Terrible thing, procrastination

In five days I get on a plane for a very long-anticipated trip home. Three of the intervening days and evenings will be fully occupied with such trivialities as work, getting a haircut, taking the cat for a blood test, catching up with a friend just passing through London, and panicked last minute Christmas shopping. (To you, it's early days yet. To me, since gifts must be packed by the time I hop on a plane at 6.30am — yes, insane, we'll have to book a cab for 3am — on Friday morning, it's last minute.) Leaving two "free" days for those other small details:

Huge (and really annoying*) editing project
Re-ordering stock for Purlescence
Preparing a knit design submission
Completing the knit project that is one of my Christmas presents
...and so on.

Of course, almost all of these things could have been done ages ago, but, um, weren't. As can be said, too, of my completely failed plans for my blog birthday (tomorrow). I wanted to do something special, but it would take time, and I'm kinda busy. So I realised this morning, my present to my blog will have to become part of the great tradition of handmade birthday presents: it'll happen. Just not right now. (A common knitter's rule of gifts is, it has to be delivered within a year of the occasion for which it was intended. That's acceptable lateness.)

Meanwhile, I'm going to do some editing. See ya.

_____
* I'm increasingly fed up with academics. (Extemporanea, of course, excluded.) Particularly the particular brand that I usually find myself dealing with, i.e. very clever and creative people studying something 100% up its own ass**. To be fair, a lot of what they're doing is highly innovative and has very interesting — even potentially useful — practical applications, compared with traditional arts subjects like English Lit***; but they make up for it with more rarefied, pretentious, jargon-laden and self-important "discourse" than any other field I've encountered. All of which I could forgive if they were just a bit more efficient about it... but inevitably, deadlines are not so much stretched, or missed, as warped into an entirely different dimension (years late is not uncommon), where the writer constantly lies to you about when things will happen, keeps you waiting for months (at least), then suddenly hands it over and demands that it's done right now, because you see, they have a deadline. And the work itself, dear goddess, it's so sloppily put together you'd think they have no interest in their own writing. Plus, frequently there is a remarkable absence of academic rigour or understanding — and these are PhDs; since I'm way below them in the degree stakes, I probably don't have a right to comment, but seriously.

And of course the best part is that they are all so enormously impressed with their own subject, they think it's an enormous treat for you to be working on it. Really, every time, the writer or editor tells me proudly, "You're going to enjoy this, it's really fresh, really exciting, really amazing stuff."

But of course it is, dear.

Phew, that rant came out of nowhere. Sorry.

** Try Googling "site-specific media arts".

*** Which of course I love dearly, but I've never yet managed to convince myself that it's useful. Essential, yes, but not useful. (I can just see the irate comments brewing even now...)

Twiddles and ornaments

Random plug: those of you with operatic tastes should take a peek at Vivaldi's folio, where the commenter formerly known as Anonymous is indulging in some scandalous baroque gossip. (Not enough, mind, but some encouragement from a rapt audience should help to draw him out.)

Ode to a Coat

(A Pome in the style of Ogden Nash)

Let me sing you a song of my life in unhappier times,
Freshly arrived in London from more temperate climes.
I was prepared for the ice and snow, or so I thought,
Thanks to the big grey overcoat that from home I’d brought.
But when you think about it, I really should have known better,
Because while Cape Town, compared to London, is windier, wilder and wetter,
When it comes to temperatures that invite comparison to a witch’s titty
I think you can guess which is the worser city.
Shopping at “Coats for Africa” should have tipped me off.
I wasn’t going to Africa. I was going much further norf.

Now, that was my first visit to this great metropolis, but not the last;
Five years later I returned for a longer stay, minding the lessons I’d learned in the past.
But I still only had that painfully inadequate big grey overcoat, and why?
Because I was broke and coats were expensive, and I thought I could manage if I had to try.
By Christmas time, suffice to say,
I was simply desperate to try my luck in the coat departments in the sales on Boxing Day.
The which I did, and when I found what I had come for,
At last I understood what all those joyful carols were being sung for.

