My Favourite Top – Has it Got Something to Hide?

Does my skeleton look big in this?

My favourite top is slash necked and bat-winged. Sounds like some vampire horror story of a garment I know, but I feel good when I wear it.  I love the sophisticatedness of the slash neck – not to be confused with a slashed neck, which is not at all sophisticated, or comfortable – and the relaxed yet elegant cut of the sleeves.  It is effortlessly stylish.  And yet, something has come between me and my top.  I’m beginning to suspect it may be hiding a skeleton in the closet.

I’ve no proof – just rumours.  But all the same it’s got me thinking, where had it been before we met on that clothes rack in Zara, the Knightsbridge branch, all those years ago?  Because, I don’t know if you know this, but cotton, which is mostly what my beloved top is made from, isn’t as soft and fluffy as we’re led to believe.  At least it doesn’t start out that way. 

I mean what would you think if you thought your top, could, in some small way, have contributed to an ecological catastrophe? The disappearance of a sea, no less. I couldn’t believe it.  I know, it’s hard to imagine an innocent, albeit subtly sexy, top could be mixed up in this sort of mess, but it seems the

Cotton - queen of the crops?

evidence is mounting against it.

So, ok, the story goes something like this: once upon a time the Aral Sea, which lies between Kazakhstan, in the north, and Uzbekistan, in the south, was the fourth largest lake in the world. For thousands of years, the local people made use of the Aral’s natural resources – for irrigating crops and fishing – until, under Soviet rule, Uzbekistan discovered the export potential of cotton. Ka-ching!  Jackpot! And so, began the slow draining of the Aral Sea, to irrigate what the present government affectionately term, ‘white gold’.  An apt nickname, considering it rakes in over $1 billion every year.

The thing is cotton’s a kinda thirsty old plant: according to Water Footprint, it takes around 2700 litres of

water to produce the cotton for one lil’ ol’ shirt.  It doesn’t take a genius to work out if Uzbekistan is one of the largest cotton exporters in the world then a whole lotta water is guzzled in the process. The result? On his visit there a couple of weeks ago, the UN and Secretary-General, Ban Ki-moon, said:

“…[H]e could not see anything except a “cemetery of ships marooned in the sand.” As a result of the disaster, people are getting sick, the land is poisoned, and storms blow dust and salt as far as the North Pole.”

Cotton is quite greedy, for a plant

I guess it’s not my top’s fault, but it turns out, the desertification of the Aral Sea is just the tip of the iceberg, or something like that. Cos Uzbekistan’s President, Islam Karimov, poetically described by Sting, the

dictator’s daughter’s fave famous person, as, “…hermetically sealed in his own medieval, tyrannical mindset.”  has, according to the UN and Amnesty International, lived up to this description:

Sting in the tail?

“…boiling his enemies, slaughtering his poverty-stricken people when they protest, and conscripting armies of children for slave labour.”.  Sounds like a grimmerer and grimmerer Grimm’s fairytale.

Hmmm? What’s that? Child slave labour?  I mean if slaughtering and boiling doesn’t capture the public’s attention, then animal or child cruelty surely will – just look at those doe eyes!  Well, according to the Environmental Justice Foundation, due to underinvestment and a shortage of agricultural machinery, 90% of Uzbek cotton is harvested by hand; and a lot of it by wee nippers, who miss up to 3 months of school, to pick the prickly crop – ouch!  The EJF’s Pick Your Cotton Carefully campaign has already encouraged many high street retailers to

Come along, kiddie-winkies!

commit to sourcing cotton elsewhere.  However, last month, fashion hotspots Zara and H&M found themselves in the hot seat, accused of buying Uzbek, and essentially supporting slavery. 

And so it goes on. There are many more tales to tell, from pesticide poisoning to sweat shop labour, but that’s for another day.  I’m not sure this is the end of the road for me and my fave top, maybe we can patch things up.  It just seems to me that it’s part of our responsibility to consider where our clothes – or anything we consume – have come from.  We can learn about each other that way – broaden our horizons.  And it’s a reminder, that although we may feel like our purchasing power is all just a drop in the ocean, even oceans can be finite, apparently.

