It was the salt that got me, in the end. It was always the salt. Just a single morning into my five-day experiment in renouncing all single use plastic, I spent two hours – the entirety of my child’s precious afternoon nap – trawling every greengrocers, delicatessen, corner shop, mini market and health store in the surrounding three postcodes to my flat in east London trying to find some salt, any salt, that didn’t come wrapped in plastic.
As someone who grew up with Green Party-voting, country-born, ecologically-aware parents, I thought giving up plastic would come easily to me. I’ve been eating out of Tupperware, carrying canvas bags, refilling my washing up liquid bottles and using a Thermos since puberty; earlier, even. Even after having a baby last winter, I’ve tried my best to stay on the low plastic side of the fence; bamboo toothbrushes for the whole family, flannels to wipe up after meals, home-cooked meals and only second hand toys. But even I was shocked by quite how hard it is to avoid plastic all together.
Day One
Here is a quick list of just some of the things I couldn’t buy from a supermarket because they were either wrapped, packaged or boxed in plastic: peas, apples, cheese, bread, milk, rice, soap, blueberries, deodorant, washing powder, veggie sausages, pasta, broccoli, hummus, fish, biscuits, peanut butter, meat, chocolate, crisps, lettuce, cucumber, fizzy water and, of course, salt. For a myriad of ethical reasons, I avoid supermarkets whenever possible so, instead, I walked to my local high street, a veritable main sail of canvas bags stuffed under my son’s buggy, and to my local greengrocer. Here I managed to buy enough fruit, vegetables, salad, tins of beans, glass jars of tahini, peanut butter and olives to keep us going for a week. It quickly became apparent that, if you are to live plastic free then you are going to, simultaneously, eat very healthily. Without the cellophane-wrapped empty calories of crisps, chocolate, biscuits, etc, you are free to either make what you want to eat from scratch, or not eat it at all. Reader, what I’m saying here, and feel free to let the Nobel panel know at your soonest convenience, is that I made hummus and flapjacks from scratch. Both would have been better with a little salt but, there you go.
Day Two
I always knew disposable nappies were a plasticated minefield. Sian Sutherland, the co-founder of A Plastic Planet recently claimed on the excellent Mothers of Invention podcast that three per cent of all household waste in the UK is made up of nappies, and of the 65 per cent of European plastic waste currently shipped to places like Vietnam, Malaysia and India, an enormous proportion is made up of dirty nappies. While I use the amazing Bum Genius bamboo washable nappies around the house, I’m afraid the old leakage issue means I’ve always been reluctant to rely on them at, say, a playgroup, and particularly at night. So imagine my budgie-like trill of laughter as, on the way to a toddler cinema screening (replete with a Tupperware full of home-made popcorn, some grapes and a sandwich) I found a health food shop selling entirely biodegradable, plant-based nappies for less than a tenner. My day, and my son’s arse, were saved.
Later that day, as I cleaned said Tupperwares, I realised that my washing up sponge was looking as grimy as a lead guitarist on a 10-date tour. But can you find a washing up sponge that is not only not made of plastic, but also wrapped in plastic? I certainly couldn’t. Luckily, my boyfriend is made of sterner stuff and, after trying a row of three shops, finally found a set of two scourers made of recycled sponges as well as some eco-friendly washing powder sold in thick paper bags rather than plastic tubs. Well done to that man.
Day Three
Lads, lads, lads. The sun is out, it’s the Easter bank holiday weekend and we, my friends, are going to the pub. It is my old flatmate’s birthday which means two things: a beer garden and, alas, plastic cups. Using my most ingratiating, booze-friendly and non judgmental voice, I ask the bar staff if, perhaps, I could use a real glass out in the garden, rather than plastic, if I put down a £1 deposit. Their expressions go from bored, to puzzled, to embarrassed, to pleased. In even making such an offer I have clearly given such a good impression of my trustworthiness where breakables are concerned they give me a gin and tonic in a real glass without so much as a penny passing hands (apart from the hit to my debit card – but that card is, I’m afraid, far from a single use bit of plastic).
Day Four
By this point, the lack of salt, coffee, ice creams and cheese is starting to piss me off. So I decide to go for a run. I catch a train to Epping Forest and jog for an hour through trees, past nodding bracken, singing birds and, inevitably, a small fiesta of multicoloured plastic litter dropped by fellow visitors. As the afternoon is 23 degrees, by the end I am hot, sweaty and thirstier than an aubergine emoji on Tinder. I cannot buy a bottle of water, nor do I need to because, at the top of a small hill, and courtesy of the local borough council, I find a drinking fountain with push taps and enough water pressure to douse a small terrier at my feet. Imagine the effect it could have on our plastic consumption if every city, town and county council were to install one drinking fountain for, say, every thousand people. I’d pay taxes for that. Who wouldn’t? Fewer bottles, fewer wet wipes, less waste and the opportunity to spray passing dogs on sunny days.
Day Five
A trip to our local city farm reveals something quite unexpected: a zero-plastic shop stocked with a huge range of dry food, staples and treats that are sold by weight and either wrapped in paper bags (5p a pop) or, in the case of the milk we buy, in glass bottles that you can return and refill for a tiny deposit. I buy pasta, rice, oats, cereal, two pints of milk, a chocolate bunny (the almighty is truly risen), muesli and some lentils, take a photo of the opening times on the door and promise to return soon. I then stand behind a small bush and eat the chocolate bunny before either my boyfriend or son see me and ruin Easter. The irony, that people living around real farms are hard pushed to find this kind of social enterprise, is not lost on me. But if all it takes is a critical mass of willing customers to make selling things in this way possible, it would be nice to think that – mobilised by social media, apps and the internet more generally – similar places could pop up in villages, towns and real farms all over Britain.
The truth is, going totally plastic free is probably impossible in the long term, on a low income and without a lot of preparation beforehand. But if you’re able to research places that, for instance, sell by weight or in bulk, can afford to buy your drinks in glass bottles, your toiletries from refill stations and your nappies in biodegradable materials; if you are willing to cook from scratch, carry food and snacks rather than buying pre-packaged rubbish on a whim; if you live somewhere with the kind of population that can sustain a high street and not rely on supermarkets; if you can live a little more like your parents and grandparents did, for decades, then you can significantly and permanently reduce your plastic footprint. You can do it with a baby, you can do it with a job but only if you have the money, time, confidence to talk to strangers, ability to travel and desire to live a little better.
Although even then, you may find yourself, five days in, buying a cardboard tub of table salt and just hoping the plastic funnel can either be recycled – or repurposed as a new bath toy.
