A lovers’ tiff

I cannot hear the name without producing one, singular response:

BLEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRGGGHHHH.

Most North Americans are unfamiliar with the British condiment Marmite. Nothing remotely like it can be found in the pantries of the new world. Or, for that matter, the rest of the old world. Tiger penis soup might still be considered edible in China, and the French of course have their propensity to ingest the most imaginative of dishes (calf brains with a side of roast snails, anyone?). But they still have the good sense to turn their noses up at Marmite.

For those of you with the good fortune to have escaped the experience, I simply cannot find the words to describe what Marmite tastes like. All I can think of is BLEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRGGGHHHH. Elsewhere I have heard that it tastes “like licking the bottom of a shoe.” But I know enough to advise the uninitiated that ignorance, in this case, truly is bliss.

Devotees however embrace it wholeheartedly with the same passion that its detractors despise it, and Marmite has very cleverly played this to its advantage with an ad campaign that proudly declares, “Love it or hate it.”

As testimony to this, my wife loves the stuff with a fervent ardor that perfectly balances my intense hatred. So much so that when I responded to the mere mention of it at a dinner party with “BLEEEEEEEAAAAAAAARRRRRRGGGHHH” she became so incensed that we had to drop the subject instantly.

“I love absolutely everything about Marmite: it’s full of vitamins, it tastes like heaven, and it comes from beer.”

(Marmite’s makers and fans go to great length to endorse its high levels of vitamin B, an assertion I find rather silly: it’s not a health product. Just admit you like it because of the taste. It is however a by-product of beer manufacturing, which I find both charming and disgusting in equal measure.)

“I cannot hear it maligned,” she said. “And this is really winding me up. We have to stop talking about this.”

No joke, it took a good half hour for her to relax. She couldn’t even speak to me for 15 minutes.

If there’s anything in the world I hate more than Marmite it is upsetting Bex.

When Bex (right) is happy, so am I. When she is pained, so am I.

So I swallowed my pride and bought her a tub of it, which I left wrapped in a Jack’O'Lantern on her bed.

Later that night when I came home I found this on the kitchen table – evidence both to the primacy of friendship over taste as well as Bex’s unparalleled poetic skills:

My darling wife, my lady fair

With warmth of autumn in her hair

I can’t express

Nor words convey

The burst of joy I felt today

You hid it in a pumpkin head

He smiled up with a note that said

“Present for wife. Inside.”

And what did Jack’O'lantern hide?

A joy of black, heavy and new

The perfect gift to me from you

But know this, please, my love, my light

That if it were my wife’s delight

I wouldn’t moan, or toss, or fight

To give up, for you, always… Marmite.

If Marmite’s manufacturers had any sense they would hire her immediately to master their marketing campaigns.

The puppets of despair

On the way home from the climate march, I started to cry. Winding through the wet streets of London surrounded by protestors painted blue and blowing on whistles, I looked at the carnival of descent around me, and realised what it was that so profoundly depressed me: it was the puppets.

By the time I was on the train home, I was actually bawling. Like a prissy little girl. All because of the damn puppets.

Two years ago I found the December trudge to be uplifting – it was the first time I’d found myself surrounded by thousands of people who genuinely understood the importance of climate change, and genuinely cared. I was cheered.

This time, surrounded by even more people – tens of thousands this time – I found myself growing sadder and sadder throughout the day. It reminded me of all the Iraq war marches I attended, surrounded by so many more people, full of so much anger and passion and hope. And how it all came to nothing.

This time, what depressed me the most were the puppets. At every damn protest there are always giant damn puppets.

A very cynical but very brilliant friend of mine wrote a satirical, fake editorial seven years ago in the joke issue of the student newspaper where we worked, titled “Our campus can stop this war!”, ironically praising the power of “paradigm-bending street puppetry” to force the autocratic war machine to its knees.

He encapsulated the idealistic romanticisms of student activists perfectly in just four words. The phrase has stuck in my mind ever since.

Still, I used to tolerate, even sometimes enjoy, the puppets. I used to feel that the carnivalesque atmosphere was an important component of dissent. That proving to “the man” that our “movement” – never without samba bands, rippling flags and ever-larger street puppets – was a lot more fun and meaningful than “the system” with all its suits, frowns, and endless, endless paperwork. And I used to think that celebratory and festive marches were more accessible for the mainstream, made them feel safe for families and moderates, and ultimately helped to popularise the ideas they were trying to convey, eventually leading to genuine social change.

Then I went to too many Iraq war marches, saw too many burning effigies of Bush, and saw it all come to nothing. In my mind, the puppets came to symbolise everything that was futile about a march.

What upsets me in particular about the puppets is that they are so highly visual. They invariably wind up as the images broadcast across the television screens that evening and splattered across newspaper front pages in the morning. So they become symbolic for dissent as a whole – you see a puppet on your TV screen, you know there’s a bunch of people marching in opposition to something, whether it be free trade or banks or war or climate change or whatever.

And that is the problem.

The average person, without an in-depth knowledge of or interest in an issue, glances at the news and can easily come away with this impression: on the one hand, you’ve got the politicians, the bankers, and the diplomats who deal with painfully lengthy plenary meetings and painfully detailed and boring tomes of policy frameworks scripted in the impenetrable discourse of legalese, the magical math of finance, and the concrete but generally inaccessible language of science.

And on the other hand you have got the people who oppose their policies and their laws. Who have puppets.

I worry that the puppets actually detract from the message overall, because those who oppose unjust wars in the middle east, or coal-fired energy, or ineffective climate policies actually do have so much more at their disposal than giant puppets. They too ultimately base their beliefs and opinions on painfully lengthy symposiums and meetings, and painfully detailed and boring tomes of research written in legalese, mathematics and science.

But the average person can’t see the bedrock of thinking and research behind the dissent if all they can see are the giant puppets monopolising the field of view of their television set.

I don’t just find the puppets tiresome and annoying – sometimes I find them downright infuriating. I worry that they undermine the legitimacy and validity of the arguments they are trying to support, and ultimately detract from impact of the dissent in the first place. It’s utterly self-defeating.

