WILL become a spectator sport. “Overly clingy children who won’t let you poo in peace? Not in my house!” said my younger, eminently more ambitious self. Didn’t account for potty training, did I. Transpires it’s pretty much impossible without live demonstrations.
Secondly, folk always bang on about the 'sponge effect' with kids. It’s kind of hard to believe the same tiny human that regularly forgets their own name has any significant capacity for retention. But mate, when people say that kids absorb everything and anything, ain’t that the truth. When your belt loop gets caught on a door handle and you highspeed recoil into the door frame before ending up flat out on the bathroom floor (singing every shade of the rainbow on the way down), chances are your kid won’t get too judgey about your colourful vocal freestyling. The nursery leader who hears it repeated in your toddler’s adorable Elmo tones definitely will.
Anyway, plus side is they absorb all the awesome stuff too. Parental triumph of the week was overhearing Boy 1 absentmindedly crooning Eliott Smith lyrics to himself as he pottered around the house (“the cold and pain insiii my eyeeee shoo upppp”). ‘Miss Misery’ is one of my recurring internal monologue soundtracks, but I seriously don’t even remember singing this out loud. Let’s just hope he chooses to absorb my vocal output rather than my husband, who - if the singing from the bathroom is to be believed - is “bringing booty baaaack”. I’m pretty sure the binge-playing Meghan Trainor is reasonable grounds for divorce?


2. Your understanding of vomit will be PhD level.


Our home has pretty much been the national research centre for vomit this month, with several career-defining incidents forever imprinted on my mind’s eye/nose. Recently our toddler has discovered the mystical phenomenon of the gag reflex. His no.1 hobby is waiting for a parental head to be turned, giving his tonsils a cheeky tickle and then carefully examining his transmorgrified breakfast. That’s right folks, recreational bulimia is the latest craze hitting the under-twos.

I couldn’t bear to take photos, but the most recent pukenami left a scene not unlike this:



This, over 2 beds, 4 blankets, a sheet, a chair, a selection of unfortunate teddies and a 2m x 2m patch of carpet to mentioned just some of the casualties. FACT: Anyone who says standing on a piece of lego is the apex of painful parental experiences has never had their toddler vomit into a large box of duplo.
Moral of the story: Google is a fickle lover. ‘Sprinkle baking powder on it’ they said. ‘Wait 15 mins and then hoover it up’ they said. Yes, do all this - if your aim is to leave your vacuum cleaner looking like it’s been reconditioned as a foam spray for a sketchy student nightclub. Some 23 year olds spend their Saturdays shopping and preparing for an impending big night out. I spent my Saturday dismantling this badboy and cleaning jellified vomit out of its various components. U jealous yet?


Storm Trooper helmet hoover. Let the debris flow through you!


3. When it comes to exhaustion, “You don’t know maaan, you don’t know!”.


You know what I hate? People who dole out the “you won’t know until you’re a parent!” line like it’s a bloody flyer during freshers week. But seriously - the potential for exhaustion is almost beyond comprehension. Like ‘you will start hallucinating’ bad. Because the thing is this: if you fall asleep when you’re not supposed to, your baby could self implode (or so you’ll panickedly convince yourself).

Newborns are like really expensive cocaine.

In the First World War, soldiers were executed for falling asleep at their post. Can you imagine that? Crippling insomnia, the constant, maniacal scream of shells, irreparable explosive mess all around you, and having to muster the mental strength to charge right into the enemy's line of fire - topped off with the disastrous consequences of accidentally drifting off? Welcome to parenthood.


4. It probably won’t be love at first sight.


When people talk about becoming a parent, there seems to be this prevalent myth about how the day your child is born is the most amazing day of your life. And I’m sure for some people this is the case. But let’s be real. Not everyone sees fireworks. In fact for a hella’ lot of us, adoration at first sight is just not a thing at all.
I’m not saying you won’t feel wholly committed and completely devoted to your baby the second you/your lady pops that little sucker out. From the second your kid is born you’ll be loving them in the verb sense of the word - consecrating your time, resources and energy towards their every need. But acts of love do not necessarily equate to being ‘in love’.
As a new parent, I felt irreversibly committed and dutiful towards my newborn. But my heart did not swoon. I did not think my constantly shrieking, perpetually demanding, potato-faced tiny terrorist was the most glorious creation since Cooplands cheese straws. And for the next few months, that remained the case. There was no crippling depression, no clinical mental affliction to battle. I just didn’t think too much of the kid’s personality, y'know? Objective adoration for a being that shrieks whenever you glance at them, chews your boob into oblivion and allows you 3 hours of sleep in every 24 (scrounged in sporadic 20 min episodes) is not the go-to emotional reflex for your average human being. Your thought patterns are likely to be less “YOU’RE THE BESTEST WITTLE CWEATURE EVER”  and more “there is a fair possibility I may die from exhaustion induced insanity” or “that’s an intriguing hallucination I’m having”.
Whenever we visit my inlaws I seize the opportunity to burn through a couple of Madmen episodes (Sky Boxsets, how I long for you). In S6 E5 Jon Hamm - unrivalled king of the monologue - turns out this badboy (which really you need to watch in order to get the full effect).