I took my coat home. Ever since it has treated me well.
And every winter I am freshly reminded of why I love it more than words can tell.
It’s not just the soft black fabric, the furry trim on the cuff,
The high fluffy collar that just about reaches my ears and warms them enough
That I could, if I chose, do away with the scarf and hat.
(Which is excellent news considering I prefer my hair more bouncy, and less flat.)
Plus, in a happy accident of fashion,
This year the coat is highly en vogue, being of a style distinctly Russian.
All these attributes are wonderful, to be sure,
But the root of my love is something deeper, more pure:
This coat, you see, with its magical properties has quite simply changed my life.
It has ended the annual elemental strife.
This coat means I can now get from A to B without turning blue,
And if you think I’m exaggerating, all I can say is, be glad it has never happened to you.
What is more, it comes into its own in this silly party season,
Justifying its entire existence with this one fantastic reason:
I can, and have, venture into the deepest darkest wilds of (say) icy Essex, almost wearing something utterly scandalous and with nothing to protect me from the sub-zero breeze but this amazing coat,
Which I think you’ll agree is worth rather more than a groat.

Forget what the poet tells you, beauty isn’t truth, beauty is warmth, and warmth alone.
No one can be beautiful when they’re bundled up in six layers of clothing and despite this they’re still freezing cold and having a good moan.
If in the depths of winter, you want to get some use out of that “Ode to a Grecian Urn”,
I suggest you light a blazing logfire, take the poem and let it burn.

So now, when the days draw in and the roads are turning slippery,
My heart leaps with joy as I haul out my winter frippery.
Hat, scarf, gloves and boots all do their duty,
But nothing can match my fabulous, furry, phenomenal winter coat for sheer cosmic beauty.

PS. If, through no fault of your own, you failed to enjoy my verse,
Count your blessings. I could have done it in the epic style of Homer, which would have been infinitely worse.

Stockholm syndrome in cultural consumption

(In which the Scrivener once more lays herself bare* to charges of prudery. And possibly racism.)

Daring to question Page 3, Kira Cochrane writes:

A recent survey of 2,000 15-19-year-old girls found that 67% considered "glamour model" their ideal profession... With the proliferation of these images, is it any surprise that young women have further embraced it?

Warning: this next bit is quite upsetting.

In 2002 I read a report (in SA's Weekly Mail & Guardian) that researchers had found young girls in the townships were more likely than not to describe gang rape as "cool". Now, I've written before about the harrowing stats on rape in SA. If you're living in the township, you're pretty much going to get raped, sooner or later. And it's three times as likely to be gang rape as a solo attacker.

And, oh yes, it's pretty certain that your brother, your boyfriend, and all your male friends are out there doing the raping. Because this is what they do. The term "traumatised society" has become quite the South African cliche, but that's what it is. Things got fucked up. And this is one of the ways in which it's playing out.

So the victims themselves have come round to thinking that yes, gang rape is a cool thing for boys to do (I don't recall whether the researchers were brazen enough to ask if they thought it was cool to be raped, too), because how else can you cope with that reality?

Now, I'm not trying to compare being exposed to tacky topless photos with rape. That's one accusation I'd really rather not face. But there's a certain echo there, not so? Everybody's doing it, your dad loves the Sun, so it must be okay. Why not join in?

_____
* As it were.

The secret is out

You may remember lots of self-important hinting about my Special Secret Project. That's right, the one that was supposed to be done by the start of October.

Now, by this time half of you have already figured it out and the other half never cared anyway. But let's just pretend this is still the eagerly awaited Big Reveal, okay?

Reveal!

Edit: Credit for the awesome website goes to my Beloved, whose MA Communication Design seems to be coming in useful after all, and to Strawberryfrog, who has provided crucial technical assistance in getting the shopping cart software to work the way we want. And who is, even now, conjuring up a little extra magic.

Just do it. And do it again. And do it again. And admit that it's still crap. And do it some more.

I have, alas, absolutely no interesting comment to make on this post by a wonderful artist, but anybody with any desire to create anything worthwhile should immediately go read it.

Government as a substitute for parenting

Sometimes when I hear people banging on about rights, I'm reminded of Fay Weldon's line that "right" simply means "it would be nice". This is definitely one of those times.

Would it be nice if teenagers talked to their parents before getting an abortion? Yes, absolutely. Mrs Axon is quite right that they should do so. But if a kid isn't going to talk to her mom, she's not going to talk to her mom. In that case, she's probably terrified of what her parents will say and knowing that the doctor will have to tell her mom anyway will probably put her off going to the nice clean NHS doctor. Coathanger city. Now that's progress.

Wouldn't it be nicer if parents made their children feel comfortable talking to them first? Isn't that something that only the parents can achieve — not the law?

I smaak you china!

