...and your intrepid reporter has been at the front line of the consumer wars. In a shopping centre and the supermarket. Neither of which were as intimidating as other years - proof of the crisis? Still, it did seem as though were a lot of people buying things they couldn't really afford for people who didn't really want them.
That air of frantic shopping seemed to be missing, no doubt it will be a different story in a couple of hours.
And meanwhile, back here at downshift central, I listen to the Smiths and clear out old emails and try, as far as possible, to have a sustainable Christmas. Whatever that means - and it'll become clearer to all of us over the next 365 days.
Despite the storm clouds and the news and, well, everything, I'm optimistic about 2009. As a politics junkie, it's marvellous to have faith in a politician again, and I do have, like many people around me, faith in Obama, that he'll turn into the once-in-a-generation politician who'll actually leave the world a better place than he found it.
Faith also in the end of this all-consuming greed we seem prey to, the end of a certain economic and social model that meant more money for those that had money, "trickle-down economics" would seem to be dead and buried now. Faith that we will, actually, get through this ok, and that whatever comes from the ashes will be more just than what went before it.
Which would be something.
24 December 2008
19 December 2008
Water (part 2)
...that apparently is 12,000 litres of water saved. Which staggers me to be honest, and is about the amount that seemed to fall on me the day I waded through a torrent during the floods in England last year.
It works out at around 130 litres a day. Saved. Which makes me think that (i) the water metre was wrong, (ii) we must have been swimming in the stuff or (iii) we have no idea how much we misuse resources.
If these figures are right, that's enough to give some 60 people water each day.
And all this with some buckets and watering cans.
Which is pause for thought.
It works out at around 130 litres a day. Saved. Which makes me think that (i) the water metre was wrong, (ii) we must have been swimming in the stuff or (iii) we have no idea how much we misuse resources.
If these figures are right, that's enough to give some 60 people water each day.
And all this with some buckets and watering cans.
Which is pause for thought.
12m3
Between September and December last year we used 19 cubic metres of water here in the flat. In the same period this year it's gone down to 7. So, we've saved 12 - whatever that looks like or means or could be used for.
I don't think we're dirtier than last year, people don't move away from us on the bus. We've just used our heads, 2 buckets and 2 watering cans.
The buckets are in the bathroom; one gets filled with the water from the shower that runs before getting hot, the second (smaller) with the water from the tap when washing or shaving. It then gets used for flushing the toilet.
The watering cans sit on the terrace and take the water from the air-conditioning units, which then waters the (few) living plants we have outside.
Simple, isn't it? And the first "solution" to appear on this blog.
The bill, needless to say, hasn't come down proportionally.
I don't think we're dirtier than last year, people don't move away from us on the bus. We've just used our heads, 2 buckets and 2 watering cans.
The buckets are in the bathroom; one gets filled with the water from the shower that runs before getting hot, the second (smaller) with the water from the tap when washing or shaving. It then gets used for flushing the toilet.
The watering cans sit on the terrace and take the water from the air-conditioning units, which then waters the (few) living plants we have outside.
Simple, isn't it? And the first "solution" to appear on this blog.
The bill, needless to say, hasn't come down proportionally.
18 December 2008
La millor botiga del mon
And today it took me down into the centre and a wander through the Raval, an area of Barcelona that's been "gentrified" over the last 15 or so years. Still largely an area of immigrants, with Halal butchers and internet cafés, there are also pricey clothes' shops, a product-stretching Camper hotel, and a wide range of people wandering around the place.
I doubt the "Anarchist Pizzería" still exists.
Collectively the locals look as if I'd dressed them, randomly with anything lurking in the wardrobe: some in suits, some in baggy hippy trousers, some in t-shirts proclaiming long-past and, perhaps, long-lost causes. From Boho to Hobo via the office and Islamabad.
Barcelona's bars have suffered a chalk-board revolution over these past years. Most now have their offers chalked up on green boards cluttering the entrance. A far cry from "the old days", when the height of advertising modernity was windows full of shakily painted pictures of octopuses, croquettes and nameless (tasteless?) tapas. Sadly, precious few of these bars still remain as Barcelona turns itself into "the best shop in the world".