Spinning in this sad frame of thought, marching alongside the damn puppets and thinking the whole time about just how utterly dire our ecological reality is, how much the situation worsens every year, and how unlikely it is that the political system we have will solve the problem due to its inherently compromising nature, I was driven to despair. Genuine despair – the kind where your heart physically aches. By the time I arrived home my face was stained red, my eyes were dim, and my spirit was grey.

My flatmates gave me a blanket and some much-needed time to vent my feelings.

“Well, even if it doesn’t make a difference at all, and we don’t accomplish anything, it’s so important that we make this publicly visible gesture in the first place,” Neon said. “Even if the world goes to hell in a handbasket because the wrong decisions were made, in 50 years time young people need to be able to look back and know that not everyone supported those decisions – that some people stood up and said no. For history’s sake, we need to make sure our opposition is recorded, with foot power or even just puppet power.”

True – I hadn’t thought of it that way before.

But still, I insisted, so what if we know that some people didn’t agree with the norm. Does it ever make a damn difference? People have been unhappy with “the system” ever since there was one, and for thousands of years we’ve seen the oppression of the have nots by the haves, the continual eradication of indigenous groups on every single continent, and the inexorable extinction of the world’s biodiversity, from moas and mammoths to frogs and forests. When does our anger ever make a difference – what has ever improved because we stood up and said no?

Then I noticed the deep brown eyes were staring at me from across the coffee table, belonging to My Wife. A smart and talented woman who works with words, is respected as a writer and thinker, who wasn’t forced to marry some random pre-arranged man at the age of 17 – and who I am so lucky to live with.

It suddenly hit me: women’s rights. Of all the things that should make me aware that dissent, protest and anger can make a difference, it is the fact that I am grateful every single day to be a woman now, rather than a woman a century ago. Of course social changes happen, and of course they are often – if not always – pushed by the vocal, public and demonstrative dissent of people with conviction and passion.

I felt indescribably better, and genuinely hopeful.

I’ll still march, I’ll still protest, and I’ll still believe it will make a difference.

But. I still can’t stand the damn puppets.

“Why don’t you just watch the world die?”

Recently I shared a beer with one of my oldest friends in the world. He’s one of the few – and I mean very few – people who is capable of calling me out on my foibles and I will always take his observations to heart.

“So. If you know so much about how much we’ve altered the planet, how incredibly hard it’s going to be to turn things around, and how little you as an individual are really capable of doing, why don’t you just throw in the towel?”

“Ha. Pull the other one.”

“No, really. I mean it. Think about it logically. You don’t have any children for whom you are obliged to look after the world.”

“No.”

“You don’t have a mortgage, or any other financial albatross strapped around your neck.”

“Nope.

“And you constantly worry that you’re not living life to the fullest.  You fret almost every day that you might look back when you’re older and feel you didn’t enjoy each moment as much as possible.”

“True.”

“So don’t you ever worry that you’re wasting your life fighting a losing battle? That you’re just going to wear yourself out with worry, stress and sleep deprivation, all for nothing? Maybe the system is broken beyond repair, and it would just be nothing but an unequivocal waste for you to spend your life trying to fix it.”

“I don’t like where this is going. I don’t like this story. Let’s talk about something else.”

“No, it’s a fair question. I know you have a litany of sound and understandable reasons to try and make things better, but if it’s a futile effort, why bother? Logically, maybe you’d actually bring more good into the world – your own happiness – by enjoying yourself and sipping rusty nails on some beach somewhere for the rest of your life reading novels.”

“Well… I’d be bored.”

“No you wouldn’t. You’re never bored. Give me a different reason.”

A minute passed.

“Because I’d be unhappy. Doing things I consider worthwhile makes me happy. I like to drink – it makes me happy. But doing it all the time would make me unhappy. Writing about important issues even if just for peanuts makes me happy.”

“What about moving to a hippy permaculture whatchamacallit farm somewhere. You could grow spinach and make mud pies and go for walks through the hills and play with other people’s endearing hippy babies all day. Surely that would make you happy.”

“Well… yes. But that wouldn’t be enough. I need lots of things to do – I need hard things to do, otherwise I get anxious and bored and I have trouble sleeping. This makes me happy because it’s hard and makes me stay up late and get up early. If my life is easy I think I’m not doing enough and then I get stressed out and sad.”

“So there you go. You do this because it makes you happy. You actually are doing it for yourself, not because you want to impress people or be a martyr or whatever. You do this for you – so it should make you happy, for pity’s sake.”

“… fair.”

“Bet you never thought about it that way before.”

“… huh.”

“Right. So stop being sad about things. You’re doing what you can, and you don’t want to do anything else. Cheer the fuck up.”

“OK.”

“Cool, we’ve got that sorted. I’m bored. Your round now. Get a pitcher this time, pints go too fast.”

“K.”

I have a new boyfriend

He’s amazing. There has never been any other like him. He sets my heart on fire, makes my skin tingle, and causes my body to course with chemicals of unparalleled ecstasy – and he lasts for hours.

I bought a new iPod.

This was not a trivial decision. I hate buying unnecessary things, and I loathe the act of shopping – it makes me feel overwhelmed, belittled, fat and broke. Even if I personally didn’t hate doing it, I would avoid doing it on the logical basis that our excessive consumption of natural resources has led to ecological havoc and climate change.

I like to ground my thinking in evolutionary biology, and the more I think about it, the more I am forced to come to the conclusion that we are all just insecure, neurotic monkeys who try to stifle our low self-esteem with shiny things. Lots and lots of shiny things.

I try to buy as few shiny things as possible. I’m not an acetic – I’m pretty hedonistic on occasion – but I am a utilitarian. I try to buy things only when I need them. I used a cell phone made in 2002 until six months ago; I already have a calendar, several cameras, and an mp3 player, what do I need a phone with a thousand bells and whistles for?

So I wore my iPod out to the very end – it got to the point that the battery only lasted an hour, and I had to hold the earphone jack down with duct tape to keep the sound flowing through both ears. It got rather annoying, and did the opposite of what an mp3 player is supposed to do, which is soothe.

I admitted defeat, and braved the gargantuan temple of tech in central London, the Apple megastore. I would have been happy to get a 50G iPod over my old 30G, but they didn’t sell those anymore. The smallest I could get? 120G. At first I balked, but figured, why not – the 30G one never ever proved adequate. I constantly had to update the library to keep myself happy. So I splurged – a shuffle or a nano would never, ever be good enough.

