V for Veganuary

Those that know me will probably roll their eyes and sigh, ‘here she goes again’ at the title of this blog. I’m not a preachy vegan or a pushy one; I would never dream of making any carnivore feel bad about what they eat, but if you ask me why I don’t eat meat or dairy, then I will tell you exactly why. I’m not good at dressing it up; the meat industry isn’t pretty so why pretend otherwise. It seems in the last few years, a large percentage of the population are agreeing with me, and meat-free is no longer a lifestyle choice exclusively for ‘weirdos’. And I am loving that Veganuary is now a thing – a popular one at that.

I’m not a huge tweeter but I do regularly check my Twitter feed to catch up on the people I follow. Among  my favourites are, Peaky Blinders because it is the best thing on tv: Peter Egan - self-explanatory really - he’s one of the nicest blokes on the planet, although obviously nobody can top my lovely husband for that title but Peter Egan comes pretty close; Shirley Hughes because who doesn’t love the Annie and Alfie stories and besides, she illustrated some of my favourite childhood books, the My Naughty Little Sister series. My older brothers gave me the books for my eighth birthday as a joke I think but the joke’s on them as I absolutely loved them, and in turn passed on that love for them to my children. But the one I am currently enjoying the most on Twitter is Chris Packham, as he documents his journey into veganism. I love Chris Packham anyway; he’s another all-round top bloke for many reasons besides his willingness to commit to Veganuary. His struggle with finding alternatives to cheese and chocolate, and scouring labels for hidden ingredients, and his exclamations of  ‘why put milk in this?’ make me smile; it is a struggle I know and identify with all too well. Even thirty-one years on, I am still checking labels and scrutinising new products for those hidden extras that somehow sneak their way in.  

I was a big My Naughty Little Sister fan   

  

I was about six when I innocently asked my dad, ‘why is it called lamb chop?’, not expecting the answer I got (my dad didn’t dress things up either). Horrified, I stubbornly refused to eat my dinner. Equally stubborn, my parents presented me with the same meal, re-heated, the next day. And the next. And the next. Clearly, food safety wasn’t their top priority. I made it through the week, surviving on school dinners; I didn’t even think to question what they were dishing up. Sunday arrived and the roast chicken was carved. I had become very wise during that week and realised that if a lamb chop was an actual lamb then you could bet your bottom dollar that roast chicken was in fact an actual chicken. When questioned, my dad confirmed my surmising and again I refused to eat. I was made to sit at the table until I did and again the whole re-heated dinner cycle played out. But I wouldn’t cave; I refused to eat an animal. The following weekend, we had pork chops. I knew for a fact there was no animal called pork and I breathed a sigh of relief as I tucked in, barely concealing the hunger I had been trying to hide all week. My dad watched me and smiled. There was something about his smile that stopped me in mid chew. An uncomfortable, prickly sensation crept over me as the penny dropped, quickly followed by frustration at how many things we ate consisted of an animal, and anger at being duped by the naming of various meats.

I talked the whole thing over with my grandpa as we wandered up his garden path; I felt sure he didn’t know how we were being tricked into eating animals as he was such an animal lover himself. He lamented the fact with me and then skilfully diverted my attention to his cluster of paeonies; the fat buds about to burst into a beautiful, pink, blowsy display, as they did every year. I pondered on and decided to continue my rebellion against meat. But even the most determined six-year-old can grow weary and eventually I gave in and reluctantly agreed to conform until I was old enough to leave home. By then I had conditioned my mind to blot out what it was I was consuming.

I focused more on the other aspects of living cruelty free, ie cosmetics and household products. The Body Shop more or less dominated the market back then, and their prices reflected this, so a substantial chunk of my wage went on all toiletries but at least I smelt good. Ecover were new to the market with their lovely smelling cleaners and not so lovely smelling washing detergent, and so the two brands became our household staples. It wasn’t until the mid-eighties that my husband and I changed our diet dramatically overnight. It was because of a goose called Matilda that my brother dished up for Christmas dinner. As he relayed the tale of how she had bitten my sister-in-law’s brother, and consequently needed to be taught a lesson, two questions popped into my head as I dashed to throw up in his bathroom: how was chopping her neck teaching her a lesson – how could she possibly learn from that - and why had it taken me so long to be so utterly repulsed by what I eat. Once back home, we emptied out the cupboard and fridge of all meat and dairy. I went the whole hog; no leather goods, no gelatin, no fish, no additives derived from animal or fish. Overnight the kitchen and wardrobe became as cruelty free as the bathroom.