A South African love poem, with annotations*.

I smaak you stukkend**, please say you'll be mine,
You're my moon, my stars, my Camps Bay*** sunshine.
Better than a degree from WITS or RAU****,
Better than a proper Durban bunnychow*****.

You're my beaded love letter***** **, my breeze in the night,
You're my tea, my koeksister***** ***, my Blitz firelight***** ****
You're my Discovery, my Tracker, my ADT***** *****
My pap***** ***** *, Mrs Balls Chutney, my Nandos***** ***** ** for free,

You're my lamb chop, my chakalaka***** ***** ***, my partner in crime,
My chilli, my roti, my samoosa sublime***** ***** ****.
The list is just endless and that isn't all.
You're my Lotto jackpot, my Bioplus***** ***** *****, who needs zol***** ***** ***** *?

Biscuit, you're my 4X4 when the road is hilly,
You're the Clover pure butter on my mielie***** ***** ***** **.
One look from you and I can float to the sky
I feel like the Springboks***** ***** ***** *** have just scored a try.

At this rate Kulula's***** ***** ***** ***** popularity might die,
'Cos for me you're the only and best way to fly :)
And this, my snoekie***** ***** ***** ***** *, is only the start,
'Cos you've taken the cable car***** ***** ***** ***** ** straight to my heart!

Forget Patricia, Amor and Winnie the ex-wife***** ***** ***** ***** ***
'Cos, babe, you're the tomato sauce on the slap chips***** ***** ***** ***** **** of my life!

_____
* Not written by me. Thanks to my friend Pip for sending it on. Note: so many annotations, I'm breaking the stars up into constellations of five. Pretty, no?
** Lit. "I like you broken". But it sounds a lot less creepy in Saffer. It does not, for instance, mean "I like you in a broken format"; rather, it suggests that the poet likes his inamorata to the point of brokenness. His love for her (or hers for him, or hers for her, or his for him — in the interests of simplicity, feminism and bloodymindedness I propose to assume a female lesbian poet from now on) is so extreme, he — sorry, she — feels destroyed by the strength of her passion. But in a cute way.
*** Cape Town's most popular beach, being long, sandy and facing into the sunset, with very expensive real estate on the mountainside above. The water is notoriously icy, but the sunshine, we are to take it, is quality.
**** The University of the Witwatersrand and the Rand Afrikaans University, respectively. We are to take it that the poet is a Joburger. (There's no burger like a Joburger!)
***** Further proof that the poet is from Gauteng, since only Gautengorangs****** actually like Durban. A bunnychow, however, everybody likes. It consists of a hollowed out half-loaf of bread, filled with slap chips (see below) and, possibly, sauce. Mmmmm. Carb overload. KFC in South Africa was selling chicken bunnychows, last I saw. Bunnychows are not only sold in Durban but are perhaps associated with the Indian population there. I'm not sure.
***** * Pejorative term
***** ** Beading is a traditional Zulu craft; bracelets etc are often made with special messages encoded in the colour and placement of the beads. A bracelet might often be beaded with romantic messages as a gift and love letter in one.
***** *** A tooth-achingly sweet pastry: dough twisted into a braid and soaked in syrup. Fantastic.
***** **** Much used at that great South African tribal gathering, the braai.
***** ***** Hi-tech anti-hijacking systems. If you live in Gauteng, you will be hijacked or have your car stolen at some point. It's a given.
***** ***** * Mielie-pap: corn porridge. African staple diet.
***** ***** ** Popular chicken restaurant/takeaway. Styles itself Portuguese but is really more Mozambican. Peri-peri sauce. Great ads, chicken only okay. Has expanded to London and, I believe, Israel.
***** ***** *** Spicy sauce, usually eaten with pap.
***** ***** **** SA has a large Indian population and hence, lots of Indian food. Strangely, though, curry has not quite taken over the way it has in London.
***** ***** ***** Vitamin-rich "aid to concentration" targeted at students and other desperate sleep-deprived types. Pretty sure it's mostly caffeine.
***** ***** ***** * Marijuana.
***** ***** ***** ** Corn. See "pap".
***** ***** ***** *** The national rugby team, also known as amaBokoBoko. There are periodic mutterings about changing the name to something less strongly associated with the Bad Old Days of apartheid, but it'll never happen***** ***** ***** ****. Even if it does, they'll still be the Boks.
***** ***** ***** **** Even as I type this, I'm expecting a flood of comments telling me it already has.
***** ***** ***** ***** SA's budget airline.
***** ***** ***** ***** * Snoek is a Cape fish of remarkably strong flavour, often eaten smoked, which makes the taste and aroma even more pungent. I'm pretty sure our lesbian poetess isn't being crude, though, so put that disgusting thought right out of your head.
***** ***** ***** ***** ** That would be the cable car that takes you to the top of Table Mountain. A great ride, by the way, I recommend it.
***** ***** ***** ***** *** Ok, gonna need some help here, I've been away too long. Winnie is of course Winnie Mandela. Amor, I seem to recall, was a TV presenter — the Lotto I think? Patricia... who?
***** ***** ***** ***** **** French fries. "Slap" is an Afrikaans word, pronounced "slup", and connoting hot, greasy, salty goodness. Naturally, while good slap chips are one of the experiences that make life worthwhile, lots of thick All Gold tomato sauce is their essential, inseparable partner, so I think we can all agree that this is a truly romantic sentiment.