This is the mind-numbingly absurd tag that the city council and their MadMen (and women) have hung on the poor place recently in an attempt to attract the foreign shopper.
Of course, it's not. And even deciding which is the best shop in the world is a task that only true hard-boiled died in the wool PhD slow-laners would ever have the time for. What would yours be? Yup, can't say, can you? Is it that deli you stumbled across in SoHo, that bookshop in London, that gift-shop in Paris?
No such thing exists. No such thing can exist.
But it's tagged onto a city (remember that, it's a city we're whittering on about here), a city of more than 1,500,000 people and around 2,000 years of history. A city with quiet squares and wide avenues, schools and churches and mosques and synagogues and football clubs and cinemas and theatres and people doing their best to get through the day, week, month. Oh, and the million other things that make living in a city such fun, such a buzz, such a headache, such a strain.
And all that our "Socialist" council can come up with is: "the best shop in the world". Right.
If I wanted to live in a shop I'd camp out in a department store.
I doubt the "Anarchist Pizzería" still exists.
Collectively the locals look as if I'd dressed them, randomly with anything lurking in the wardrobe: some in suits, some in baggy hippy trousers, some in t-shirts proclaiming long-past and, perhaps, long-lost causes. From Boho to Hobo via the office and Islamabad.
Barcelona's bars have suffered a chalk-board revolution over these past years. Most now have their offers chalked up on green boards cluttering the entrance. A far cry from "the old days", when the height of advertising modernity was windows full of shakily painted pictures of octopuses, croquettes and nameless (tasteless?) tapas. Sadly, precious few of these bars still remain as Barcelona turns itself into "the best shop in the world".
This is the mind-numbingly absurd tag that the city council and their MadMen (and women) have hung on the poor place recently in an attempt to attract the foreign shopper.
Of course, it's not. And even deciding which is the best shop in the world is a task that only true hard-boiled died in the wool PhD slow-laners would ever have the time for. What would yours be? Yup, can't say, can you? Is it that deli you stumbled across in SoHo, that bookshop in London, that gift-shop in Paris?
No such thing exists. No such thing can exist.
But it's tagged onto a city (remember that, it's a city we're whittering on about here), a city of more than 1,500,000 people and around 2,000 years of history. A city with quiet squares and wide avenues, schools and churches and mosques and synagogues and football clubs and cinemas and theatres and people doing their best to get through the day, week, month. Oh, and the million other things that make living in a city such fun, such a buzz, such a headache, such a strain.
And all that our "Socialist" council can come up with is: "the best shop in the world". Right.
If I wanted to live in a shop I'd camp out in a department store.
16 December 2008
The Portofino
The slow lane took me down memory lane this morning.
In between the kind of errands that can best be done by a slow-lane down-shifter, I made time to sit in a café over a coffee and El País (my supposedly "progressive" newspaper of choice). The kind of errands that involve walking a fair few blocks, and then queuing, and which seem to be a poor use of free time. But when most of your time is free time, it doesn't seem so much of an imposition.
Why memory lane? Because it was wet, and cold enough outside to see your breath. So, it was a trip back to London at the Thatcherite back-end of the 80s. And, above all, to the Portofino, on Soho's Noel Street. A pretty average café, with pretty average coffee, but great tea and toast (this is England we're talking about) and a pretty decent guy-who-ran-the-place. Who plied me with the above-mentioned tea and toast after my narrow escape from truncheons and police horses at the poll tax riot.
Anyway, it always seemed wet and cold back then, and there was always a paper to pore over, if I wasn't working on art-work for the band - fliers, posters, even a couple of single-sleeves. And we were always on the point of making it: 1988 was going to be "our year", then 1989, then 1990, and then I came to Spain and it never was our year (their year?). And two of them are still hacking away at the music business, with not a whiff of fame or fortune, some 20-odd (and sometimes very odd) years later. Which I really can't decide about: is it tragic or wonderful?
And, you're right, not a lot of this has much to do with anything that's gone before. Except that the time I made this morning was slow time. Those moments you find to do exactly what you want to do, what, at that exact instant, makes you pretty happy with your lot.