I won’t spend money on many things, but for music, I will. And this is rooted in evolutionary biology: we know now that music affects the brain like nothing else, releasing a cascade of sumptuous chemicals (the same released by drugs and sex), stimulates more parts of your brain than any other human activity, and – this is my favourite – makes your neurons all tingle in synchrony. Music is integral to human evolution, and it’s integral to my own happiness.

Buying an iPod was not a trivial act of mindless consumption – it was a fulfillment of my biological destiny.

I couldn’t decide what to do

It is summer, it is hot and sunny, and I am therefore spending a lot of time in my garden. The other day I strolled through it, and stumbled across a dying baby bird underneath a bush.

I couldn't decide what to do.

Aside from its very heavy breathing, the only movements it made were the occasional, vain stretch of its legs and barely feathered wings. It was covered in eager flies. It was clearly not going to make it.

Damn cats, I thought to myself, certain that one of the cantakerous neighbourhood strays had plucked it from its nest, played with it, and left it for dead without bothering to finish off the job.

I couldn’t decide what to do. I knew it couldn’t be brought back to health (even without knowing the standard advice from the RSPB, I knew it was beyond saving). So, I wondered, should I scoop it up and put it in a shoe box and leave it to die peacefully inside my house, away from the flies? Should I smash its neck with a shoe instead, ending its suffering instantly? Or should I leave it to nature’s course, and the flies?

I texted my friends. I dabbled on the internet. I kept checking back on the bird for several hours, as it continued to struggle, and cursed my indecision. I always have trouble making decisions.

In the end I did nothing. It took many hours to expire.

Later, a friend recounted to me seeing a bird hit by a train mid-flight and then wound up lying on the platform, crippled and twitching. A woman calmly went up to the bird, and snapped its neck with her bare hands, prompting my friend to give her tissues from her purse to wipe off the blood.

I wish I had been that sensible.

My pseudo-sister-in-law

There is an episode of Sex and the City where Carrie talks about family, and distinguishes between the family you are born with and the family you make for yourself – namely, your friends.

I share this love for the family you make for yourself, and I have many friends that I consider family. And in the pantheon of my framily, Miss Sarah Barmak holds a very special place in my heart.

 

Altogether now: Aaaawww...

 

When I saw her for the first time in a year in Vermont, I literally welled up with tears. I call her my pseudo sister-in-law, because the title “my brother’s girlfriend” is woefully inadequate.

She and my brother just celebrated their fourth anniversary, much to my delight. I like to remind him that she was mine first, though. Before I introduced her to my brother (the most important man in the world to me), I was proud to call her my friend. Granted, she was a fairly new friend – I had only known her for a year – but I could tell we would undoubtedly become closer and better friends for many years to come. Already in the brief space I had known her, we had shared intimate details and been brazenly honest (as we are wont to do) about all our romantic and familial aches and pains.

I could see that we would be friends for a long time, and I could also see that my brother would go mad over her: a petite, wordy, opinionated, brainy brunette with a massive comic book collection and a pair of 12 hole DMs? Perfetto.

Their meeting was momentous. Those of you who were there will remember it well. For those who weren’t I’ll recount it sometime for you. Certainly I plan to tell the story drunk as a skunk, garbed in a miniskirt and tux blazer at their wedding (should they choose to get married).

It may not exactly have been love at first sight, but it didn’t take them long to see how well matched they were: she moved into Ben’s house six weeks after they met. This was not only one of Ben’s most dramatic courtings, it is also the first time he’s lived with any woman. I am proud of my match.

 

Best match ever, fact.

 

Since then I have come to know and love Sarah on a much deeper and richer level than I perhaps ever could have otherwise. And should she and Ben not work out in the end (knock on wood), I will continue to love her just the same. As I said when they began dating, our friendship will not change. I didn’t introduce a friend to my brother just to risk losing a friend. That would be silly, to grow closer to somebody just to put your bond in jeapordy.

Because in so many ways she has become like a sister to me. In fact, when I came down ill this week, she cared for me like family would: cooking me food, buying me medication, and putting up with my insufferable whining. People’s true colours always show in times of stress, and she showed she truly has a maternal nature, whether she knows it or not. Seeing her care for my brother in his recent times of ill health touches my heart like not much ever has.

I like to tease Sarah that she has a cold heart, because she doesn’t instinctively love puppies, skiing, or babies. But she knows (I hope) that I’m only teasing. She may have a very independent spirit, take a very post-modern attitude towards life, and occasionally say insensitive things, but she truly does have a heart of gold. She is a good person, to the very core, who has genuine compassion and who shows incredibly generosity at every turn. That is not something you can easily say about people.

We are not exactly cut from the same cloth – simply put, she is a cat and I am a dog. We differ in many many ways, and I worry that perhaps she is under the impression that I disparage her ways because they are not like my own.

Puh. Shaw.

This will sound cliché, but its true: I love her all the more because of the ways in which we differ. I love that she can teach me about so many things I know so little about: philosophy, visual art, time, relativity (in all its forms).

I love even more how I learn from her in personal ways: she is a paragon of so many virtues I admire in others and lack myself. She is one of the most non-judgemental people I have ever met. She is humble and modest (dear God, could I learn from her). She really knows how to relax, calm down, and take it easy (again, dear God, could I learn from her). And, perhaps most of all, I can learn from her patience. There are so many ways that I admire and learn from Sarah, and I’m still discovering more five years after meeting her.

But for all her wisdom and reason, she is highly skilled at letting loose, having fun, and on occasion, making a silly mess of herself. I mean, just check out the pics of her making faces on her birthday. Brilliant. Beautiful women who are not afraid to make themselves look ugly for the sake of comedy are the best.

 

Beautiful women who make themselves look silly for the sake of comedy rock.

 

She loves to eat – passionately. She is actually my favourite person on the face of the earth to eat with. Not a single thought is ever given to nutrition, calories or fads – we just love to eat good food that is good for us together. It’s as though food tastes better when I share it with her.

 

One cheese-loving girl.

 

She has immaculate, quirky, classy and original taste, and her birthday and Christmas presents always become fast favourites in my wardrobe. You know that pink-coral cross-tie incredibly low cut top of mine? Or that tiny pine cone encased in silver? Or the recycled magazine earrings? Pure Barmak.