TWENTY-FOUR FOOTNOTES. I'll never beat that.
However, I would like to assure you all that I did not post this just for the footnoting opportunities. Really. I didn't. I swear.

The Scroobious Chef: How to make butternut soup

1. Plan to make pumpkin soup. Send out an invitation that prominently features the words "pumpkin soup". Borrow an enormous pot for the express purpose of boiling pumpkins in. Scour the interweb for pumpkin soup recipes. Decide the recipes all suck*, I'll just make it up. Plan recipe in head.

2. Discover that no one actually eats pumpkins, they just cut them up to stick candles in, and Halloween was last week, so requests for pumpkins at Tesco are met with impolite laughter.

3. Decide to make butternut soup instead. Look for bags of diced butternut, because I'm not crazy. Find two pathetically tiny packets of diced butternut and sweet potato. Resign myself to doing it the oldfashioned way. Grab four butternuts. Ponder what else needs to go in this soup. Buy sour cream and cashews. Go home.

4. Realise forgot to buy onions. Panic. Discover onions in fridge. Stop panicking.

5. Check clock. Realise I'm going to still be cooking when guests arrive, so I'd better change into party clothes first. Don cute suede miniskirt. Look for apron. Beloved has hidden apron**. Resign myself to being very, very careful not to mess up suede skirt. Get cooking.

6. Chuck some butter in enormous pot. Whizz some onions in wonderful magic food chopping device. Chuck onions in butter over low, low heat. Instruct onions to look after themselves while I deal with the butternut. Boil some water.

7. Check instructions on butternut label for helpful tips on chopping. Find that cooking instructions, for either oven or microwave cooking, start with "butternut must be chopped into 2cm cubes".

8. Spend half an hour fighting with one damn butternut. Realise this is not a workable method. Chuck that first butternut in the pot, add hot water and stock, turn on oven, chop remaining three butternuts in half. Chuck five butternut halves in oven, stick one in microwave (that being all that will fit in small microwave). Proceed as follows: nuke butternut for 5 minutes, remove, take next butternut half from oven and nuke, skin first butternut while burning fingers and swearing, dice and chuck in pot, remove, etc. Repeat until last two butternut halves are removed from oven and by this stage don't need any nuking. Congratulate self on cunning plan which has only taken, ooh, another half an hour?

9. While 8 is still in progress, greet guests who are arriving on time, the bastards***, and are looking quizzically at state of kitchen. Apologise for glaring absence of promised gluhwein or prepared snacks. Gratefully accept offers of help and ply them with alcohol, or rather, get them to ply each other with alcohol because I'm still busy with damn butternut.

10. Soup is looking disgusting. Worry that this might be a repeat of the Surprising Purple Cabbage Soup**** experience.

11. Whizz coriander seeds and cloves in magic device. Chuck into pot.

12. Chuck cinnamon, ginger, nutmeg and black pepper into pot. Colour worse and worse.

13. Whizz cashews in magic device. Chuck into pot. Colour improves! Turn down heat.

14. Chuck two tubs of sour cream and a bunch of milk***** into pot. Colour now quite lovely.

15. Realise I forgot the damn bay leaves. Send horticulturally challenged guest out to get bay leaves, with strictly non-botanical instructions ("In the pot, one of three pots, on concrete strip, it doesn't have flowers in, it only has bay treelets****** and thyme"). Success! He brings bay leaves, saying proudly "this isn't thyme". Correct. Well done.