There's a growing range of eco friendly, vegan products on the market now.
Ecover is still a firm favourite of ours

Our first cookbooks in the mid-80's. A far cry from the varied,
colourful choices today

 And so our journey into vegetarianism began. I can’t say we were totally vegan as the lazy part of me didn’t cut out hidden dairy, such as in mayonnaise, margarine, biscuits and of course, chocolate. I did try the dairy free margarine available but it tasted like rancid grease. Things have come on a long way since then! It’s only in the past couple of years that the market has made it so much more palatable to be vegan, not to mention, accessible. Everywhere now has vegan options of some description. And so I shook off my lazy mantle and my ‘but I’ll miss chocolate’ mindset, and cut out all traces of dairy from my diet. Surprisingly, only two months later, I noticed a marked difference in the arthritic joint in my foot. The inflammation surrounding the joint reduced dramatically giving me more mobility. I’m not saying a vegan diet is a cure for arthritis (although wouldn’t that be a blessed thing) but what I am saying is that eliminating all dairy has without doubt eased the inflammation. The other health factor I have noticed is I’ve gained weight! Probably due to my quest to replace chocolate and cake with vegan options. There are so many to try, so many ‘oh look, it’s vegan!’ moments at the bakery counter, that it’s no surprise my waistline has increased. The joy of vegan mince pies from Asda, vegan donuts from Co-op and ‘accidentally vegan’ Oreos are all taking their toll. Never mind; with my improved foot mobility I can get more exercise to burn it all  off …

The little extras that I need in life

There’s a great deal of debate and new findings being released with regard to the environmental and ecological impact dairy farming has, and while I am very environmentally aware and adopt as green a life style as I can, my main driving force for vegetarian & veganism has always been based on my love for animals and the abhorrence of the cruelty inflicted on them for our gain, be it food, fashion, cosmetics or ‘sport’. Our four children have been vegetarian from birth and our youngest is a committed vegan, and with her help I have discovered Follow your Heart Vegenaise to replace my Hellman’s fix, and Pure dairy free margarine in lieu of my old favourite Olivio. Cheese is not such a big deal for me – as soon as I cut it out I stopped missing it, but chocolate … well that is still an ongoing quest to find a substitute that hits the spot.

Much Ado About Media

    I cannot believe a year has slipped past and my blog has sat idle. I on the other hand, have not. Book Two in the Cobbled Streets saga completed and ready for publication, a new novel under way and a series of children’s books started; work-wise it’s been a busy year. Family-wise the same. 2017 ended with our youngest two securing their Uni places; one locally, the other 300 miles away. And despite being immensely proud, I knew that 2018 would bring heartache as our youngest flew the nest. Leav­ing her in the chilly North, I stared after her as we drove away, burning her image into my brain, knowing I wouldn’t see her for some time. As it turns out, with the aid of modern technology, I get to ‘see’ her every day. She video chats on her way to lectures in the morning and on her way home after nights out. I get photos via messenger of which outfit she’s wearing and what food she’s eating. And Facebook keeps me up to date with everything else.

Technology – the thing that I resisted for so long and now reluctantly embrace – has kept the family unit in touch, and separation so much easier to bear. My eldest phones for a chat during her daily commute across London, the conversation always punctuated with “I’m going underground again – speak to you in a few minutes”. I get to hear my son’s music via SoundCloud, and read my other son’s writing via email. We have a family group chat on Messenger, and follow each other on Instagram, Twitter and, some of us, Snapchat. It does mean of course, when we all get together the conversation is peppered with, ‘”yeah, I know,” when we share news that is in fact, no longer news!