Best of all, she is one of the wittiest humans I have ever met – and that is saying a lot. But I am not being hyperbolic. She has an unparalleled ability to sum up just about anything, no matter how complicated or ridiculous, with the most compact, succinct and hilarious statements.

Intelligent, compassionate, open-minded, complex, and of course, beautiful, Sarah is truly a unique and wonderful woman, one that I am sincerely proud to count among both my friends and my family. I feel like I got to pick my own sister-in-law – how cool. And, who knows. Maybe I also got to help craft my own nieces and nephews… no pressure or anything. But, you know… just maybe.

Even if that never happens, and even if things don’t work out in the end with my brother (knock on wood), I am still so happy that they came together in the first place, and that I grew to love and know her as I do now. My life has been better with her in it.

And you know, just like a great love, or a best friend, I remember the day we met perfectly. We had a meeting at The Varsity (where we were co-editors), when I was the science editor and she was the rep covering the Scarborough and Mississauga campuses at the U of T. After she left the meeting early, somebody mentioned her name. “Who’s Sarah – you mean that really pretty and funny brunette?” I asked.

I’ve learned a lot about her in the past five years. But the first impression didn’t do too bad.

 

I love Sarah Barmak.

The Great Bottled Water Debate – Addendum

Continuing this exploration of the intertwined fates of two liquids – water and oil – I’ll share with you what I learned at the Royal Geographic Society last week. This seminal British institution, housed in a glorious Victorian building in Knightsbridge just spitting distance from the Royal Albert Hall on the south side of Hyde Park, hosted a lecture entitled “Is Water The New Oil?”, presented by the charity Just A Drop.

Andrew Mitchell, of the forest conservation group Global Canopy, said he thought linking the two liquids might be challenging – especially for him, a rainforest expert – but the ties between the impending global water crisis and climate change are clear once you pause for thought. 

He explained how rainforests generate their own rainfall, and if the coastal forests of the Amazon are mowed down, the interior could parch into a desert (one hypothesized origin for the Sahara). Though we hear so much about aviation’s contributions to climate change (around two per cent of global emissions), deforestation accounts for far more greenhouse gas emissions, around 17 per cent. Though the lumber trade certainly has a role to play, 80 per cent of deforestation is for cattle grazing. And though we seldom think about the water footprint of what we buy, it is worth thinking about: one hamburger requires some 1300 gallons of water to produce. Meanwhile, a billion people worldwide do not have access to safe drinking water. And global access to fresh water is likely to only worsen as our climate changes.

Water, unlike oil, is precious, and essential for life, he said. But now most of us think of it as a commodity, something to buy – and he threw an image up on the screen of a bottle of water. Something packaged that we pay private companies through the nose to sell to us in oil-derived packaging – not a human right.

A good lecture, on all counts. Nothing you could argue with. 

Except this: upon leaving each guest was handed a gift bag, provided by the evening’s sponsor, Simpson Millar, a “forward thinking” law firm (as the night’s MC had described them), containing a large faux leather folder (made from oil) and…

a bottle of water.

Right after being lectured on the need to preserve our planet’s fresh water, and the links between our profligate oil consumption and the looming global water crisis, we were all handed the very product that we were told encapsulates our misplaced values.

Truly. Astounding.

The Great Bottled Water Debate

I was very surprised when Leeds University emailed me two months ago to ask me to take part in “The Great Bottled Water Debate”, this Tuesday, after their student union had voted overwhelmingly – by 75 per cent, the largest margin any motion had ever passed by – to ban bottled water from campus shops, cafes and bars.

 

Everywhere, everywhere.

 

I wasn’t surprised that they were banning bottled water – universities and city councils across North America and Europe have already done the very same.

I was surprised that they were holding a debate at all. Because, really, there isn’t one to be had.

Our lives are filled with unnecessary, wasteful and idiotic things to buy. But few as stupid as bottled water.

The environmental footprint is massive: the Pacific Institute in the US calculates that the carbon footprint for each bottle – when you take into account the oil used to create each bottle, and add to that the energy used to process, package and ship it to the consumer – amounts to the equivalent of filling that bottle a quarter full with oil. American bottled water consumption alone uses 17 million barrels of oil, and if the whole world drank as much bottled water as they do, we’d need a billion barrels of oil to supply demand.

The cost to the consumer is enormous: depending on where you live, buying water in plastic bottles costs 500 to 1000 times more than just getting it from the tap.

Now, most people say they prefer to fork out a buck or two for bottled water because they’d rather drink spring water than tap water. But here’s the funny part: 40 per cent of bottled water is just tap water (sometimes with a little extra filtration, ozonation or added salts to gussy it up).

I could go on and on and on. But I already did – you can read it here.

Suffice to say: few products are as downright silly as bottled water. Folks who work in advertising will always cite it as the best example that proves you can persuade people to buy anything, as long as it has a spiffy logo and a slick name. You can even convince people to pay 1000 times more for the exact same product that comes out of their tap for free. You can even convince people to buy water explicitly labeled as sourced from city taps if you give it the right look – check out Tap’d NY if you’re not convinced.

Amazing.

But it’s not just a harmless scam on unwitting consumers. It’s an unconscionable waste of polymer plastics, which are – let’s not forget – incredible materials. Clear, sterile, flexible and versatile, you can do incredible things with the stuff: syringes and blood bags, records and CDs, computers and cell phones.

I’ve written a lot about the problematic chemicals that are associated with modern plastic products, such as bisphenol A, and have been accused on many occasions of being a socialist, anti-petrochemical luddite. Which isn’t fair.

Because really, in the bottom of my heart, I adore plastic. It’s an incredible material that has utterly transformed the course of human history. Without it could I ever have listened to Fake Plastic Trees over and over and over, on cassette, CD then mp3, for the past 13 years? Unlikely.

But what do we do with this amazing thing that requires so much energy and ingenuity to produce? More than 40 per cent of plastic goes into packaging – from plastic bags to clam shell containers to bottles of water – used once and thrown away. No matter what way you slice it, it’s stupid. Read more about plastic waste here. 

