I've just interviewed Dr. Susan Kay-Williams, chief executive of Garden Organic (HDRA – the national charity for organic growing). She’s busy with the Save Our Gardens campaign. There’s a loophole in the law, which defines gardens as brownfield sites, so property developers buy a large detached house with a garden, knock it down and squeeze an estate of new homes onto the same plot.

 

Of course, there’s a need for more housing, but surely the public is being hoodwinked. I know when I hear a story on the radio about the government’s targets for building houses on brownfield sites, I get a warm and fuzzy feeling. I envisage abandoned factories and empty plots littered with rubbish and syringes, now all spruced up with tidy houses, from which freshly scrubbed children emerge, ready for school. I feel angry that the real story is greedy developers destroying green space and stuffing in as many flats as possible – and of course, the obligatory car parks. Sometimes I suspect the government is determined to make this country one big urban space.

 

Dr. Kay-Williams cited lots of horticultural and sustainability issues proving why gardens are so important. They’re actually more biodiverse than acres of conventional farming. Each back garden might be different – one manicured, one wild, but each with its own wildlife mixture. They also provide wildlife corridors, especially important for bees and other beneficial insects.

 

It’s obvious that more buildings and tarmac mean more water runoff. A short, heavy shower can quickly turn into a dangerous flash flood if there’s no ‘natural’ land to soak up the water. Overwhelmed sewers can overflow, with unpleasant results.

Gardens are also important for children. They can connect with nature and see the relationship between food and the land. Gardens provide space for exploring, getting dirty and simply playing. Green space also reduces stress for grown-ups – unless they’re obsessed with getting the perfect pattern on their tidily mown lawns, in which case I suspect the green space actually increases stress levels.

 

Finally there’s the carbon lockup provided by plants and trees. When they’re destroyed, the carbon is released. Replanting, you say? A tiny sapling can’t capture the same amount as a larger, older tree.

 

If you’d like to find out more, visit their website and sign the petition (www.gardenorganic.org.uk/saveourgardens) before the bill goes forward for its second reading on 15 June.

Garden Organic also runs courses and holds events, such as the Strawberry Fair on Sunday, June 17, with live music, gardens tours and traditional garden games such as croquet and boules. See gardenorganic.org.uk for more info.

 

We experienced a power cut for a few hours this weekend. Luckily I remembered our wind-up radio (freeplayenergy.com) has a built-in torch. Brilliant! The lights went out just as we were starting bedtime stories, but the torch meant the children could hear the next chapter, the sad fate of TV-addict Mike Teavee in Mr Wonka's chocolate factory.

 

Some other TV addicts were probably in a right state too and sat around twiddling their thumbs instead of the remote buttons. Hopefully the lack of electronic stimuli – and all that candlelight – led to a rediscovery of romance, though not quite so easily if you're a convert to the new 'trend' of separate bedrooms. This idea is from America of course, where bloated McMansions litter the landscape, but is surely not sustainable on a rather small island, especially when we're all meant to be reducing our individual carbon footprints and our drain on natural resources. I suspect a PR plot by builders – or bed manufacturers.

 

I think his-and-hers bedrooms are also bad for your relationship. There's already a crisis of couples living together but leading separate lives – him on the PlayStation and her with her laptop or TiVo (more Sex And The City than sex in the city). If you're sleeping separately as well, what's the point? Surely it's much more eco-friendly – and marriage-friendly – to turn down the thermostat and snuggle up together every night. Of course, if you're married to a snorer, sharing a bedroom could lead to sharing a cold cell with a not-so-friendly mate (who also snores) for the next 30 years or so.

 

Wind-up appliances just seem so logical. I'm forever leaving our radio on, but now there's no green guilt about wasting all that energy or buying more batteries. A minute's winding and we're back in business. I can't wait to see this technology applied to other products. What better incentive for keeping fit than a telly hooked up to an exercise bike. Instead of slobbing out on the sofa, you'd have to contribute some muscle power now and then or you'd get your own personal power cut.

 

Electricity production in the UK is responsible for 30-40% of our carbon emissions, so a future filled with microgeneration could look bright indeed. Not too bright, thanks – that candlelight is awfully flattering!

 

 

Rotting in all our landfills. Today WRAP (wrap.org.uk) announced that 6.7m tonnes of food are thrown away every year, almost a third of what we buy. Most goes to landfill, where it breaks down into methane – a greenhouse gas more harmful than carbon dioxide. There’s a huge financial and environmental cost, so expect food waste on the news menu for a while.

