Dear Marina
Did you switch off your lights and gadgets for five minutes last night? If so, how was it for you?
Switched on, Paris
I most certainly did. My kids loved it. Gathered round plant wax candles (scented with Juniper, a grave yard herb, fitting somehow) we told shaggy dog stories and discussed the tragedy of our less enlightened neighbours.
Through the orange glow of the street lamps, their outside lights shone brightly over deserted pathways while living room lamps fooled no would-be burglars and bathroom lights hinted at the mad rush for the morning tail-back.
The children were keen to know, if Climate Change is such a big issue, why no one else in our street appears “to give a fuck.” My 9-year-old son’s words, not mine and we did go on to discuss appropriate use of language. It was felt, in this instance, to be appropriate.
If we could all pledge to convince our neighbours, one by one, we might get somewhere. But the ensuing scenes could make inter-neighbour Leylandii wars look like friendly chats over the garden hedge.
Forget inadequate grant schemes for individual household renewables. The government must fund mass non-violent communication training now.
There is one ray of hope. My 7-year-old daughter has announced she wants to be Prime Minister when she’s older. She gets it.
Dear Marina
In a party political broadcast this week, the Green Party claimed buses aren’t sexy. That’s why politicians don’t use them. You’d know. What do you think?
Bus pass user, Bournemouth.
When Norah Jones sings “Come away with me on a bus,” it’s just the sexiest line. Since myself and my favourite bed warmer only have bicycles, a bus will certainly give us the edge should we ever get time off from the revolution to runaway, kiss on a mountain side and “wake up with rain falling on a tin roof feeling safe in your arms”.
I used the bus yesterday for official duties, wearing my chain of office and a hot little skirt and jacket combo. A sexed-up bus indeed.
The return journey at £3.00, a tenth of taxi prices, was definitely sexy what with the buzz of feeling morally superior AND saving money – well normally you pay extra to be ethical.
So the Green Party is wrong. The real reason politicians jump into a Toyota Prius instead of racing hoodies for the front seats up top, is the same reason hardly anyone else takes a bus: it will not go where you want to go when you want to go, especially when an overlap of appointments sees you racing between a weekly surgery, party campaign meeting and a long-made promise to draw the cat shelter’s raffle, each at opposing ends of the constituency.
Instead of going for the easy target, hinting through inference politicians think primarily with their dicks, the Greens could more helpfully set their sites on the profligate ways of the electorate. But then since when was nagging deemed either sexy or a vote winner?
Dear Marina
I am a (naturally) beautiful presenter well known for my bubbly character and VERY expressive face. But recently there has been talk that I’ve had plastic surgery to lift my furrowed brow. It’s bollocks – forgive the strong language but it’s part of my down-with-it style. The only thing you could say I’ve carved is a highly successful career presenting reality TV shows. Yes it’s true I’ve been around for a while but inspite of the scrutiny of the past few weeks I don’t look in the least bit Jaded. How do I vote out such malicious rumourmongers? DM
I am trying to connect with my inner Shilpa in the hope kind thoughts might be forthcoming.
No. Sorry. It’s just not happening. Jade did more for intergovernmental action on climate change than you and your smug face ever have.
By highlighting the depth of cultural tension in the common man, world leaders are now more inclined to panic, finally, and act on Climate Change predictions: after all, if half the world’s population is displaced could we honestly trust the Goody families of this world to put them up on the sofa?
Big Brother missed an opportunity, too. The housemates needed the following task: First screen An Inconvenient Truth then challenge the housemates to live within their fair share of the planet’s resources for a week. Should they fail, Big Brother could add increasing amounts of salt to the drinking water supply each day.
Instead, the stupefying effects of a month-long Celebrity Big Brother leave us paralysed, like the collective consciousness just copped a massive whack of Botox between the eyes. Your face? Me bothered? As my son might say: Fuck off.
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