Magazine article New Statesman (1996)

Squeezed Middle

Magazine article New Statesman (1996)

Squeezed Middle

Article excerpt

"Do you really think all this is going to make a difference?" I gesture around me, at the shattered, rusting greenhouses, the weedy vegetable beds, the wobbly wind turbines. I have brought the boys for a day out at the Squat. I needed to venture out of our suburb, to take them somewhere more enriching to the soul than Ikea Edmonton.

I'd been meaning to visit the Squat forages. Some friends of friends set it up. They're trying to stop climate change, or something. I am a little hazy on the details. Whatever it is, it sounds like a Good Idea. An ideal should support. I just haven't had much time for changing the world lately. It's been difficult enough to get my shoes on the right feet in the morning.

Jules spreads his Rizla carefully on the table and fills it with baccy. Jules runs the Squat, in a totally non-hierarchical and collective way. I'd never chatted to him properly before. Perhaps it was the moustache that put me off; I have a thing about ironic facial hair. But I am getting past that. It's too easy to dislike people who are trying to do things differently. Their very existence can feel like a reproach to those of us who have been resignedly going along with it all.

"I don't know," he says, as he lights up. "You never know what's going to be the tipping point. We can only do what we can. And if it doesn't work, at least we can say we tried."

We spent the morning looking around. Larry loved the urinal made from a bale of hay, the shower heated by an old radiator suspended over a bonfire and especially Jules's little wooden house, which he had built himself, just like Bob the Builder. …

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