For New Year, we hopped on the train bound for Aberdeen. Sevenish hours each way, but the children were beautifully behaved, so my fears (hopes?) of an empty carriage didn’t pan out. In fact, on the return trip, a lady disembarking after six hours came over to thank the kiddies for entertaining her on her journey. My jaw dropped – and my heart swelled with pride. Tip for long journeys: a) patience b) snacks c) sticker books d) crayons and e) siblings who truly get along. Oh and people travelling with dogs offer plenty of entertainment (but how do they deal with potty breaks for pets?)

 

Though our journey was tolerable, I can't imagine folks who do the London-Aberdeen journey frequently will take the train, unless they get the sleeper. The Caledonian Sleeper leaves London every night except Saturday, so next time we may try that. It seems quite civilised, even romantic (well, perhaps that's stretching it with children in tow). Whichever train we choose, I can promise it will be a summer one.

 

I spent a fluey week wallowing in bed with a hottie while the rest of the troupe enjoyed bracing winter walks and chilly picnics. I hope one day to see the views they raved about – but as I practically had chilblains indoors, I'll save braving the elements for the summer months. Or the summer week, as the case may be in Aberdeen. (Must stop imagining any positive benefits from global warming!) At least I recovered enough to enjoy the New Year’s Eve party – the friendly locals even taught me a traditional dance. Still, it's a good thing I don't live up there – our heating bill (and carbon footprint) would be supersized.

 

Speaking of carbon footprints, we've resolved this year – like most Guardian readers – to shrink ours. Alas, I've been summoned to the US to visit my terminally ill father, and even the sleeper train doesn't go that far.

 

Christmas for us meant a train trip to visit the inlaws and lashings of fine fayre – and the flu. Luckily there wasn’t a complete dearth of toys, and one relative produced a small, golden-coloured cuddly dog. Despite a nametag which reads ‘Monty’, he's now ‘Diego’. Result! Unfortunately, a last-minute panic buy means we’re also the proud grandparents of a plastic-fantastic rocket (complete with a loud American mission control voice). I admit, the kids love it, but we must do better next year. And don't get me started on the generic Barbie-clone hairstyling head a well-meaning relative popped onto our daughter's pressie pile. It's the stuff of nightmares, feminist and ecological. Next year, when I sit on Father Christmas's lap, I'm going to give him an earful.

 

The herbal and alternative medicine side is rather charming, in a slightly unnerving way – for me, the word ‘tincture’ evokes a thrilling hint of danger (no, I don't get out much these days). But the groceries seem really pricey, and so many products from America – naughty airmiles and all. Still, he does the cooking, so he calls the shops. While we were there, he suggested we try some ‘green soap’.

 

These days, greening up the bathroom doesn't mean getting an avocado suite like my parents installed in the summer of 69. During the recent drought, we heard a lot about water-saving quickie showers, but not a peep about the shower gel most of us use – or the plastic bottles it comes in.

 

Synthetic plastic celebrates its 100^th birthday next year, and wouldn’t Leo Baekeland be proud of his invention. Or would he? It will probably take 450 years for a plastic bottle to break down – no one’s really quite sure. In the UK we used over 24 million plastic bottles every day in 2003, around 440 per household. Some plastics can be recycled but it’s a tricky business what with all the different sorts, and anyway, the carbon cost of recycling is higher than avoiding the product in the first place.

So, I agreed to volunteer for a return to gooey soap dishes. On the plus side, the selection was all organic and natural. My husband chose a sandalwood bar from India (airmiles, please!) and I chose an all-natural olive oil bar, with no artificial fragrance. (Therein lies the rub-a-dub-dub.)

Last Sunday a newspaper columnist confessed that she likes skipping baths, so has accidentally gained green cred. That won’t work for most of us, who don’t fancy being dirty pretty things. I love indulging in a long, hot bath (I know, not too much water, and anyway a power shower uses more than a bath, according to waterwise.org.uk.) For me, the best part of the experience is a soothing scent that lets me imagine I’ve been teleported from my Victorian terrace to a luxurious spa. Not so pleasant when the bath turns green and smells like a soggy salad drizzled in olive oil. “Hmmm, I wouldn’t say salad,” reassured my husband. “More like a starter – or a packet of veg crisps.” Not quite the image I’m going for with my new SJ19 haircut. (That's Scarlett Johansson – plus 19 years).

 

My husband has just informed me that the offending soap also leaves a scummy green ring around the bath. Charming. At least I’m not contributing to the plastic islands adrift in the Pacific Ocean between California and Hawaii. One is the size of Texas. Scary stuff.

Update: have just tried some gorgeous soaps from Pure Thoughts – www.purethoughts.co.uk (left). One bar is patchouli and orange and the other is rosehip scrub. Now that’s more like it! They’re all natural, so no nasties – and no plastic – and a much more sensuous scent.

