Dem bones Dem bones

This blog title is inspired by the famous spiritual song that was itself inspired by Ezekiel 37:1–14, where the prophet Ezekiel visits the Valley of Dry Bones and prophesies that they (the people of Israel in exile) will one day be resurrected at God's command. The connection to this blog is either superficial or very deep and cryptic. Reader's choice.

It seemed like a good idea at the time, eating, drinking and chatting, dinosaur skeletons watching every move, perhaps waiting to pounce (the dinosaurs, not me). The venue was the Oxford University Museum of Natural History, much more alluring than an Ivy or a Stein or a Ramsay, and the service was better too.

The food was seasonal, locally sourced and delicious. We’d had to pre-order a couple of weeks previous from a choice of two for each course. The onus was on the diners to remember what they’d ordered. No chance for me from that far back, but when it came to the event, I guessed right every time: non-vegan 3, vegan 0. I used to eat vegan occasionally, because I like a varied diet, but since the wokerati hijacked menus, demanding animal-free dominance and screwing our heroic farmers, I’ve pushed back and now won’t touch the stuff. Vegan is no better and often worse for health, the environment and morals. In fact, there’s strong inductive evidence that a vegan diet is bad for brain development. I noticed that the vast majority of dinosaur-diners also eschewed the vegan options, despite being ‘environmentalists’ every last one of them. Thus speaks the silent – and better-informed – majority.

The main course was ‘slow-cooked beef’. Was it ever! It wasn't carved but ‘pulled’ so there were long strips of the stuff on my plate. Tasty, but I kept glancing up at T. Rex & Co, wondering if the meat had been stripped from those guys’ ribs. Another glass of wine was needed to banish thoughts of Night at the Museum and dinosaurs seeking revenge …

We’d nearly become extinct ourselves on the journey over. My Dear Friend (DF) said she’d drive and would pick me up. I warned her about the road through my hamlet as having potholes deeper than dinosaur footprints, so she should slow right down and drive in the middle (assuming nothing coming the other way). The council had promised to repair it some time ago but then suddenly whacked us on the ‘reserve list’, making do with a ‘Failed Road’ sign for the next 289 shredded tyres I should think. It’s not the road that’s failed, as much as the council.

DF promised to drive carefully as she had a cracked windscreen, which I took to mean something like 2” long. Nope. When she arrived, I saw it was more like 12”. I kept glancing at it for the entire journey, wondering when it would crack all the way along and shower me with glass.

Screaming down the A34 (the car, not me) we were coming up to our exit but DF was still overtaking all and sundry; she said, “I must remember I want the next exit as the carpark will be closer,” at which I yelled, “Botley Bridge is closed! Come off now!!!”

To her credit, she did, but the HGV she cut up wasn’t too happy, and when she crash landed back on to four wheels after the two-wheeled manoeuvre, I again stared intently at the windscreen.

We parked in the multistorey and strolled towards the museum. The clement spring sunshine warmed the old stone buildings and enlivened the greenery and kaleidoscopic blooms. Pedestrians, observers, readers and cyclists were smiling and wistful. How can such a beautiful city have become such a pathetic laughing stock of poor governance and denial of free speech? Although, the recent hosting of Kathleen Stock at the Oxford Union is one small step for non-trans-kind back to sanity.

We arrived at the museum, drank prosecco, and engaged in convivial conversations. I chatted with a fascinating chap whose life’s mission is to protect and restore floodplain meadows that sequestrate carbon dioxide, reduce the risk of flooding, clean polluted waters and host a plethora of biodiversity. Outrageously, it’s the life’s mission of solar farm enthusiasts to destroy his meadow in order to link their latest monstrosity to the National Grid, under the pretext of protecting the environment. How can their landowners, developers and planners be so pig-ignorant? Answers on the back of a brown envelope.
 
After dinner, we were enthralled by, if not in thrall to, an ecologist who waxed lyrical about how he and his nature charity were successfully restoring nature to its former glory by overhauling livestock management, re-wiggling rivers, and reducing the need for fertilisers. As well as the benefits to biodiversity, his approach would help to improve drinking water quality and reduce flooding to homes and businesses downstream, which also means reduced sewage spills into water courses. Sounds good, eh? You’d be surprised! Some have accused him and his nature charity of helping his local water company to ‘greenwash’ their polluting activities because they contribute financially to his projects.

Really? No.

Greenwashing is:
1) The provision of false or misleading information about how a company’s products are environmentally sound or have a greater positive environmental impact than they actually do.
2) An attempt to emphasize sustainable aspects of a product to overshadow the company’s involvement in environmentally damaging practices.

In this case, no false or misleading information has been disseminated by the company. The nature-improvement activities are not an attempt to overshadow environmentally damaging practices, but a step towards statutory, operational objectives, i.e. to provide clean drinking water at the lowest possible cost, control flooding and reduce pollution. It has absolutely nothing to do with offsetting environmental destruction elsewhere, i.e. Biodiversity Net Gain. The only alternative to not paying the nature charity to restore nature, is for nature not to be restored (doh!): no improvement in the drinking water process; no reduction in flooding of homes and businesses; no reduction in sewage spills.

In other words, the water company has been criticised because they’ve contracted a nature charity, not commercial engineers, to achieve their operational objectives; and the nature charity has been accused of being traitors to the environmental cause because they’re taking money from water companies, the land owners, to restore nature.

It’s not a case of the water company polishing poo but of their faultfinders flogging faeces.

The drive home was comparatively uneventful, apart from my direction, overriding DF’s sat nav, to turn left here and not further along the A41. After a tortuous tour of one of those ubiquitous, boring, soulless, could-be-anywhere, Barrett-block housing estates, we emerged onto the same road we’d left ages ago, and found the correct turn 50 yards away, the one that the sat nav had originally identified.

When I started this blog, I had no idea where I was going with it. I’d just enjoyed such a wonderful evening that I felt compelled to share. I suppose I could conclude by comparing the historic extinction of the dinosaurs with the present-day destruction of nature. How about contrasting the charm of Oxford’s historic architecture with the mediocrity of modernity?

Actually, I think I prefer to poeticise the dreaming spires of Oxford and the lofty ideals of the nature charities as follows:

Heavenward You reach
up, up to the breach, Dear Friends,
once more against all odds
to survive, to thrive
against banality, absurdity
to do the job, Your job,
of enrichment, enlightenment.
Age-old duties shall not weary You.
Our need of You shall grow not old
Nor Your friends condemn.
Up, up and away.
The world’s a nicer place
in Your beautiful balloon,
flying higher than an eagle
with God’s wind beneath your wings.