Boris Johnson and the art of delayed gratification

There are few things on which I concur with our dear leader. So I was surprised when a comment of his hit home. The one about private jets. Of all things.

We know there were 400 such vanity projects at Cop26, that top EU official Ursula von der Leyer called upon the world to act against the ravages of climate change just as she travelled a total of 31 miles in one, and that our own prime minister decided it was perfectly reasonable to return to London on one mid-talks. To have dinner with a mate.

Sadly, the private aircraft polluting the skies above Glasgow and everywhere else are only increasing in number. Broker Colibri Aircraft reckons the number registered in Europe every year is rising, with 2,444 around at the moment.

Presumably, they’re used by those who think “Teams” is the word used to describe a collection of minions and “Zoom” is the noise they make as they fly over the proletariat.

Johnson put the absolutely vital use of his down to speed. Or more specifically, the lack of it when it comes to greener modes of transport – otherwise known as the options everybody else has.

Being more green, he seemed to be suggesting with that comment, was fine for those with the time to embrace it, but he was far too important for that.

And that has been playing on my mind ever since because, although it pains me to say it, he was right. A tiny bit. If you squint at it.

Most people we speak with about being zero waste and refusing to fly (in a private jet or otherwise), the aim of a plant-based diet and the rest make an assumption about cash and its plentiful availability. As I’ve expressed in some detail recently, that’s tat.

Being more fundamentally eco is a massive cash saver, whether it’s because you’re buying less meat, plumping for second-hand items and everything in between – and only buying when you really need something.

(For the love of god, don’t succumb to the call of the lifestyle-touting retailers claiming to solve the climate crisis by selling you more stuff – like beeswax wrap. We haven’t used it in five years and don’t intend to suddenly start needing it now. Usually, another plate or a damp tea towel does whatever job those little decorative squares were supposed to replace clingfilm in doing – the clingfilm that once replaced the first round of plates and damp tea towels. But I digress.)

But time. Time is a different matter. It takes us more time to cook from scratch rather than grab a plastic-encased, ready-made something. And it certainly takes us more, though arguably better quality time to get to the places we want to go – either walking, cycling, in the car now nicknamed the Limping Leaf, such is the deterioration of the first generation battery these days. Don’t get me started on that one.

In this game, time certainly is money. But not always in the way you might think.

More time – especially when it is crowbarred between a decision to buy a thing and the actual purchase – is now a well-known strategy for cutting back on spending. If you can go a month without purchasing the thing you thought you needed, the approach goes, you need to make a new decision about whether you really have to have it at all.

I’m a big fan of that strategy, not least because a decision not to consume – to buy – something at all offers you the lowest possible carbon and pollution impact. Zero. Add in the cost saving – a universal benefit, regardless of your political position on environmental action, and what we have here, ladies and gents, is the squeaky-cleanest of eco win-wins. And that’s just on your average buy.

The same thing happens when you’re layering up purchasing criteria.

Is it second hand? Was it made locally? Out of what? What are the environmental impacts of both its creation and eventual demise? Is it an item that will last as long as possible? How is it packaged? How will it get to me?

And waaaay down at the bottom of the list: is it my size/do I even like it?

Throw all those into the mix, and the process of tracking down the buy that makes it through unscathed can take months. If you can be arsed to see it through, you definitely need the thing.

Which is all great. As long as it doesn’t backfire. Like the three months during lockdown one when the universe appeared to conspire in a way that I didn’t own a single pair of trousers.

Thank god the weather was scorchio, a pair of tights emerged from the back of the wardrobe with impeccable timing, and I didn’t see anyone other than close relatives.