The truth is, I've not been so sure about where the whole thing's heading recently. Hence the long pause between entries. But feedback from loyal readers and fans has kept me on track, and made me realise that this thing can, in fact, contain just about anything.
The bit about feedback is a total lie, by the way.
I just made my mind up.
And, to finish, yes, one real s l o w moment.
Going slow in Millau.
We are fortunate enough to have very good friends, some of whom have access to houses in beautiful parts of Spain and, one couple, in the south of France. Not Cannes or Monte Carlo (which has to be one of the most depressing places on earth. What is the point of so much flash?), but inland.
Anyway, we were there for a long weekend of total calm and good food and company and great nights' sleep. On the Monday morning we went into Millau, and most of the shops were shut. Yes, shut.
Which was wonderful.
In between the kind of errands that can best be done by a slow-lane down-shifter, I made time to sit in a café over a coffee and El País (my supposedly "progressive" newspaper of choice). The kind of errands that involve walking a fair few blocks, and then queuing, and which seem to be a poor use of free time. But when most of your time is free time, it doesn't seem so much of an imposition.
Why memory lane? Because it was wet, and cold enough outside to see your breath. So, it was a trip back to London at the Thatcherite back-end of the 80s. And, above all, to the Portofino, on Soho's Noel Street. A pretty average café, with pretty average coffee, but great tea and toast (this is England we're talking about) and a pretty decent guy-who-ran-the-place. Who plied me with the above-mentioned tea and toast after my narrow escape from truncheons and police horses at the poll tax riot.
Anyway, it always seemed wet and cold back then, and there was always a paper to pore over, if I wasn't working on art-work for the band - fliers, posters, even a couple of single-sleeves. And we were always on the point of making it: 1988 was going to be "our year", then 1989, then 1990, and then I came to Spain and it never was our year (their year?). And two of them are still hacking away at the music business, with not a whiff of fame or fortune, some 20-odd (and sometimes very odd) years later. Which I really can't decide about: is it tragic or wonderful?
And, you're right, not a lot of this has much to do with anything that's gone before. Except that the time I made this morning was slow time. Those moments you find to do exactly what you want to do, what, at that exact instant, makes you pretty happy with your lot.
The truth is, I've not been so sure about where the whole thing's heading recently. Hence the long pause between entries. But feedback from loyal readers and fans has kept me on track, and made me realise that this thing can, in fact, contain just about anything.
The bit about feedback is a total lie, by the way.
I just made my mind up.
And, to finish, yes, one real s l o w moment.
Going slow in Millau.
We are fortunate enough to have very good friends, some of whom have access to houses in beautiful parts of Spain and, one couple, in the south of France. Not Cannes or Monte Carlo (which has to be one of the most depressing places on earth. What is the point of so much flash?), but inland.
Anyway, we were there for a long weekend of total calm and good food and company and great nights' sleep. On the Monday morning we went into Millau, and most of the shops were shut. Yes, shut.
Which was wonderful.
05 December 2008
Cheap shots
A few hours later, and I'm deleting much of the previous post. Cheap shots, really. And not adding much to the debate, if anything. Bill O'Reilly's never done anything to me. For me either.
I think it's the absolutism of the "Patriot or pinhead" approach. Surely there's a middle ground there. And I'm sure that many of his kind will become less patriotic as Obama's presidency unfolds. Does that automatically convert them into pinheads?
So, having expounded a view of what I'm doing over lunch with a friend, I realise that much of what has been posted here is the result of working on too many fronts.
And to use the absolutist phrase "if you're not part of the solution, you're part of the problem", let's focus on the solutions, rather than cheap cracks.
What remains of the post is below...
Good news: Catalonia's autonomous government agreed last week to make shops charge for plastic bags from January 1st.
Bad news: after pressure from smaller shops, the move has been pushed back 6 months.
Good news: I now belong to a group with an acronym. Or not.
And finally finally, getting back into the slow lane, some friends asked us what we wanted for Christmas, last year they sent us a wonderful box of fruit straight from the field. We said that would be just fine again. Natural, healthy, (relatively) local and not produced by a multi-national.
I think it's the absolutism of the "Patriot or pinhead" approach. Surely there's a middle ground there. And I'm sure that many of his kind will become less patriotic as Obama's presidency unfolds. Does that automatically convert them into pinheads?
