Lucy Hunter Johnston

I really do want to save the planet but good intentions are difficult to stick to

EARLIER this year I had a crisis of consumerism. One too many nights lying awake with David Attenborough’s plaintive cries about the plight of the planet providing an imaginary voiceover to my restless insomnia had me convinced that I was singlehandedly responsible for every melted ice cap and frazzled polar bear. I gazed upon my overflowing existence and was sickened. Something had to change.

So it was out with the weekday meat (well, ish) and so long to idle lunchtime trawls through evil fast-fashion superbrands and their seductive rails of instant landfill. I swore that never again would a disposable bottle besmirch my desk with its polluting polymers; I even bought a SodaStream so that I could drink sparkling squash without murdering a turtle (admittedly, my understanding of the actual food chain remains somewhat hazy, to this day).

My wardrobe, bank balance and social life took a hit (to reiterate, I now own a SodaStream) but I was flush with the thrill of doing The Right Thing, surely worth a thousand delectably rare steaks.

Oh, how I laugh at those naïve early days of my conscious awakening. For this was easy, breezy springtime, when the most pressing concern was whether I had enough tote bags in which to store all my tote bags.

But now the shimmering heat of July has melted the greenest of my plans to a toxic sludge. I yearn for the noxious fumes of burning charcoal. Bring me your single-use novelty pool float and I will glide with glee, sipping from a plastic cup of doom. I’m one click away from buying an air-conditioning unit so that I can actually sleep. Screw the guilt, I need some chill, preferably after a dinner consisting entirely of shrink-wrapped, decidedly non-vegan, deliciously synthetic ice cream.

I am in the midst of a non-sustainable summer, and it’s reaching crisis point. Because all this pales into insignifi

cance compared to the greatest climate crime of all: going on an overseas holiday. By plane.

I know the facts: that transport accounted for about a third of Britain’s CO2 emissions last year; that in an annual list of Europe’s worst carbon emitters, Ryanair came in at number 10, behind nine power plants. On an individual level, no other activity is as damaging. But when you get down to it, my local lido frankly has nothing on Lisbon at this time of year. And there isn’t, really, a viable alternative. Yes, travelling by train or bus would be a marked improvement but it’s expensive, and takes forever. And I can’t quite bring myself to vacation vicariously through Love Island. Half my family are based overseas; I’d quite like to see them.

So there you have it, I’m a pathetic part-timer, an eco-embarrassment, a holidaying hypocrite cursed to spend my jollies wracked with a regret so real that the Germans even have a word for it: “flugscham”.

Ministers are considering a scheme that would require airlines to introduce carbon offsetting payments, which I welcome with an open passport. For now, though, the fee would be voluntary. A genuine cost would almost certainly change behaviour, but even an opt-out arrangement would highlight a growing problem, while providing the rest of us with a means of at least partly assuaging the crushing guilt.

While we wait for a biofuel breakthrough, perhaps a temporary social solution lies in a form of flight flexitarianism. For every long-haul jaunt to Canada (guilty), the rest of the year should be spent doing penance in the park. Just leave the barbecue at home.

The shimmering heat has melted the greenest of my plans to a toxic sludge. I yearn for barbecue fumes