CUTBACKS Part II

Cutbacks, announced Bloggiana a few weeks ago, the only way to survive this effing credit crunch is to embark on a programme of cutbacks.

We were sitting in the sitting room huddled around the fire, five o’clock just behind us, moonlight dimly filtering through our ivy-clad windows. I was trying to do the Sod-it-oku but my fingers were so numb, I kept tearing the newspaper with my biro. Our Dog was lying next to me, his fur billowing in the breeze that had thoughtfully wafted all the way from Antarctica and into Our House. Bloggiana’s pronouncement came and landed at our knees like a flying lump of suet. Our Dog and I sat and stared at it stupidly.

Weeks later and Bloggiana has been as good as her word. Energy, expenditure, pleasure, warmth, light are all to be used sparingly as Nutella. Every apple that falls from every tree that grows within London Marathon walking distance of Our House has to be gathered up and stored. Every garlic clove has to be pressed not once but twice.

And if all of the above does not sound rigorous enough, think on this: Bloggiana now smokes her cigarette butts firstly from top down; then from bottom up. Bloggiana’s daughter rubs out her yesterday’s homework so she can reuse the same piece of paper for today’s. And as for me, I find myself obliged to make chutney, yes you’ve guessed it, out of chutney.

Awful thing is though, and I’m not sure if I dare point this out to Bloggiana, but the job’s getting damnably tough. Last night winter blew all the leaves off the trees and today the arctic winds brought snow, horizontal rain and almost complete darkness. We would like to open the curtains so we can see – but if we do, chances are we will be showered or blow-dried or both. Occasional flickers of starlight glimmer through our four o’clock in the afternoon windows but other than that, the only light comes from the nib end of Bloggiana’s lit cigarette and the embers of a fire which is Not That Keen to get going.

Now Bloggiana is murmuring about turning the Expensive Cooker off. I mean, she expostulates (or at least I think she does for she is quite hard to decipher beneath all those layers of fur), it’s not as if we cook all day, is it? Our Dog and I gaze at each other in horror. The winter has barely got started. It’s time, we growl in unison, to take action.

But what, Our Dog and I realise together and fairly rapidly, on earth are we good for? Our Dog might be a sheepdog of sorts but he is also Completely Untrained. I on the other hand have no claims to a great pedigree and on the whole, I try and keep my undercarriage free of branches – but like Our Dog, I have been pretty much pleasing myself for years. How on earth can we both go out to work? Who would have us? Our Dog has absolutely no idea about following authority. And neither in truth do I. I mean, whenever I watch those adverts on television where the ambassador’s wife passes round those frightful lumps of chocolate MDF, frankly, I’m appalled. What on earth does she think she’s doing? Giving perfectly respectable free-rein women a bad name, I should say.

Bloggiana, I venture timidly later that day when I am fairly sure my friend is looking through the wrong end of a bottle of Pinot Grigio, are you sure you’re going to turn off the Expensive Cooker?

As the words leave my mouth, a slightly stronger gale seems to get up. It sizzles through our sitting room at such a rate that Bloggiana loses the tip of her cigarette and we quickly have to grope for water before the carpet catches alight. Turn off the expensive cooker, Bloggiana repeats numbly. Fuck no. What do you take me for? Some kind of eco-moron?

Our Dog and I exchange glances and heave disingenuously small sighs of relief.