I’ve always considered myself a pretty greenish chap, stepping lightly on the planet and all that open-toed sandals and beards business. I’m not a huge consumer: no air conditioning units or gas-guzzling Bentleys. In fact – and this approaching phrase is my green credentials in an organic nutshell – I don’t have a car.
I feel a sense of almost saint-like righteousness as I utter that phrase. It alone is touché to the planet-bothering fraternity. I am on the side of good and the angels.
Although, to be honest, the minutia of this sacrifice doesn’t bear too much scrutiny. I had a car and I hated it. It used to sit outside and send me bills. Besides, a man of my thirst is ill-advised to venture out in the evening in control of a motor vehicle. And even if I could find a space, I couldn’t afford to park in central London. Sometimes the car took us to the supermarket, but mostly it just rusted. Plus there’s a tube a 10-minute walk away and two all-night buses pass the end of the street.
I also have a recycling bin, which means empty bottles don’t crowd the kitchen. So I like to think I’m doing my bit.
Better still, I manage to look virtuous while making no personal effort or sacrifice. That’s what I call a result.
Then, suddenly last week, my world was darkened. We had a power cut. The electricity went off in five flats, thrusting its occupants, myself included, into the Dark Ages. No, even earlier. We entered a primeval existence.
It wasn’t long before I heard the wailing of the neighbours. Edie, gaunt and frail, leaned on the rail of the balcony and said she hadn’t been able to boil the kettle. She hadn’t had a cup of tea for an hour and a half. Sue lamented the loss of the contents of her freezer (probably a tin of cat food and an empty tin of Tennents) in uncompromising terms. Mrs B, the posh one, said she was having guests to dinner and the wine wouldn’t be chilled properly, ignoring the fact that it was freezing.
“But if there’s no electricity, you won’t have any food to give them”, I pointed out.
“Then the wine will have to be perfect.”
To escape the despondent air, I went into my rapidly-chilling premises, saying I’d make a few calls. I picked up the cordless phone to find it didn’t work without electricity. That was when it began to dawn on me how utterly dependent we are on the stuff.
The electricity goes off and the central heating doesn’t come on. There’s nothing to charge up your phones, laptops and iPods. The pump in the goldfish’s tank stops and it’s instantly lying on its back, gasping. No kettle, no telly, no clothes washer, no light. There are candles somewhere at the nether end of the pitch-black cupboard under the stairs. Your fate lies in the hand of the electricity people. And they’re French.
Well, mine are. I get my bills from the EDF, the Electricité de France. The French have wrestled control of London’s electricity supply. If we ever cheese them off again, they won’t have to invade. They can just cut off our electricity and we’ll be garlic butter in their hands.
When I was young, we were on a coin meter, so we were plunged into darkness on a regular basis. Each time, it took on the air of a French farce. Someone trod on the dog that took a nip at Harry who spilled his tea into someone’s lap. The rest of us all edged our way in the blackness feeling through each other’s pockets for shillings or anything else useful or with an exchange value. There was a theoretical supply of shilling coins hidden in the kitchen. Not well hidden enough, though.
Losing the lecky was part of the life experience, like the monster spider in the outside toilet, the hypochondriac canary that needed to be revived with brandy and Uncle Harry’s pig and habit of paring his toenails in front of the fire with an industrial rasp. His own toenails, not the pig’s.
Today a power cut is a much more sober affair. We’ve become electricity junkies. Fifteen minutes after a fix, we’re screaming for more. We’re so dependent that, when the electricity went off, I switched off, too. I went to bed. It’s like I’m connected to the national grid. As soon as there’s a hiccup in my supply, I cease to function.
This is all really serious, because the only alternatives are to produce more electricity or cut down the amount we use. If it’s a case of having a Sellafield clone in the garden or developing my own strategies for power saving, like hiding Edie’s kettle, then I’m turning green (which I suppose I would anyway with a Sellafield in the garden). We’ll have to slow down, take more time off, relax and enjoy life. Sounds a bit 1960s, I know, but it’s the best we can do.
Did I mention I don’t have a car?
About The Author
Chris Proctor is a Tribune columnist