Even if you don’t care about the plastic waste that winds up in the ocean, or the greenhouse gas emissions that contribute to climate change, you can’t deny that this waste of oil – a finite resource – is nothing but downright brainless.

So I was surprised that they were holding this debate. There is none to be had. Bottled water is essentially indefensible.

But I was looking forward to it, oh yes I was. Why? Not just for the chance to get up on my soap box (though I certainly do love that). I was looking forward to hearing what the representative from Danone (one of the world’s largest bottled water companies) was going to say. What could he (or she) possibly have to say in their industry’s defence?

Well, I had some idea, thanks to the Natural Hydration Council, the unbelievably transparent PR wing of the bottled water industry. I was going to ask them how they got their stat asserting that “97% of bottled water is naturally sourced,” and point out that the universally accepted figure is closer to 40%.

I figured they would argue that humans need “2 litres of fluid” a day to stay hydrated, and point out that a study last year in the Journal of Nephrology found no evidence to support this idea.

And of course I was going to point out that, even if you do want to force two litres of water down your gullet every day, you can do so very easily and cheaply with a nifty, reusable, stainless steel thermos, like the one I just bought from thinksport (such a great name for an undeniably clever product).

Oh my yes, I was looking forward to this. I hadn’t taken part in a good old debate since my days on my highschool debate team.

But – alas – the representative from Danone decided last minute not to come. Instead, a rep from One Water, which sells bottled water to raise funds for clean water projects in Africa (and, similarly, condoms to raise money for AIDS campaigns in Africa), took his place. Though I certainly don’t think that selling bottled water is the best way to raise money for charity, I can understand their view that if people are going to buy the product anyways, they might as well buy one that gives a slice to good causes. Beating up on somebody from an organisation geared around charity isn’t as much fun as laying into a corporate spin doctor.

Lame. Backing out of the debate was really cowardly.

Still though, I had good fun. It was so rewarding to be told that something I had written had actually inspired people to take action – its not often you can be told that, as a writer, and it always makes you proud.

It was also such a delight to see how well informed and passionate the students were. They really understood the issue, and with only one exception they all argued in favour of the ban.

The one student who opposed the ban did so on the grounds that he should have the choice to buy bottled water, and the ban deprived him of his freedom.

Fine. If you want the freedom to be stupid, go ahead and buy bottled water. That really is the only way to define the purchase of this product.

The Natural Hydration Council is certainly not going to give up without a fight – already I’ve seen their ads on the tube.

 

Evian is trying to guilt you out for not drinking enough bottled water.

 

But I hope that the tide really is turning, people are realising how they have been duped into buying this ridiculous product, and the debate will be laid to rest.

But there’s one more point that I would like to make, that people often forget. Bottled water is actually quite dangerous, in that it “paves the way for privatisation”: if people become accustomed to thinking that they should have to pay for water, they will be more likely to accept the privatisation of public water supplies.

Already schools, hospitals and other government offices are being built without water fountains (and existing fountains in public parks being left to rust) because people are forgetting that they should be there.

Full privatisation would be inefficient and corrupt, and disproportionately affect the poor. But it would also be historically retrograde, and staggeringly naïve. Clean, safe and cheap public water supplies are one of the great cornerstones of civilisation: the Romans took great pride in their drinking water, and created beautiful public fountains for that very reason.

 

Something to take pride in.

 

Let’s hope we don’t forget it.

 

 

Note: I was invited because I had written a feature for The New Internationalist about the “environmental nightmare” that is bottled water, alongside Jeanette Longfield of food and farming NGO Sustain, and a representative from the bottled water industry. I was incredibly chuffed to have been invited, and proud that they told me that my piece was a big part of the inspiration behind the ban. But of course this piece could not have been written had it not been for the reports produced by people at NGOs like Sustain, the Polaris Institute and Food and Water Watch – nor the hard work of people “on the ground,” as they say, working to create real change.

I am inspired by my cousins, young as they are

These are my cousins. Ella is the red head, she is 9, and Ruby is 11.

 

From left to right, Ruby, Ella, and me.

 

When I was a kid, all I wanted in the world was cousins. I had second cousins, but I desperately wanted my aunt Mary – who in many ways I am actually more similar to than my own mum – to have children of her own. By the time she was 40, it seemed that it might not ever happen for her. Sure, she had dated many cool, smart and handsome men. But none were the right fit.

Then she met John. A filmmaker, like her, solid, sane, smart, and funny. He is her fit. I adore John.

 

My aunt Mary and her wonderful husband John.

 

When I found out that Mary was pregnant with Ruby I bawled like a baby. It was one of the happiest moments of my life.

When I found out she was pregnant with Ella, it was another joyous moment. She and John and Ruby came to visit us at Christmas, and they walked in the door, and Mary said, “Ruby, do you have news for everyone?” and Ruby, then two, pointed at her belly and said “BABY SISTER!” We all cried. It was amazing.

My mum has a cool expression for having children. She calls it “making your own favourite people.” I think that is such an eloquent and beautiful way to put it.

 

This could be an orange juice ad.

 

Ruby and Ella are two of my favourite people on earth. And not just because they are related to me, though it is a great joy to discover all the similarities between us, running through our blood.

 

I love this photo so much - my mother is reading Little Miss Stubborn to us. Perfect. London, 2006.

 

But really, they are two of my favourite people because they are incredible human beings. Watching them grow and learn and mature and change is an unparalleled joy for me.

They are two of the smartest people I know. Full stop. Incredibly sharp, incredibly perceptive.

Ruby’s favourite band is Talking Heads – how awesome is that? One of Ella’s favourite songs is Heart of Gold by Neil Young – one of my own favourite tunes. Ruby requested a Mighty Boosh t shirt for Christmas this year.

And they are already making avant garde art house flicks. Check it: creepychristmas.net/ Their film is posted on December 24. Ruby did the scenario, Mary directed, John did the shooting and editing, and Ella is the star.

I mean, seriously. How cool are these kids? They have so much personality for their ages, it’s unreal. I feel a particular affinity for Ella, we are cut from the same cloth.

 

Cut from the same cloth.

 

She’s very feisty, very funny, very spunky, and very no-nonsense. If she was a character in Harry Potter she would be Ginny Weasely. Since she was two everybody could see how similar she and I are. The family suspects she might go into the sciences, like me. Already she lists “mammals” as one of her favourite things, on a map of her heart that she drew. 