So, having expounded a view of what I'm doing over lunch with a friend, I realise that much of what has been posted here is the result of working on too many fronts.
And to use the absolutist phrase "if you're not part of the solution, you're part of the problem", let's focus on the solutions, rather than cheap cracks.
What remains of the post is below...
Good news: Catalonia's autonomous government agreed last week to make shops charge for plastic bags from January 1st.
Bad news: after pressure from smaller shops, the move has been pushed back 6 months.
Good news: I now belong to a group with an acronym. Or not.
And finally finally, getting back into the slow lane, some friends asked us what we wanted for Christmas, last year they sent us a wonderful box of fruit straight from the field. We said that would be just fine again. Natural, healthy, (relatively) local and not produced by a multi-national.
04 December 2008
The Bedford
For a wild couple of years I lived in Balham, South London.
Lemmy once said "we're the kind of band who, if we moved in next door to you, your lawn would die". We weren't quite in his league, but you get the picture. Rock and rollers, most of us, with more mouth than talent, and an innate ability to sell the music press stories (some of which were even true), and a carefully-honed inability to sell a single record. We were subsidised by the welfare state and various cash-in-hand jobs, and there was an endless stream of parties and music and general rowdiness. Great times.
Wouldn't want to repeat them though. And I'd be the first to knock on our door now and say "Turn it down!"
Anyway, the point of all this is that we had a local. The Bedford wasn't the trendiest pub back then, full of old guys staring into their pints. The welcome wasn't particularly warm, either. But it was our pub, our local; our company was great, the beer was good and we felt comfortable there.
Which is what I would like this place to become. The "comfortable" bit, I mean.
It would be perfect if, over time, people could meet here and know they're going to listen to and, hopefully, take part in some interesting conversations. About things that interest them, which could be
ecology & technology & fair trade & working out where our money goes & how to make it go further than the pocket of some fat cat exec & books we've read that have inspired us or even accompanied us on flights or the beach & sustainability & and becoming aware of how we can change things & being irate and despairing at times, positive and happy at others & the music we listen to & websites we've found that can help us make our choices & high-brow, low-brow, no-brow culture & marketing & politics & taking life slowly & not becoming collateral damage of the consumer society &, well, all of the above and whatever else comes to mind.
And that kind of sets some parameters, though a list of what's excluded would probably be shorter.
And now I feel this thing's off the ground.
Welcome (again, to all four of my readers). Mine's a half, no, make that a pint.
Cheers.
Lemmy once said "we're the kind of band who, if we moved in next door to you, your lawn would die". We weren't quite in his league, but you get the picture. Rock and rollers, most of us, with more mouth than talent, and an innate ability to sell the music press stories (some of which were even true), and a carefully-honed inability to sell a single record. We were subsidised by the welfare state and various cash-in-hand jobs, and there was an endless stream of parties and music and general rowdiness. Great times.
Wouldn't want to repeat them though. And I'd be the first to knock on our door now and say "Turn it down!"
Anyway, the point of all this is that we had a local. The Bedford wasn't the trendiest pub back then, full of old guys staring into their pints. The welcome wasn't particularly warm, either. But it was our pub, our local; our company was great, the beer was good and we felt comfortable there.
Which is what I would like this place to become. The "comfortable" bit, I mean.
It would be perfect if, over time, people could meet here and know they're going to listen to and, hopefully, take part in some interesting conversations. About things that interest them, which could be
ecology & technology & fair trade & working out where our money goes & how to make it go further than the pocket of some fat cat exec & books we've read that have inspired us or even accompanied us on flights or the beach & sustainability & and becoming aware of how we can change things & being irate and despairing at times, positive and happy at others & the music we listen to & websites we've found that can help us make our choices & high-brow, low-brow, no-brow culture & marketing & politics & taking life slowly & not becoming collateral damage of the consumer society &, well, all of the above and whatever else comes to mind.
And that kind of sets some parameters, though a list of what's excluded would probably be shorter.
And now I feel this thing's off the ground.
Welcome (again, to all four of my readers). Mine's a half, no, make that a pint.
Cheers.
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