Technology and social media are such a normal part of our lives now and this is carried through in novels, film, tv and theatre. Imagine if Jack the Ripper had had access to social media; it doesn’t bear thinking about but crime dramas such as Luther give you an idea of how it could have been. If you're a fan of Last Tango In Halifax, with the brilliant Derek Jacobi and Anne Reid; imagine if the characters had had mobile phones when they were teenagers.

She would’ve texted him to rearrange their date so he wouldn’t have thought she had stood him up, they wouldn’t have spent sixty years wondering ‘what if’, and there wouldn’t have been a story line for such an entertaining drama.

   In my first novel, the characters relied heavily on social media; without it, the story would have taken a completely different turn. The second novel however, is set twenty years previously and as a writer, I had to remember back to a time before such technology; before the birth of the internet. It made me realise how much we take it for granted, how much it has changed our lives and how we communicate with each other. Personally, I’d be lost without my smartphone and without the use of the internet. I love to do research – my hobby/addiction is the family tree. Without the internet, it would be a frustrating and limiting armchair hobby, I have to admit. I have found so much information, made contact with family members and made some startling discoveries and unearthed secrets my ancestors took pains to hide. But sometimes my joy is tinged with sadness; with a futile wish that I could share my discoveries with relatives long departed. Relatives who spent their lives wondering, ‘what if’.

School photo of Grandpa at Salesian College, Battersea.

My grandpa, a kind and patient man, was given away at birth. He had no idea until my great gran did the whole, ‘Ta-da, I’m your real mum’ bit when he was a young adult. Instead of the rapturous reunion she had imagined, he angrily rebuffed her, feeling deceived and cheated.

Taken 1908 

He never spoke of his childhood; all I know is he was a boarder at the Salesian Roman Catholic College in Battersea, near the dogs home, and as an adult, set about to adopt any many dogs as he could from there – or rather, as many as his wife, my grandma, would allow!
   She was an equally kind and patient person and while she understood Grandpa’s resentment towards his birth mother, she couldn’t allow him to deprive their children of their grandmother. And in turn my father made sure we visited her regularly. She was a great story teller, my great gran, and I remember her many tales of a time gone by but none really shed any light on my grandpa’s unknown family. It wasn’t until the birth of the internet introduced me to Ancestry that I finally found the information I personally think Grandpa would have loved to have known. You see, although my great gran was a wonderful, loving woman who doted on us and my parents, she never forgave my grandpa for rejecting her. And in a bid to punish him, she refused to divulge to him who his father was. For that information, he had to wait until her death, and as she lived to the grand old age of 93, he spent best part of his life with unanswered questions. By then, it was territory he didn’t wish to revisit and besides, it was too late as his father was long dead.

My grandparents, Maisie & Buck

   And so, the whole affair was shelved. Until I discovered Ancestry. I have traced his family and discovered his ancestral roots were London, Cumbria and Ireland on his mother’s side, and Devon on his father’s. I have made contact with relatives and learnt some fascinating family history that makes me smile, and cry, but most of all makes me wish I could have shared it all with my grandpa. All in all, I am learning to appreciate and love technology more as time goes by. It’s just a shame that with all this knowledge at our finger tips, there’s no way of emailing the dead!

Coming soon: Close Your Eyes - Book Two in the Cobbled Streets saga. Set in Haworth, West Yorkshire, it follows the life of Mary O'Shea (first seen in Cobbled Streets & Teenage Dreams). When sixteen-year-old Mary O’Shea and her parents moved from Ireland to a bustling Yorkshire village, she assumed her life would continue in the same vein despite the change in location. Awkward and naive, with an over-protective father, she stuck to her safe routine of school studies, a Saturday job and spending time with her small circle of friends. Nothing exciting ever happened and that suited her fine. Until the day that she was thrown together with the notoriously troubled Richard White.

Close Your Eyes unravels the tale of a dangerous infatuation; a destructive love that couldn’t possibly have a positive outcome. Or could it?