 

The map of Ella's heart. As her dad said when he saw it, "It killed me."

One of the things I find most amazing about the girls is how different they are, and the fact that they both had their own distinctive characters from the very start. As their dad John put it, “It’s like they came out already done.”

Ella, at three, even then incredibly ballsy, joyful and confident. New York, 2003

 

Ruby is a different breed. As Ella and I are similar, she is from the same planet as my aunt Kelley.

She is – and I’m serious – the most generous, sweet, kind and sensitive little girl I have ever met. If she was a character in Harry Potter, she would be Luna Lovegood – but not flakey. For example: she recently wrote a short story that involved a stone that if you touched it you would feel every emotion in the universe. She is one sensitive soul. 

 

Ruby, who has been sweet and sensitive from the day she was born.

 

And she is remarkably philosophical. She’s always asking deep questions, sometimes ones that I find very difficult to answer.

At the moment she’s very interested in religion. Her grandmother was Catholic, and a few other members of her father’s side of the family still practice. “What religion are you?” she asked.

“None, Boo. I’m not any religion.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t really believe in God, and I don’t think I need a list of rules to make me a good person, or that we need to invent stories to make life seem amazing.”

Then she wanted to know why there were so many different religions. We talked about Jesus and how I agreed with basically everything he said. She has a friend who is Wiccan and thought that was cool, and then said, “I don’t want to be a Christian I think that’s boring. Also I don’t like this hell idea, I think that’s mean. Also some Christians don’t believe in evolution and they are really silly. I met a girl who didn’t believe in dinosaurs and I thought she was dumb.”

Then she asked, “Why is there religion at all?”

“Well, because the world is a confusing and amazing place and people want to understand why it is the way it is, and why we are here at all,” I answered.

“But maybe there are other ways to try and understand the world,” she said. Then we visited the science museum. It was a good day.

This summer I had the incredible privilege and joy of watching old episodes of The Simpsons with the girls, which they are just now discovering. We watched the episode where Lisa gets a talking Malibu Stacey doll, and the doll simply spouts sexist and inane statements, like “I wish they taught shopping at school,” and “Let’s make cookies so the boys will like us.”

I explained to the kids that this was based on a real Barbie doll, which caused a lot of controversy when it was programmed to say “Math is hard.”

“That’s stupid, why would they make the doll say that, just because she’s a girl doesn’t mean she can’t do math,” Ella observed.

“Girls, do you know what a feminist is?” I asked. They shook their heads. “A feminist is somebody who believes that boys are no better than girls,” I said.

“I’M A FEMINIST!” they both cried. I was pleased.

I really don’t know if I can quite find the words to explain just how much I treasure and adore these kids, and how happy they make me.

This Christmas, for the first time in six years, my cousins, my brother and I were all together.

 

From left to right, Ben, Ruby, Ella and Zoe. Check out what the girls are doing with their hands.

 

I was going through a very difficult time in my life, for professional reasons. To make it worse, my brother is suffering from a terrible lung and sinus illness. He’s been in awful shape for three years, and it completely breaks my heart. My brother means the world to me, as I have written about before. When he is in pain, so am I. 

 

Nobody will ever know me like my siblings do.

 

I was really down. So it was wonderful for the girls to be here, they cheer me up so much. I don’t quite understand how or why, but for some reason, almost every time for the past six years that I have been going through a sad time, the stars have aligned to put me in the same geographical location as the girls.

When my parents were fighting constantly in 2002, about to split up, and it was awful. 

 

Their company is the most soothing pain killer there is.

 

In the spring of 2003, after I had gone through the most difficult and painful year of my life, culminating in my first love and best friend breaking my heart into a million pieces. 

 

With Mary and my Grandpa and the girls in New York, 2003.

 

Just before I left London to go back to Canada in 2006, which was a very sad time for me. 

 

In London, 2006.

 

When I returned to London in 2007, after my failed attempt to reunite with my first love, and I was shattered beyond belief. 

 

Nothing soothes my broken heart like these girls. London, 2007.

 

And now this Christmas, when I was feeling incredibly low and shattered, watching the publishing industry go down the toilet, and hearing my most beloved brother wheeze and cough with a mysterious and crippling illness, the girls came to visit. Thank goodness.

One night we were all going to have dinner together, and Ben couldn’t come because he was just so, so ill.

After he apologized profusely and I hung up the phone, I started to cry. No, I said to myself, don’t break down in front of the girls, you are supposed to be a role model and a rock for them. I wiped my tears and sighed. They looked at me sympathetically.

“I’m sorry guys, I’m just so sad about Ben. Imagine, Ruby, if Ella had been incredibly sick for three years, and nobody knew what was wrong with her or how to make her better.”

They nodded in silent understanding.

“Ruby, what advice would you give me to make me feel better about this?”

“Well,” she said. “Don’t worry, because it’s not going to make anything better, and you’re just going to make yourself feel worse.”

“You’re totally right.”

“Also, don’t be pessimistic and think he won’t get better, because pessimism will just make you depressed.”

This girl is so incredibly astute. I am inspired, comforted and counseled by an 11 year old.

How amazing is that?

 

I am truly blessed.

My Big Fat Post Modern Wedding

Last week, I got married. To my Wife Rebecca – or Bex, as she is better known.

Me n' my Wife.

 

Truth be told, we’ve been married (on Facebook at least) for many months. But we thought it was time to do our marriage justice and tie the knot properly, with 70 friends and a crate of champagne.

 

The ultimate post modern marriage. Photo Credit: Mike Mike Mike.

 

Let me be clear: We are not lesbians. We do not have sex with each other. This is not a legal marriage, nor a civil partnership. We are not going to raise children together. We have long-term sexual relationships with men, and we both fully plan on finding “the one,” being with them forever and having babies.

Many people seem to have misunderstood this point, and a surprising number declined the invitation to our wedding because they found the whole concept so odd. It made them uncomfortable. More’s the pity.

So I am writing this for everyone who was confused by our marriage, to explain why she is my Wife.

Here it is: She is my match.