Being Green [with Envy] – Monsters, Dare Devils & J Alfred Prufrock (Who he?)

“To thine own self be true.” (Above the stage at Conway Hall)

 

Lady Gaga happy in the faux frog skin she's in

Green may be the new black, but what happens when green goes bad? I don’t mean when you go all OTT with the emerald velvet and wind up looking like Kermit the Frog. I mean green as a way of being, as in green-fingered, as in balanced and harmonious; the flipside of green as in pleasant, green as in good. I’m talking green as in envy. This was the question the School of Life was posing the other wild, wet and windy Sunday. 

I was having a go at killing 2 birds with one stone, not literally of course. All sounds rather messy if you ask me, you’d need a big stone, for starters, the kind Wiley Coyote used to drop off cliffs to flatten Road Runner – speaking of which, there’s a lesson to be learned here: only stone a bird while it’s standing still and if you’re going for two, then maybe opt for something that’s not gonna move suddenly – think dodo.  

So… anyway, the birds: The School of Life Sunday Sermon and My Cultural Life. The stone: Me turning up. Two different outfits I’d been meaning to tag along to in the same place at the same time – it just had to be done!

Satan's happy in the satin-lycra skin he's in...

Finding and meeting the My Cultural Life crew was easy enough; us early birds… escaped the elements and shivered with the rest of the philosophically curious flock in the foyer; under the all-seeing gaze of an improbably tall, improbably thin chap in a scarlet satin-lycra catsuit. Apparently this almost mythical man was no less than the legendary Johnny Satan, the Sunday Sermon’s minister-cum-compere.

Mr satin-clad Satan led us in a sing-a-long kinda hymn thing of that depressing Donnie Darko ditty Mad World, before introducing guest speaker, Oliver James, of Affluenza fame. Basically, OJ said envy = jealousy with claws on (aka the green-eyed monster). Well, he didn’t, I said that, but you get the idea…

"Surprise, surprise, Scylla!"

And if you don’t, then good old (ancient, in fact) Ovid gave us a damn fine demo of the destructive force of envy-in-action in his tale of Scylla, the water nymph – not the red ‘aired Liverpudlian songstress and host of Surprise Surprise, in case you were wondering. Glaucus, a minor sea god, had gone all Lady Gaga over sexy Scylla, but got seriously browned off when he failed to bag his babe. So who you gonna call? Well, not Circe the Sorceress, if this is anything to go by; cos, taking a shine to Glaucus herself, she decided to turn Scylla’s watering hole into a toxic hell hole, and poor Scylla into swamp thing. Eek!

The point is, envy is bad, not just for the envious, or the envied, but for everyone and everything. OJ laid the blame squarely at the door of capitalism and that crazy carousel ride consumerism. Keeping up with the Joneses and indeed coveting the Joneses stuff is basically the root of the fleurs du mal we call envy. The solution? The Scandinavian approach for one, apparently… And looking a bit closer to home – (1) feeling good in your own skin and (2) getting into your flow (ie, stuff you loved to do as child) as often as possible. Perhaps Circe should have tried fuzzy felts before resorting to poison?

The sermon concluded with tea and a slice of green-iced cake. Mr Satan urged the flock to have a chin-wag with a stranger over cha, but I felt that I was doing my bit by meeting up with the hitherto unknown My Cultural Life groupies. Honest. Actually, I harboured a desire to say something ground breaking to the marvellous Monsieur de Botton, who I’d seen swanning about the entrance hall. This was, oooh, the fourth time I’ve been a stone’s throw from my fave philosopher, but what to say? “I’m your number one fan?” No.  So I said, nothing, again.

Speaking of procrastination and major lack of self esteem I was most intrigued by OJ’s brief reference to TS Eliot’s The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.  He reckoned it was a portrait of life half-lived and Prufrock, like all those scared of their own shadows, was likely to be struck by the green-eyed monster:

And time yet for a hundred indecisions,

And for a hundred visions and revisions,

Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go

Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time

To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”