On my yoga group chat last week the conversation took an unusual turn. Normally it’s swapping thoughts about On Cloud versus Hoka trainers and organising Soho House lunches.
So, ‘How are you prepping for the apocalypse?’ was quite the departure.
I don’t know why I was surprised with the answers. These are, after all, women who live in large houses with endless storage. They are capable of hosting weekend-long house parties or shoots (pheasant, not photos). Of course, my friends’ pantries are well-stocked and their oil tanks full.
I’m not trivialising the war, but the fact that our corner of the Cotswolds is genuinely talking about how to get through energy blackouts – or worse – demonstrates how pervasive the effects have already become.
In fact, what seems like a flippant attitude towards ‘prepping’ disguises a real worry among my friends that we are entering unknown territory.
In our 40s and 50s, we’re a competent bunch who’ve raised families, worked hard and for the most part been able to solve many of the problems life has thrown at us. Now, for the first time, we find ourselves utterly unable to influence events that may have profound consequences for us. And if we can’t control a world crashing towards potential disaster on several fronts, we can at least try to control our little part of it.
My family, including two grown-up daughters, both living in London, are baffled by my sudden interest in the vegetable garden.
But growing up in the 1970s with CND-supporting parents, our house was filled with books about how to survive nuclear war. And while I’ve never had to think about it seriously, I’ve always been aware of the possibility of global catastrophe.
If we can’t control a world crashing towards potential disaster on several fronts, we can at least try to control our little part of it, writes Lulie Mills
Rumours of food shortages are far less terrifying when you already have a sourdough starter and a walk-in pantry large enough to store sacks of flour, pasta and tinned food
As a fan of dystopian films, my house-buying decision-making has always involved the underlying thought, ‘could we survive marauding hordes of zombies?’ – something I let slip to my husband when we moved to the Cotswolds seven years ago. He was supremely unimpressed.
To my relief, the local leafy countryside is an innovative backbone of grit. In the honey-stone villages, thousands of miles away from the action, we first realised the importance of back-up plans during Covid and the fight for Ocado slots – though if I remember correctly, Daylesford Organic cranked up pretty swiftly. Even so, for a while, guaranteed organic veg deliveries were off the menu.
That’s when anyone not already planting their own carrots and – OK – courgettes and asparagus, certainly started.
Rumours of food shortages are far less terrifying when you already have a sourdough starter and a walk-in pantry large enough to store sacks of flour, pasta and tinned food.
I added baked beans to my most recent Waitrose order, with some vague sense that they are a survival essential. And then things we are more likely to eat – jars of olives, chickpeas and sauerkraut. I accidentally ordered a job lot of sardines a few weeks ago, so oily fish is covered.
Then again, being plonked near two air bases – Fairford and Brize Norton – doesn’t fill anyone with optimism. There are already fighter jets (or something) roaring over our valley, which fills me with a sense that conflict is close.
The view from my kitchen window looks idyllic, but the truth is that all this bucolic, spring-fresh countryside hosts some serious military hardware, and parts of it are considered high-priority targets.
I have been known to wake up in a cold sweat in the early hours thinking about this.
But our large stone house in the middle of fields is, I think, well-suited to the end of days.
Best of all, we have a large basement. Usually this serves as a games and cinema room, but it will make a perfectly serviceable bomb shelter. It’s stood strong since the 1800s – surely, it will hold up over the next tumultuous months?
There is a stream running across the bottom of the garden which would provide drinking water. I am not the only person I know who has invested in water-purifying tablets, and that includes London friends. (I should think they’ll need extra strong ones if they’re relying on the Thames.) Annoyingly, we don’t have a wine cellar, something that’s now slightly concerning me and – to a far less extent – my husband. He may laugh at my middle-class prepping, but he is happy to spend a few hours on the Laithwaites website looking for something to pair with ‘nuclear winter’.
I know for a fact that anyone with the space has stocked up with Lady A Rosé (produced for Soho House), Daylesford’s Chateau Leoube and Whispering Angel. The local party people have no intention of going down sober. I suspect that there are a few ensuring that smaller ‘pantries’ – boxes or safes containing party supplies such as cocaine – are probably well stocked, too.
Should supplies run low, there is foraging to be done. We are surrounded by fields edged with blackberry bushes (I know it’s not in season) and wild garlic (excellent pesto). And anyone worth their salt has enough sloe gin made to maintain a gentle level of incoherence.
A big problem is oil. Yes, you can fill the tank outside the house – and most of us booked a delivery before prices sky-rocketed – but there’s only ever going to be enough for a few months. Hopefully, that’s going to be sufficient. We usually run out just before Christmas, and experience a couple of days of bitter cold before getting an emergency delivery.
Now I regret slamming the phone down on cold callers offering solar power installation. But there will be light. We all have enough Estelle Manor and Bramley scented candles to get through an energy crisis (as well as a few less expensive ones), and I’ve bought a load of matches. ‘I’m not going to get blisters making fire,’ I tell my increasingly baffled husband.
Weight-loss jabs are still something of a taboo subject, but I gather there is some panicked checking of Mounjaro prescriptions, and everyone is making sure their HRT scripts are up to date. You don’t want to survive the worst and then be overwhelmed with menopausal rage.
In absolutely typical Cotswold fashion, the biggest concern is the dogs. I call one of my oldest friends to see whether she is equally concerned.
‘I’m in Nice, so I’m not watching the news,’ she says.
OK. Will the increasing prices and world instability affect your future holiday plans?
There is a pause.
‘No.’
What about going to Dubai?
‘We wouldn’t go to Dubai. We’re going to Hydra.’
Another pause, and then she says, in a somewhat panicked voice. ‘I’ll tell you what, I’m going to order loads of Lily’s Kitchen [dog food] just in case.’
- Lulie Mills is a pseudonym. Names and identifying details have been changed.