My match. Photo Credit: Joseph Edmonds

 

She is an immaculate wordsmith, and an unparalleled punner. She will banter and chatter with me for hours on end, instead of running out of interesting things to say, sitting awkwardly in silence, or tiring of my words. She can destroy you in Scrabble, politely, using only real words (none of those ridiculous ones like “qaid” and “zitis” that you only find in the bullshit Scrabble dictionary). She is schooled in the Greek and Latin classics, works professionally as a journalist, and writes her mobile phone texts and notes on Facebook with proper spelling and punctuation. (I abhor txt spk.)

The other night I sent her a text, and she wrote back: “Wife, I am too drunk to read your text, but check out how my spelling is still accurate.”

This spoke volumes.

She has dark brown eyes that you could stare into for hours. She shares my love of wearing inappropriately low-cut tops to the office. She loves food, passionately. She is also allergic to bullshit, cats and aspirin (who the hell is allergic to aspirin?). She doesn’t withhold her affections, she wears her heart on her sleeve, and she has endless (some might say excessive) patience with friends and family when they step out of line.

We are, as the Brits say, “cut from the same cloth.” Or as Bex puts it, “we are mates of soul.”

When we met, it was love at first sight.
 

Love at first sight: Hagop introduces Bex to Zoe. Photo Credit: Me

 

Our mutual friend Hagop brought her to meet me in the lineup outside a London club for a dubstep night. She had already imbibed four pints before our meeting (this set a precedent for what is a pattern of hers). We made small talk for a few minutes, and then she mentioned that she had just broken up with her boyfriend of four years.

“Oh!” I exclaimed, and rubbed her arm comfortingly. “We need to get you trashed. Right now.” And I scurried off and bought a bottle of rum.

It was an instant bond. I don’t think I’ve ever fallen for a friend so quickly and so easily.

I have other girlfriends I love no less, and whom I would call “my Best Friend.”

But Bex is my Wife. The distinction between Bex and my Best Friends is that, if either one of us were male, we would actually date, marry and have babies. We were made for each other.

We have called each other “Wife” – both to each other and when referring to each other – for well on a year now.

Hence we decided it was high time we actually got married.

The rules of engagement for our celebration were simple: men were to dress as women.

Hagop and Ross, looking very pretty indeed. Photo Credit: Lauren Blue

Neon, as Norman Bates. Aces High. Photo Credit: Flavia Fraser-Cannon

 

Women were to dress as men.

 

Emma looking incredibly dapper. Photo Credit: Lauren Blue

Harriet, enjoying some light reading. Photo Credit: Lauren Blue

 

Everyone was to take the next day off work

Our guests kept Bex and I segregated before the ceremony, saying “Brides must not see each other beforehand!” which I thought silly and unnecessary. But when she walked down that aisle and I saw her, looking so beautiful, escorted by our friend Neon and smiling at me, my skin prickled with goosebumps. I kid you not.

Photo Credit: Mike Mike Mike

 

I wore my vestal virgin dress (which I’ve had for 10 years). When Bex first saw me wearing it she said “Oh my god, you look so pure, I want to sacrifice you!”

Hagop, having the honour of being the one who introduced us, was the vicar.

Photo Credit: Lauren Blue

He almost bought a priesthood online, but decided he didn’t need to bother. “It doesn’t matter to me, if I just say I’m a vicar then I’m a vicar,” he said. Fair play.

We enlisted some professional photographers – the very awesome Mike Mike Mike

Mike Mike Mike. Photo Credit: Lauren Blue

Lauren Blue

Lauren Blue.

and Flavia Fraser-Cannon (Bex’s Best Friend, my new wife-in-law)

My new wife-in-law Flavia, with our vicar Hagop. Photo Credit: Lauren Blue

 

whose photos I respectfully replicate here and to whom I am very grateful for capturing one of the most amazing nights of my life.

Photo Credit: Mike Mike Mike

 

You see, I never thought I would get married. I don’t believe in the institution.

Don’t get me wrong: I believe in true love and monogamy whole-heartedly. I dated just one person between the ages of 15 and 20. I sincerely want to be with just one person for my whole life, to have babies and grow old together in passion and in friendship.

But I don’t believe in the concept of “marriage.”

I don’t think a license from a priest or the government makes my relationship with someone different. It’s just a piece of paper.

In fact, I find the very notion that I should have to go through a ceremony with somebody before our love is considered valid to be downright offensive.

It’s a waste of money. My parents, who were paired for three decades, spent the $20,000 they had painstakingly saved on the down payment for a house, instead of a wedding. I think that was incredibly clever. Should any man with wads of cash in his pocket desperately want to marry me (as unlikely as that is, given my propensity to date writers and musicians), I would ask that we spend the money on a home, a holiday, or just give it to charity.

I don’t want a diamond ring. I am very clumsy and I lose things easily – it would just be a stress and a worry. Also, diamonds tend to be mined by workers who toil in horrible dark mines under slavish conditions. Screw that.

Lastly, I can’t be bothered to deal with the anxiety. For many couples, organizing the event and getting their (often dysfunctional) families together can be an unbearable stress.

I don’t believe in marriage. I have never wanted to marry anyone.

But I wanted to marry Bex.

The exchanging of rings. Photo Credit: Lauren Blue.

 

I wanted to celebrate our friendship.

 

Our first kiss. Photo Credit: Mike Mike Mike

 

I wanted to pay homage to the fact that in the middle of the night outside a crappy nightclub, two kindred spirits can find each other.

 

Photo Credit: Lauren Blue

 

I wanted to rejoice in the fact that two women can choose to remain single and wed each other instead of marrying mediocre males.

Throwing the flowers. Who caught them? Everybody. Photo Credit: Mike Mike Mike

 

Instead of getting hitched at 18 to start pumping out sprogs, we can go to university, work professionally as writers, have our words and our thoughts taken seriously, and on occasion stay out very very late getting very very drunk with each other.

Wives like to make mischief.

 

This is what feminism is all about.

And what better way to celebrate than with 70 friends all in drag and bubbling on champagne?

I wanted to celebrate with my best friends, with my modern urban family.

My chosen dad, Kier, giving me away. Photo Credit: Lauren Blue

 

In London I have found many brothers and sisters, people that I consider family.

My chosen sisters, Lily and Gemma. I love them like family. Photo Credit: Flavia Fraser-Cannon

 

Somebody once told my aunt, “You’ve always been gay.”

