Five questions answered on the shrinking UK economy

How do the figures compare with what was expected?

Figures released this morning indicate the UK could be heading for another recession. We answer five questions on the latest economy figures.

How much has the economy shrank by?

Figures released this morning by the Office of National Statistics show that the economy, or Gross Domestic Product, has shrank by 0.3 per cent in the last three months of 2012.

In the three months prior to this, the economy grew by 0.9% which is believed to have been boosted by the Olympic games.

This is the first estimate of how the economy performed in the fourth quarter, and is subject to at least two further revisions as further data is collected.

What is being cited as the cause of this latest shrinkage?

The ONS are blaming maintenance delays at the UK’s largest oil and gas field in the North Sea, which resulted in a fall of output from the extractive industries. Mining and quarrying output fell by 10.2 per cent, which knocked 0.18 per cent off of GDP.

Another industry that faired badly in the last quarter is manufacturing which fell by 1.5 per cent.

What does this mean for the outlook of the economy?

This means that the country could be heading for a third consecutive recession. Factors such as heavy snow could also hasten the economy into yet another recession. 

How do the figures compare to what was expected?

The figures are said to be worse than expected. Sir Mervyn King, the Bank of England Governnor, has said he only expects a gentle recovery this year, although now even this is looking increasing unlikely.

The International Monetary Fund did cut its 2013 forecast for British economic growth to 1pc from 1.1pc predicted in October, indicating slow growth in the UK economy was anticipated.

What reaction have economists had to these recent figures?

Jonathan Portes, an economist from the National Institute of Economic and Social Research, speaking to the BBC said:

"Underlying it, ignoring all the special factors, what we see is the economy is not delivering the sustainable growth that we would normally see at this point in the cycle.”

He added: "This is due to the [UK] government's policies and the failure of governments in the eurozone.

"They should not have cut the deficit so quickly and before the recovery was sustained."

Meanwhile the Treasury said in a statement:

"It confirms what we already knew - that Britain, like many European countries, still faces a very difficult economic situation.

"While the economy is healing, it is a difficult road."

Photograph: Getty Images

Heidi Vella is a features writer for Nridigital.com

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The dog at the end of the lead may be small, but in fact what I’m walking is a hound of love

There is a new, hairy face in the Hovel.

There is a new, hairy face in the Hovel. I seem to have become a temporary co-owner of an enthusiastic Chorkie. A Chorkie, in case you’re not quite up to speed with your canine crossbreeds, is a mixture of a chihuahua and a Yorkshire Terrier, and while my friend K— busies herself elsewhere I am looking after this hound.

This falls squarely into the category of Things I Never Thought I’d Do. I’m a cat person, taking my cue from their idleness, cruelty and beauty. Dogs, with their loyalty, their enthusiasm and their barking, are all a little too much for me, even after the first drink of the day. But the dog is here, and I am in loco parentis, and it is up to me to make sure that she is looked after and entertained, and that there is no repetition of the unfortunate accident that occurred outside my housemate’s room, and which needed several tissues and a little poo baggie to make good.

As it is, the dog thinks I am the bee’s knees. To give you an idea of how beeskneesian it finds me, it is licking my feet as I write. “All right,” I feel like saying to her, “you don’t have to go that far.”

But it’s quite nice to be worshipped like this, I have decided. She has also fallen in love with the Hovel, and literally writhes with delight at the stinky cushions on the sofa. Named after Trude Fleischmann, the lesbian erotic photographer of the Twenties, Thirties and Forties, she has decided, with admirable open-mindedness, that I am the Leader of the Pack. When I take the lead, K— gets a little vexed.

“She’s walking on a loose lead, with you,” K— says. “She never does that when I’m walking her.” I don’t even know what that means, until I have a think and work it out.

“She’s also walking to heel with you,” K— adds, and once again I have to join a couple of mental dots before the mists part. It would appear that when it comes to dogs, I have a natural competence and authority, qualities I had never, not even in my most deranged flights of self-love, considered myself to possess in any measurable quantity at all.

And golly, does having a dog change the relationship the British urban flâneur has with the rest of society. The British, especially those living south of Watford, and above all those in London, do not recognise other people’s existence unless they want to buy something off them or stop them standing on the left of the sodding escalator, you idiot. This all changes when you have a dog with you. You are now fair game for any dog-fancier to come up to you and ask the most personal questions about the dog’s history and genealogy. They don’t even have to have a dog of their own; but if you do, you are obliged by law to stop and exchange dog facts.

My knowledge of dog facts is scant, extending not much further beyond them having a leg at each corner and chasing squirrels, so I leave the talking to K—, who, being a friendly sort who could probably talk dog all day long if pressed, is quite happy to do that. I look meanwhile in a kind of blank wonder at whichever brand of dog we’ve just encountered, and marvel not only at the incredible diversity of dog that abounds in the world, but at a realisation that had hitherto escaped me: almost half of London seems to have one.

And here’s the really interesting thing. When I have the leash, the city looks at me another way. And, specifically, the young women of the city. Having reached the age when one ceases to be visible to any member of the opposite sex under 30, I find, all of a sudden, that I exist again. Women of improbable beauty look at Trude, who looks far more Yorkie than chihuahua, apart from when she does that thing with the ears, and then look at me, and smile unguardedly and unironically, signalling to me that they have decided I am a Good Thing and would, were their schedules not preventing them, like to chat and get to know me and the dog a bit better.

I wonder at first if I am imagining this. I mention it to K—.

“Oh yes,” she says, “it’s a thing. My friend P-J regularly borrows her when he wants to get laid. He reckons he’s had about 12 shags thanks to her in the last six months. The problems only arise when they come back again and notice the dog isn’t there.”

I do the maths. Twelve in six months! That’s one a fortnight. An idea begins to form in my mind. I suppose you don’t have to be a rocket scientist to work out what it is. But no. I couldn’t. Could I?

Nicholas Lezard is a literary critic for the Guardian and also writes for the Independent. He writes the Down and Out in London column for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 28 April 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The new fascism