Global warming is all my fault. And here’s why

Living in Norfolk, it’s difficult to be blasé about global warming.

Had I used a few less cans of hairspray in the 1980s I might have saved our county from becoming a modern-day Atlantis, our flatlands swamped by giant waves forcing all survivors to take refuge in a two-up two-down at the top of Gas Hill (for those of you not from our Fine City, the vertiginous Gas Hill is thus named because it has a gasworks on it – we are glaringly literal here in the East. Just don’t ask about the provenance of Rampant Horse Street).

I’ve always wanted to live by the sea, but I figured it might involve moving out of Norwich, rather than opening my front door in the Golden Triangle to watch polar bears floating past on lumps of North Walsham.

Global warming is like a religious education lesson come to life; senseless greed, disaster wreaking floods, hair-rending guilt and punishment from God by thunderbolts, storms, fire and ice. All that’s missing are a few beards, a couple of miracles and some oxen.
To cut a long story short, we’re all doomed unless everyone starts using energy-efficient lightbulbs and shopping in the organic section at Waitrose.

To this end, I have started growing my own vegetables.

By “growing my own vegetables” I mean that I’ve got a polystyrene box filled with musty smelling earth which has yielded a crop of three mushrooms. Bearing in mind the price of the mushroom growing kit, each mushroom I harvested was worth around £3.33.

I have it on good authority that the environment was struggling quite badly before I embarked on my mission to be self-sufficient. Follow my lead and we’ll turn back the tides yet.


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