Kirstie’s Homemade Home
Channel 4
In Search Of England’s Green And Pleasant Land
BBC 1
Michaela’s Zoo Babies
Channel 5
WORRIED to a frazzle by the deepening recession? Staggering under the weight of global catastrophe from war, disease and environmental chaos? Why not take a mental holiday – a short break to recharge the inner batteries by indulging in some televisual comfort viewing? It seemed like a good idea at the time I tried it out, searching through my copy of the Radio Times for programmes promising to be as sweet and harmless as a kitten in a blanket.
I began with Kirstie’s Homemade Home – 60 minutes of cosy advice on making your home even more homely. At least I thought that’s what it was going to be.
As it turned out, it was hard to decide exactly what Kirstie Allsopp was driving at. “I’ve just bought a wreck of a house at auction”, she announced at the start, “which proves you don’t have to go abroad to find great stuff.” Phew. Now I can cancel my offer on that Venetian palazzo and make do with a five-bedroom mansion in Devon instead. But tell me, Kirstie, what do I do now?
First of all, it seems that I must avoid furnishing my new home in a “bland” way – at least not with products purchased from the high street. Instead I should opt for a more upper middle-class blandness in the form of country house “shabby chic” decor. “At last the workmen have finished refurbishing the kitchen”, she chirruped, clearly not meaning “homemade” to include doing any building work herself. So why buy a “wreck” in the first place?
Now Kirstie could bustle about, shopping for decorative bargains at her local market – where having a camera crew in tow apparently works wonders – and patronising her local artisans. She made herself a pot, she blew a wonky glass tumbler, she sewed herself one whole cushion cover.
Was she tempted to call it a day at this point and place a call to the soft furnishings department of Peter Jones? Not a bit of it, she was off searching for free junk, informing us that “skips are everywhere” in defiance of the property crash.
By this point, my confusion was total. Was I trying to save money or spend it on commissioning hand-made goods? Make a profit or save the planet? “Recycling stuff found in skips helps the environment”, Kirstie announced blithely, scanning the kerb as she motored along in her gas-guzzling 4×4 car. Bless.
My mind was more troubled than comforted by Kirstie’s show. Would I find a calming influence with In Search Of England’s Green And Pleasant Land? These half-hour programmes covered local areas for BBC viewers all over Britain, this one promising to reveal “the secret green places of London”. Hoping for a useful guide to inner-city oases, I tuned in.
Presenter Julia Bradbury began on an optimistic note, predicting the “re-greening of London” would soon be underway. But it became clear that this was more of an aspiration (to use current Government-speak) than hard fact. As Bradbury strode about on Thames Estuary marshland in her wellies, we learned a different story: London’s third world air quality; how London has the least amount of surviving woodland of any major European city.
“It’s becoming much more difficult to find any peace and quiet”, complained an ecology expert, struggling to make himself heard over the presenter’s incessant babbling. What little she had to say about the inner city, however, was squeezed in right at the end – a man who grew weeds on rooftops and “guerrilla gardeners” planting pansies on traffic islands.
By this time, I had given up on receiving directions to my nearest urban Eden. Would a quick dose of cute furry animals save the day and reduce my blood pressure? Surely Michaela’s Zoo Babies would do the trick? Expecting footage of adorable baby bears and playful infant meerkats, I tried my luck.
But what was this? A zookeeper inspecting the warty rear-end of a two-ton pregnant rhinoceros? An epidemic of animal births in eye-watering close-up was followed by high anxiety on the voiceover. Did mother rhino crush her infant? Would the endangered breed piglet suckle or die? Frankly, this was about as comforting as a police baton hitting the back of my legs.
I was forced to the conclusion that my idea of comfort viewing was nothing but a hopeless fantasy. The current crop of television programmes seems designed to irritate rather than soothe our shattered nerves. Is it any wonder I am currently addicted to chocolate fudge cake?
Helen Chappell