16. Run out of stuff to chuck in pot. Stir.

17. Soup starts to get into the Guy Fawkes spirit and explodes. It starts with friendly little "plops" but soon is attacking me with great viciousness. Seriously. I have big red spots on my hands today. Also, there is butternut soup on the ceiling. And — inevitably — on my cute suede miniskirt.

18. Try to remove soup from heat, but that requires getting close to it, and it's still attacking me. Finally activate brain, quell the Butternut Beast with lid on pot. Aha! Safety.

19. Make gluhwein. Drink gluhwein. Wait for soup's savage breast to be soothed.

20. Fearfully check soup. Looks soupy. Chuck in some parmesan. Serve.

21. Best soup EVER.

22. Try to persuade Beloved to pay for drycleaning my miniskirt. Fail dismally.


Feel free to adapt this recipe as you see fit. Using diced butternut, for instance, is highly to be recommended. But don't leave out the cashews. They're the special secret ingredient that makes all the difference.

_____
* For one thing, they were all weird "Thai curry pumpkin" or "pumpkin and mussel" type recipes, not basic pumpkin; for another, none of them specified how many servings they made, when what I most wanted to know was how much pumpkin I needed to feed a party; and finally, none of them had any useful information on how to actually prepare the pumpkin. They all started with "500g of diced pumpkin" or — my personal favourite — "15oz can of pumpkin". A can of pumpkin? While I appreciate that this is a fabulous idea, I've never in my life seen such a thing. Not the most useful, then.
** Beloved of course denies doing any such thing, but I present to you two pieces of incontrovertible evidence. One: apron used to live on back of kitchen door. It's not there now. Two: Beloved has habit of finding new homes for things that he does not, himself, use very often, on grounds that they'd be more out of the way somewhere else. He then forgets where he put them or, indeed, that such a thing ever existed. "What apron?" indeed.
*** This is the problem with inviting South Africans and Germans. English guests are always properly late (at least two hours). But the forruners, we're a punctual lot. (That whole "Africa time" thing? Is a total lie.)
**** Tasted great, looked bizarre. Everyone refused to eat it. It turned navy blue when kept in the fridge, then reverted to purple on reheating. Fascinating stuff.
***** Technical term.
****** Another technical term.

Inevitable, really

We're throwing a small bonfire party tonight. The weather forecast? 13 degrees, but clear skies. The sky up until five minutes ago? Blue as the blessed virgin's mantle. The sky now? DOOM.

I do hope it gets over itself quickly. And preferably a mile or so south of here. (Or anywhere, really, but the wind seems to be northerly.) I was really looking forward to those toasted marshmallows.

Update: It did get over itself. We had a wonderful clear, cold night. Good party. I like parties. Lots of lovely people and lovely food and drink and fire. Okay, there isn't always fire, but there was this time. Good party. (According to the only criterion that counts: did I have a good time? Yes. Ergo, good party.)

Just for Hen

In the interests of restoring gender equality, a totally gratuitous shot of barechested firemen. No big hoses, alas.

Stop hating me and start giggling

Since I managed to offend just about everyone with that last post (I should know better than to try and put on a serious debating hat, I'm so crap at it), why don't you just listen to this great voicemail message and pretend the other never happened.

Undercover journalism

As ever, I'm a bit late in picking this up, but here's a great piece on those horrid lad's mags.

Now, of the many, many interesting points that I could discuss, there's just one that I can't resist.

"When you become a celebrity," explains FHM editor Ross Brown, "you automatically tick the box saying 'Are you prepared to be photographed in your knickers and pants?' "

Which begs these three questions:
1. When, exactly, was this rule created?
2. Has anyone told the men? The male stars, I mean. Not the readers. We all know what they think.
3. Most intriguingly: knickers and pants*? What an odd idea. Are two pairs of lacy drawers sexier than one? I must try to keep up with these boudoir trends.

[...twitches, presses lips together, jiggles knee...]

Okay no, I'm sorry, there is just one other thing. At the risk of being a humourless feminist, I have to take issue with this:

"My readers are ordinary blokes - squaddies, students, bricklayers, lawyers - and to them Loaded is pure escapism," says Daubney. "They have girlfriends and wives. They know real women aren't like that."

Bollocks.

Or, if you prefer, non-gender-specific gonads. Whatever you call it, it's still a lie wrapped in a confusion.

