I thought I’d tell you a story. A true story. Or as true as a told story can be.
I think it may be a tale about the perennial wrestle between pragmatism and principle, but I may be wrong. If you read on, you can decide for yourself.
The story is about events that took place sometime in the late 1980’s, may be the early the 1990’s. I can’t be any more exact than that, but the date is not really of any consequence. Or, it occurs to me, perhaps it is. The way one thinks about things can be quite time or era-specific.
There once was an Urban Farm in the London Borough of Wandsworth. It was called Elm Farm. I don’t know why it was named that, for I can recall no Elm trees in the vicinity. But I may be wrong. Perhaps there were some Elm trees nearby. But it doesn’t matter, the story is the same with or without Elm trees.
Although on a very small patch of land, it was quite a successful farm. It had goats, a cow, chickens, geese, rabbits. And lots of local, regular human users. Kids loved it, and many busied themselves with farm-type tasks, including smelly, mucky ones.
Animals were born on the farm, and some were killed there: the chickens were for food and eggs, so some got the chop on a regular basis; and some continued to lay eggs – and lived as long as they performed their duty in that regard. The goats were also sent for slaughter, also on a regular basis, their meat coming back to the farm for sale locally. You could say that the circle of life and death was played out here. Continue reading