I’m reluctant to say what I do when I’m introduced at parties. I steel myself for criticism. People are overt in their dislike of my profession, but I must politely refute a worrying amount of misinformation.
I laugh off the accusation that fracking will inevitably poison the entire population. “I really don’t think anyone in Clapham is going to be setting fire to the water coming out of their taps,” I tell you, adding, “No, your house isn’t going to tumble into some newly created abyss.”
“What’s wrong with solar energy?” you say, accusingly. But I don’t see any solar panels on the roof of your house and I know the 4x4 in the driveway doesn’t run off a wind turbine.
“I think it’s the start of a slippery slope,” you add, raising a glass to lipstick-red lips and flicking your glossy hair. I’d like to point out that your creature comforts mostly stem from fossil fuels – toiletries and cosmetics as well as clothes and transport. But I still want to have a social life.
“Yes, there are risks,” I could say. “But there are risks to everything in life.”
“There was an application to frack in the village where my mother lives,” you tell me, as if it’s a personal affront to your mother. And I could admit that nobody, not even the directors of energy companies who live in the leafy home counties, wants increased industrial activity in their back yard.
If the Russians decide to cut off the gas supply and the country is plunged into darkness, I wonder if people will still treat me like some sort of social pariah?
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