The confusion is that while the readers - being adults of presumably at least moderate intelligence - may know women aren't really like that, they are encouraged to believe women should be. And sigh, and cast resigned glances at the flawed, inadequate specimens they are forced to settle for.

The lie is that many of the readers are not, in fact, adults, and are easily misled as to what "real" women are like. True story: I once had a heated argument with a chap of university age and intelligence**, who insisted that there really were women who derived complete sexual satisfaction from fellatio. Now, giving pleasure may indeed deliver pleasure in itself, but I think we can all agree life is not Deep Throat. Right? ...Right? Suffering Sappho, am I revealing my freakish sexual inadequacy here?

I've also had plenty of conversations with men of an age and experience that should have led them to know better, who whined plaintively that surely those were real breasts? Surely? Or who said, at least half-seriously, that they knew women liked [insert sexual practice here] because they'd seen it in the movies.

Or as Gendergeek so neatly puts it:

"...the lads' mag promulgates a male fantasy of adult sexuality that falls hopelessly short of reality. This is acknowledged even within their own pages, where instruction is provided on how to attain the dizzying heights of sexual pleasure that the magazines appear to be offering.

A typical sex Q&A feature in Zoo had four questions about how to persuade a reluctant woman to have anal sex, three on how to get her to watch hard-core porn and "How can I get my girlfriend to give me deep throat?""

So, I'm not going to argue about these bloody magazines' right to print whatever they want. There wouldn't be much point. But they shouldn't imagine they don't have an impact on how real women are perceived and treated, and what is expected of them.

That is all.

_____
* Note for Americans and Saffers: pants=underpants, not trousers. Yes, always.
** Edit: there was a nasty and unfair jibe here. There isn't any more. Apologies to those who read it.

Meme of the month

Not technically a meme, more a stolen idea: things to do in November.

1. Get a cold (check).
2. Get over cold.
3. Finish my Special Secret Project, which is only a month overdue, already. Gah. (Nearly there, though. Nearly…)
4. Knit like a demon, because I owe FOUR PEOPLE knitwear of various description (not including someone who doesn’t know I’ve promised her a shawl, and not including me, who’s just dying for a little bit of woolly self-love. And one of these knit projects has a deadline of 2 December, when I get on a plane and go to visit the giftee.
5. Prepare myself psychologically to see my mother when I get off that plane. (No. She’s not on the knitting list.)
6. Wire jaw shut in desperate effort to attain beach-friendly body before I reach the beach.
7. Enjoy having only five working weeks left in the year (since I’ll be on holiday for all of December).
8. Try to contain my excitement at all the good things awaiting me next month.

Apparently, November’s all about the anticipation. Ah well. Probably there will be some fun along the way. As soon as I get over this damn cold.

At-CHOO.

Edit:
I just remembered two other things happening this November. On the 4th, my nephew Spot turns two. And on the 27th, the Scrivenings turn one. We'll have to celebrate with a little something-something. Be sure to tune in for the party.

I'll make you laugh. I'll make you cry.

Actually, I won't make you do either of those things, but today's Guardian just might.

First, the funny (shamelessly cribbed off the internet, but never mind): the ballad of the wrong trousers. Makes you want to immediately hunt down all other items on offer from this seller, doesn't it? If only we knew who he was...*

Right, now that I've softened you up and you're feeling all warm and giggly, go look at what that horrible Tony's saying these days about climate change policy.

Apparently, it's terribly important to meet "the clear desire of our people - which is to find a way of combining rising living standards with the responsibility to protect our environment". Well, yes. Having cake, eating it. Natural human desire. But since it's quite obviously not possible to do both, shouldn't someone take responsibility for keeping the planet - that means us - alive a bit longer? Shouldn't that someone be the socalled leaders of the free world?

This is particularly agonising when you recall that, as pointed out by George Monbiot not long ago, big corporations actually need government to lead the way. (Curse that economic imperative.) Companies don't want to lose out to their eco-unfriendly (but cheaper) competitors; governments don't want to distress voters by, say, making the price of air travel actually approach the cost to the planet; so nobody does anything and we all hope that wind farms will save us. As if.
_____
* Thanks to Omar, who tracked down the post, now we do know. And he has a blog. Now the only question is, what was going on with the Guardian; probably they ran a whole meta-media-type article on the pants, and the coverage they got, in the actual paper, but something happened in the digital translation. At least, that's what I hope happened.