Many years ago, I had a friend with the splendidly bourgeois name of Fiona. And bougie she was: middle-class, Arts degree, inner-city-living vegetarian, refugee-fancier and climate botherer.
It was that last that eventually ended our friendship. Not on my part: I’m quite happy to be friends with climate alarmists. But not many of them are happy to reciprocate. Especially not Fiona. One constant source of friction was my rather gauche habit of noticing that, despite her ardent climate campaigning, Fiona was absolutely addicted to air travel. At least twice or thrice a year, Fiona posted braggadocious social media posts about travelling to some international destination or other.
When I pointed out (as I often did) that her penchant for air travel meant that she had the carbon footprint of a small African nation, Fiona usually got angry and defensive. “It’s good for my growth!” she’d shout. Not so good for the planet, though, according to your own beliefs, I’d reply. Cue more spluttering self-justification.
Did Fiona read The Guardian? You bet she did.
And I do, too, just so you don’t have to (don’t thank me, just send cash rewards). And I believe I’ve found Fiona’s spiritual sister, mourning the fact that the Wuhan plague has deprived her of her Gaia-given right to swan about the airways.
No more gazing through a tiny porthole of a plane window on to the landscape below. No more marvelling at tiny trees sprouting from tiny patches of green and gold and brown, or tiny gabled roofs, or tiny roads with their tiny cars and even tinier pedestrians. No more deciphering with squinted eyes the tiny pools for the wealthy, and tiny rusted car chassis for the poor.
No more the undulating hills of Masai country; the rugged clifftops of Timor-Leste; the S-shaped Thames; the flat, unassuming suburbs of Melbourne; the endless lights of Tokyo. No more.
Jesus, can this wittering bint name-drop any more fashionable locations?
I am struck by how much I miss this gazing upon tiny things[…]There is a power in it. And there is also humility.
Not much, if this piece is anything to go by.
Of course, my logical self insists it is good for the planet that the roar of jet engines have been silenced, however impermanently. That as we teeter on the brink of a climate tipping point, we must be thankful for whatever small contribution our travel hiatus might make to saving the planet.
Who wants to take bets that this Guardian writer will fall over herself to get back on a plane the instant travel restrictions are lifted?
The Guardian: I read it so you don’t have to. The Fiona’s of the Greens-voting inner-cities read it because it’s written by and for them.
If you enjoyed this article please consider sharing it with your friends.
