Lucy Ellinson was inviting people to deliver a One-Minute Manifesto at Battersea Arts Centre.
She grabbed me as I walked in the building and asked if I wanted to do one. Now.
It seemed churlish to refuse, and there's no shortage of potential material. In the event I went with an off-the-cuff chat that focused ostensibly on farmers' markets, the frequent dearth of actual farmers there, and how such retail beacons risk driving trade away from simple, ordinary, local street markets, where you actually know the traders and develop an ongoing human connection. Food and retail as a social, community process, rather than commodity and transaction.
I realised there was an underlying theme, beyond the specific issue of food.
So I wrote something else. This is it.
If you get irritated with posts that ask you to sit through long video or audio when you're quite capable of reading more quickly, here are the words themselves...
She grabbed me as I walked in the building and asked if I wanted to do one. Now.
It seemed churlish to refuse, and there's no shortage of potential material. In the event I went with an off-the-cuff chat that focused ostensibly on farmers' markets, the frequent dearth of actual farmers there, and how such retail beacons risk driving trade away from simple, ordinary, local street markets, where you actually know the traders and develop an ongoing human connection. Food and retail as a social, community process, rather than commodity and transaction.
I realised there was an underlying theme, beyond the specific issue of food.
So I wrote something else. This is it.
If you get irritated with posts that ask you to sit through long video or audio when you're quite capable of reading more quickly, here are the words themselves...
The pursuit of excellence
Took us down roads we never expected
Along paths and highways that had hitherto lain hidden
Over hills, alongside streams and across the odd ravine.
Past curious strangers waving as we sped past
Sharing their little knowledge and shaking their heads
As we skidded on the oily patch that had always
Troubled that particular stretch of highway.
Through famines and drought
Past the begging of every man woman and child in that town
And swerving to avoid a particularly nasty cripple.
None of which we ever noticed.
Took us into the fast lane,
Living life to the full,
As we'd been told,
Without checking the glass.
Kept us busy, hectic even,
Relishing our lifestyle,
Mixing with movers, and shaking, smiling,
Being one of the best.
Kept eluding us, that golden target,
Fading and growing hazy,
Got slippery when wet,
Or froze us out under winter snow,
None of which we ever noticed.
Died in the end.
Hands still grasping,
Trampled underfoot
By the millions of bootprints
Of all those we never saw
Running up behind us.
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