There’s more than one kind of water stress

Thursday, August 21st, 2008

It’s still raining. No news there. It’s going to rain all weekend as well. It’s probably going to rain all next week. Rumour has it the UK can expect some sunshine, for a few minutes on a Thursday, in January 2009. By which point we’ll all be living in houses built on stilts and travelling everywhere by canoe. Flowers and condolence cards for the death of summer sunshine can be sent to the Met Office.

Our chickens, I fully expect, by the end of September will have grown webbed feet. It is already true to say that we’ve gone through such an incredible volume of bark chippings for their run, and straw and wood shavings for their bedding, that the resulting midden of composting material will likely rival Blackpool Tower for height (although it will win over the Tower when it comes to aesthetic appeal). I suspect our collection of summer clothes will, when eventually taken out of the wardrobe and drawers out of sheer curiosity and to remind ourselves what things like t-shirts and shorts actually look like, have been turned to shredded rags by moths that crept into the house to find places to hide away to escape the deluge.

The slugs in the garden are getting so big, one passed by the living room window yesterday and with its impressively gross, shiny, vomit-orange bulk managed to block out the twilight of mid-afternoon for several minutes. I fear for the safety of our cats when faced with such gigantic slick beasts hungry, perhaps, for something more than a few bites out of their own kind. We plan to raise our vegetable beds by about twenty-seven feet to ensure they don’t float away. The garden itself is an island. I suspect the house is as well. As I reported yesterday, in a precision-targeted and unashamedly bold rant, you dig anywhere and, just a foot down, you reach a lake that extends in all directions. The water floods in to fill any hole you make. It is, to say the least, disturbing.

We have long had a dream that will likely remain so for many decades as the economy worsens, to install solar panels, a wind turbine, and a dual-fuel cooker providing heat for cooking and the house. But in light of Britain starting the process of disappearing under the sea to become a new (and decidely less exotic than the original) Atlantis, I think it wise to ditch all these noble ambitions and instead start saving for the installation of a flood barrier to rival that found on the Thames River, somewhere in the garden. Given that we live on a hill, it’s quite alarming to think that we’re only one foot short of our home severing its foundational moorings and floating off.

Of course, as with the issue of carbon sequestration, there’s always someone with a quick fix waiting in the wings for the screwy climate we’ve all, the world over, got to carry the blame for. For the UK, one proposal is to use military aircraft to carpet-bomb every square inch of the country with talcum powder. It would, however, require the destruction of the white cliffs of Dover, and there’s no guarantee that all the repurposed chalk would actually sink into the mud and help to dry it out, leaving us with the very real prospect of a white Christmas all year round and making the nation an attractive destination for eskimos and Icelanders (I mean the population of Iceland, not fans of the cheap and nasty supermarket chain).

Those keen to grab themselves a useless bargain can now head down to any of the major DIY stores and pick up a garden patio table and chairs for under a quid, keen as they are to shift stock bought under the premise that we’d actually have a summer despite this being the second dreadful summer in a row, and the one before last being way too wet for comfort as well. Parasols are also dirt-cheap, while umbrellas have become so much in demand that they’re retailing for just around the same price as a pair of Gucci loafers used to command (though they, like patio sets, have plummeted and it is now wellies that cost a fortune).

The nation’s fashionistas can look forward to autumn collections being unveiled that make extensive use of waterproof materials, while Calvin Klein’s latest parfum is rumoured to be called Anorak Nation and guaranteed to still smell like fresh damp moss even when a person has spent several hours underwater, walking the dog. Snorkels are being produced for the first time not only for people, but dogs, cats, chickens, cows and sheep as well.

We might be depressed—hell, I know I am—but if you can’t laugh, you might as well go live in Zimbabwe. They’re all miserable there, even the ones in charge and holding the blow-torches for interrogation purposes. You might get killed for being white, or gay, or British—most likely for being British—or for saying Mugabe isn’t a particularly nice chap, but at least you’ll be dry while you die.

But really, while I have much time for talk and action on addressing the issue of dwindling planetary resources, it’s going to be a tough time for anyone trying to convince the British public to save water and get to grips with phrases like ‘water footprint’ and ‘virtual water’, isn’t it? I’m very eco-minded and carbon-aware, even methane-aware (though I fall short of collecting farts in bottles) but even I carry such a seething resentment right now towards the rain that I baulk at the idea of holding back from turning on the tap every now and again. Unless we’re going to employ gigantic buckets to collect the deluge and ship it to Spain or Africa, which would be great, what exactly is the point? All the UK needs to do is ban the importation of anything containing water. We’ve got enough of our own, thank you.

Those nations struggling with drought are referred to as suffering from ‘water stress’. It’s obvious why, and it’s devastating to them. But while we in the UK have water in abundance right now, couldn’t it be said that we’re suffering from an opposite kind of water stress as well—that of having too much of the stuff? Now, excuse me—I think I just saw a jellyfish float past the kitchen window.

categories: healthy planet, rattle bag