“I don’t think I ever wanted to be the man who loves children. But from the moment they’re born, that baby comes out and you act proud and excited and hand out cigars. But you don’t feel anything. Especially if you’ve had a difficult childhood. You want to love them but you don’t. And the fact that you’re faking that feeling makes you wonder if your own father had that same problem. Then one day they get older and you see them do something and you feel that feeling that you were pretending to have. And it feels like your heart is going to explode.”


Moral of the story is this: Falling instantly in love with your child is a pleasant possibility, it is not a guarantee. And that’s ok. 

Because one day, maybe a in few weeks or months or even longer, your bouncing bundle-of-demands will become a little person. And you will see them do something that makes you feel, genuinely, like your heart is going to explode.


Sunday, 20 December 2015

Dear Santa, One Small Human Being Please.

It’s a time of year where reminiscing is in vogue – particularly thinking about gifts we’ve received in times gone by. I’ve been gifted some pretty gorgeous stuff in my 23 years. Tiffany bracelets, designer handbags, handwritten poems and letters (which, being the insatiable narcissist that I am, top my list of favourites). And let’s not forget that 12x7x5 inch tub of apple straws that got demolished in 24 hours and turned my toilet green for a week (no regrets). Most memorable, however, was the time we brought home a small human being.

First day together ever ever. He ate one of the flowers on my headband. My first sisterly trial.

When I was 9 years old we adopted my 1.9 year old brother. And it was THE BEST. Let’s be clear - no, I do not condone the chattelisation of children (although I’m pretty sure there were times I a) employed him as slave labour and b) threatened to sell him) and yes, I feel crass ranking a human being alongside expensive phones and bangin’ accessories. I do, however, consider him a gift and recently I’ve been considering why.


Something that’s particularly struck me this week is how having him in my life prepared me for motherhood. Our time together has taught me you can construct an elves’ wonderland out of ladies’ sanitary products, how to roll, wrap and replace a nappy during the ad break for My Parents are Aliens (a world without live pause capability?! How appallingly primitive) with 2 mins left to fix myself a Ribena cocktail and - crucially - how to eat something crazy-delicious without anyone else in the room cottoning on. I’ve mastered the art of not-chundering when a firm stool is upcycled as DIY playdough and of  keeping your cool when your toddler is breakdancing on a supermarket floor because no they can’t have a raw pork sausage to chew on. 


It's fine to use your sibling as a life-size
doll, right?
Most valuably, he has taught me how to make a game out of nothing, that properly paying attention during ‘shows’ put on by a 5 year old leaves you surprised and delighted beyond all expectation and that you should absolutely never ever underestimate the wisdom of the under-10’s. I will never forget being 15 years old and, on a whim, telling him my teenlyf drama. 8 years old, he sat perfectly quietly, patiently waited til I’d finished and then counselled me on how to handle the situation.  I kid you not, his offerings were profound.

Preach it! Further dress-up box atrocities.
So yeah. He is precious to me. And here’s a poem for y’all to read that I done wrote some years ago about the first time we met.


*Background info* It was standard practice at the adoption agency we used for children to be sent a video or scrapbook with photos of their adoptive family weeks before they met for the first time. The child has chance to learn their names, learn their faces, learn their voices  - avoiding a scenario in which they are confronted by total strangers who scoop them up and whisk them off to some alien environment. When we went to pick up my brother, the social worker opened the door to the front room of his foster home and we saw him, in the flesh, for the first time. The look of joy and recognition on his face was unreal. My mum rounded the corner and he called out “mummy!” and ran into her open arms. Those were some serious feels.

Anyway, first stanza = my experience of that event. Second stanza = how I imagine that moment from his perspective.*

Throwing shade. I taught him that.

Meeting

A door opened
and
I felt her hand, cool across my back
She ushered me in.
Arms spread eagle,
from across the room,
you call 'mummy!'.
I observed:
Amber eyes drawn wide in recognition,
pot belly propped on spindled limbs,
mouth stained with juice
flowering purple like a bruise.
Strange how swiftly the heart adapts.
You moved closer
to me,
smiling as if already belonging.
Funny how you were the one
claiming my mother for your own
and yet I felt like the thief.

And yet, I felt like the thief -
claiming your mother for my own.
Funny how you were the one
smiling as if already belonging
to me.
You moved closer.
Strange how swiftly the heart adapts
flowering purple like a bruise.
Mouth stained with juice,
pot belly propped on spindled limbs,
amber eyes drawn wide in recognition,
I observed
you call Mummy
from across the room.
Arms spread eagle,
she ushered me in.
I felt her hand, cool across my back
and
a door opened.


Buddies til the end.