 

 

If future generations actually survive, they'll marvel at the dirty, unpleasant atmosphere of the Noughties' cities, as we do about London's sooty skies in the days when coal was king. Today the exhaust fumes and traffic noise make even a quick walk to the shops deeply unpleasant – meaning more people hop into their cars, even for short journeys. As a pedestrian, I dream of the days of green transport, mainly so I can carry on proper conversations without shrieking to be heard over the rumble of lorries and the roar of 4x4s.

In the middle of the night, with traffic noise subdued, we can hear Big Ben from our house. Imagine a London with noiseless electric trams, busses and cars – the chimes would be heard throughout the city once more, albeit with the odd siren thrown in.

 

Last week, before heading for the National Theatre (love those Travelex £10 tickets!) we went to Las Iguanas, one of the new cafés in Festival Walk, beside the Royal Festival Hall. The space under the arches of the Hungerford Bridge is fantastic and there are dozens of tables outside on the 'piazza' – far from cars, so very civilised.

 

Let's face it, we're more likely to embrace European-style café culture when alfresco tables aren't cursed with roaring traffic and stinking fumes. The chilly evenings – now that's another problem. When I first came here from Miami, I joked that it was a judicious move – with global warming, London would soon be sultry too. But in the words of Morrissey, that joke isn't funny anymore. And don't even let me hear you *think* the words 'patio heater'.

 

Miranda Richardson wasn't the only Miranda at the Stop Climate Chaos demo last Saturday. We made it – despite hosting a big party on Friday night. In the old days we'd have enjoyed a lovely lie-in, but young children = the world's most insistent and persistent wake-up call, so up we scrambled at dawn's early light. After attending to the post-party chaos we headed to Trafalgar Square (bus and a walk, natch) to protest again climate chaos. We found a lovely patch of grass by the National Gallery, which meant the children could ramble without being trampled in the crowd, which though well-intentioned, was heaving.

 

Our daughter was shouting the "I count! You count! We count!" chant along with the best of them. She's a veteran of demos, starting with the Stop The War march in 2003, which, come to think of it, didn't stop the war. Was this demo doomed to be equally impotent?

 

It's so easy to get discouraged. Individuals, companies and the government seem to be justifying their failure to meet targets. Some people assert that UK emissions are irrelevant compared to the scale of the problem worldwide, but that's just another excuse to do nothing. And if everyone does nothing...

Confession time. I adore the nostril-scorching smell of bleach. Not lemon-scented or pine-needle fresh, but unadulterated chlorine. That's right, the nasty stuff that kills off Nemo and his mates in our oceans and rivers. I read that mad women in New York get their nose hairs waxed – just pop into my house on a Thursday afternoon and save yourselves a fortune, ladies. Don't get me wrong,  my home isn't particularly clean or even tidy. I certainly don't recommend eating off the floor – though visiting toddlers often do.

 

I'm sure my bleach addiction stems from a childhood in America, home to 90% of the world's germaphobes* (*www.wehategerms.com). You'd never see an American advert featuring 'friendly bacteria'. In the land of springtime fresh, everything from tissues to loo roll smells sickly sweet – and is anti-bacterial.

 

Another confession. I recently bought some eco-friendly laundry soap and I hate it. It's not even a neutral scent, it's positively unpleasant. After re-washing two loads (definitely an express ticket to eco purgatory) I am back on Ecover, which gets points for being biodegradable – and for smelling nice. I'm really disappointed though. I wanted to give the little guys a try. Perhaps I should just buy a book on natural cleaning solutions. You know the routine, lemon juice, white vinegar (I am a big fan of malt, actually, but only made that mistake once) and elbow grease. It can be my new workout regime to stave off the middle-aged batwings. Saved by the bell: the postman's just delivered a box of samples from Home Scents (www.homescents.co.uk) and they smell gorgeous. The batwings are safe for the foreseeable future.

 

 

My enthusiasm for the worms is not reciprocated. They're officially on strike and the food has piled up and is starting to smell. My husband complains that it's not a wormery but a 'fly-ery'. The neighbours must be wondering what's going on – whenever I lift the lid for a peek, a black cloud rises up as the insects make a bid for freedom.  A friend who has a successful wormery tells me to leave the worms in peace for a week or two, so our scraps are back in the bin. I feel strangely ashamed – reminds me of when I had an aquarium and the fish kept dying. When I went in to the pet shop for the third time to buy more, they refused to sell me any until I brought in a water sample so they could sort things out. 'Fish-killer' I could hear them thinking. I have read that if the wormery conditions aren't right, the worms will try to climb out of the box – or will expire. Who'd have thought such a lowly life form was so high-maintenance? If my worms don't survive I may begin to doubt my parenting skills – surely children are more complex. I can do this!