“What are you talking about? I’m not a lesbian.” She said.

“Yes, but you’ve always lived like a gay person: You make your friends your family.”

So I guess in that way, Bex and I actually are gay.

With everyone in the dress of the opposite gender celebrating the marriage of two straight women who do not have sex with each other this was, quite simply, the ultimate post-modern marriage.

Hagop said to us, at the end of the night, “You are the coolest people ever – how many girls would marry each other like this?” We were, as the Brits say, chuffed.

Everyone said that this was an incredible party, and rightly so.

We make good party. Photo Credit: Mike Mike Mike

 

The girls, garbed in comfy suits and waistcoats, were spared the insecurity and anxiety that normally comes with choosing a dress for a wedding. They loved it.

My beautiful friend Aurora, hiding her beauty behind a comfy beard. Photo Credit: Flavia Fraser-Cannon

Rebecca, looking debonair, as always. Photo Credit: Lauren Blue

 

Erin letting it all hang out. With chest hair. Photo Credit: Mike Mike Mike

 

And the boys – not surprisingly – enjoyed wearing cocktail dresses and mini skirts more than they had anticipated. It was very amusing – and revealing – to see which of them took particularly great pleasure in cross-dressing.

Our dearest Harky, Hagop's brother, looking like a sexy beast. Photo Credit: Mike Mike Mike

My dear friend Aaron, loving the drag. Perhaps more than he thought he would. Photo Credit: Lauren Blue

My dearest Kier and Jan, looking so slick. (Kier, I can see your crotch). Photo Credit: Lauren Blue

 

I think my favourite moment was when Hagop’s father Rolph walked in, saw 70 people in drag and Bex (whom he’s known for a decade) being married to some chick by Hagop, smiled, and seemed to think to himself, “Cool.”

 

Rolph, looking quite comfortable. Photo Credit: Lauren Blue

 

We saw in the dawn, and everybody agrees that we giggled more at this party than we had at any other for quite some time.

I love my urban family like you don't even know. Photo Credit: Mike Mike Mike

 

Thank you to everyone for making our special night so incredible.

I want to give a special thank you to my Best Friend Lily,

My Best Friend Lily. Photo Credit: Lauren Blue

 

who means the Earth to me. She baked us a cake,

Yummy yummy cake baked by my best friend Lily. Photo Credit: Joseph Edmonds.

 

and made us matching rings. With the keys to our hearts. Aw.

My ring. Made by My Lily. Photo Credit: Me.

 

I want to thank my incredible Best Male Friend Kier, who gave me away, for staying up all night and looking so sexy in his cocktail dress.

My chosen pimp daddy Kier giving me away. Photo Credit: Mike Mike Mike

 

And, of course, I want to give a special thank you to Hagop,

 

Hagop looking deservedly proud. Photo Credit: Lauren Blue

 

for sourcing the champagne, for hosting the night at his house, for marrying us with the proper script, for hooking up dope lights, speakers and a smoke machine, and – most of all – for introducing us in the first place.

Our holy trinity. Photo Credit: Mike Mike Mike

 

This was, as Bex puts it, the “BEST WEDDING EVER – FACT.”

Many other girls, we have discovered, have “Wives.” Many girls have seen our photos and said “Oh my god that is the best idea EVER I am SO doing that.”

Bex and I are going to draft The Gospel of Wife to enshrine the concept. Such as: “Wives will never be too trashed at the same time. One Wife will always sober up when the other needs looking after.” Or “Wife will always know what to order for Wife in a restaurant when Wife can’t decide what she wants.” Or “Wife will always be able to tell when Wife is menstruating.”

You know what? I love being married.

I love looking at the ring on my finger.

 

"I just had to get it for you, it was so perfectly bling," she said. I wear it all the time now. Photo Credit: Me

 

I am still amazed by the fact that she picked this up for me by herself (after I had said we would need to go together to make sure they would fit), and that it fits perfectly. “Well you gesture with your hands a lot when you speak,” she said, “I have a good idea of what your hands look like.”

I love being able to say “My Wife is on her way,” or “My Wife is going to interview a Duchess next week.”

I love having a Wife.

And I love my Wife.

Maybe this whole marriage thing isn’t so silly after all.

 

Best. Wedding. Ever. Fact. Photo Credit: Lauren Blue

 

Just maybe.

 

 

Addendum: I record here, for posterity, our vows. Both were written on trains in a rush. Bex’s is far superior to mine, as I fully expected.

 

My Vow:

For my wife, with her piercing brown eyes, immaculate Scrabble skills, and the capacity to drink any man under the table, in her I found a wife.

I have never wanted to wed a man, but Bex I want to marry. Without hesitation.

I pledge to scrutinize all unscrupulous and unsuitable suitors. For there will be many before any is good enough for Wife.

I promise to never tease when you’ve had too much, to sober up when you need my solid arm, and hold your hair with patience.

I will never whine when you are on the rag, I will never dissect your personality, and I will never – ever – divorce you.

But most of all, I vow to love your family as my own – as I know you will mine. There are two types of family, you know. Those you inherit, and those you choose.

I left one family behind to find another here, and in London, I have found sisters, brothers, cousins, parents, and more.

You are all the reason I adore this grim, grey, expensive, pretentious, classist and alcoholic city so much.

Because even in the middle of the night, outside a shitty club in Soho, you can still find a kindred spirit. And if you are lucky enough, a Wife.

 

 

Photo Credit: Mike Mike Mike

 

Bex’s vow (much better in my opinion):

When we met outside that dubstep rave and you said “Let’s get trashed,” I knew you were the Wife for me.

But I knew I had you, see when I said if I were an enzyme I’d be DNA Helicase so I could unzip your genes.

We’ve been trouble since, causing scenes.

I promise to be there with whisky when you need me.

To patch up your poor skull when you are bleeding.

I’ll come to your lectures and expand my thinking.

Then kill brain cells together with excessive drinking.

I’ll do my best to thrash your brother at Scrabble.

When you need me to listen, I’ll let you babble.

And let’s not forget one last thing.

Zoe, my Wife, you are amazing.

 

I love my Wife. Photo Credit: Flavia Fraser-Cannon