Latest news with #EvelynWaugh
Mint
28-05-2025
- Business
- Mint
Comparing apples and oranges. And also small caged mammals
Cod-liver oil (1947-51), mercifully, passed away swiftly. Liver (1947-98) lasted a little longer. Avocados didn't arrive until 1993—but have thrived since then. To read the contents list of the basket of goods, updated this week by the Office for National Statistics (ONS), is an intriguing experience. For economists it offers a sober measure of consumer-price inflation. For everyone else it is a births-and-deaths column for British consumerism, announcing the arrival of some objects and acting, for others, as their epitaph. Thus this week the list noted the arrival of 'men's sliders" and the demise of newspaper advertisements. It has previously recorded the demise of linoleum (in 1980), of corsets (1970) and of oil lamps (1947). Its very name is a relic: that word 'basket" sounding like something that might have hung from the arm of a British housewife as she went to the shops in her mackintosh (1947-52) to buy Brussels sprouts (1947-2006). Sometimes, it is an enigma: in the 2000s a 'small caged mammal" appeared, unexpectedly, in the ONS's calculations. The basket itself, in its modern form, was born in 1947. The political mood was tense. British families, who had paid a high price—in some cases the ultimate one—for the war were angry at the high prices they had to pay for everything else in the peace. The era of macroeconomic theory had begun (Britain's first official national accounts were published in 1941). Now Britain's beancounters needed microeconomic data, on things like the price of beans (canned beans: 1947-), to apply those theories. And that meant shoe-leather reporting (shoe repairs: 1947-2003). It still does: every month the ONS's 280 price collectors set out to shops in around 140 places across Britain to collect 180,000 prices of hundreds of goods and services (they also look online). Those prices are then gathered into categories (thus 'small caged mammal" goes to make up a larger category on 'pets"). Then changes in price are calculated, to enable the government to know about inflation, and at least something about the price of eggs (1947-). As well as about many other, more unappetising things. The 1947 list, at the height of rationing, shows a nation surviving on Brussels sprouts, margarine and the ominously oblique 'compound cooking fat". This, Evelyn Waugh later wrote, was 'a bleak period of present privation" and, he added, even more bleakly, 'of soya beans". Rationed food was 'unbelievably dreary", says Max Hastings, a historian. It did not fill stomachs but did, oddly, fill books. In the 'hungry novels" of wartime and post-war Britain, British novelists with poor diets and rich imaginations allowed their characters to gorge on the foods which they could not. In 'Brideshead Revisited" Sebastian Flyte eats strawberries and sips Château Peyraguey beneath a spreading summer elm. It 'isn't a wine you've ever tasted," he says. Given that 'Brideshead" was published in 1945, and 'table wine" didn't appear until 1980, this was probably true. The ONS records offer a picture not merely of national consumerism but of national character; few novelists draw in such detail. The writer Julian Barnes once said that to build a character you must 'start with the shoes". And the basket does give you Britons' footwear—from men's leather Oxfords (1947) to plimsolls (1947-87) to the casually late arrival of the trainer (1987). But it also gives detail on Britons' underwear (which in 1962 included a 'girdle"); its nightwear ('winceyette" in 1947) and on where Britons spend their time (climbing walls have replaced bingo halls). The basket is at once detailed—and doomed. Britain's economists are not quite comparing apples and oranges: both apples (1947-) and oranges (1947-) have been in since the beginning, so each can be compared with themselves. But it is all but impossible to equate the value of a 'rubber-roller table mangle" (1947-52) with a tumble drier (1993-); or of a telegram (1956-80) with a mobile phone (2005-). Using price indices over long periods is, says Diane Coyle, a professor of economics at Cambridge, 'a bit of a mug's game". The introduction of wholly new products in medicine is particularly problematic for prices. Gouty King George IV 'lived like a king", says William Nordhaus, an economist, but 'was a miserable man because his feet were killing him". Today, a pill could cure him; yet such changes are 'simply…not captured" by indices. It is not only the lists' items that have changed but their length. Early lists are not just nasty (that cod-liver oil) and occasionally brutish (1952 offers 'home-killed mutton and lamb"). They are also short: the 1947 basket has only 200 items. The current one has 750. This is typical: one study found that in the early 1970s Americans could choose between five types of running shoe. By the late 1990s they had 285. 'The real privilege of our lives today is that we have choice," says Sir Max. Choice in everything, from whether or not to fight in a war, to whether to spend your money on avocados, or climbing walls or even, should you wish, on small caged mammals. For more expert analysis of the biggest stories in Britain, sign up to Blighty, our weekly subscriber-only newsletter.
The Guardian
11-02-2025
- Entertainment
- The Guardian
Who wants to look a million dollars, these days?
Two friends and I were walking through our various rationales for some recent stupid act or thought. I didn't pay my tax on time, because I didn't want to cash in my premium bonds before the end of the month, because maybe I'd win a million pounds. H reckons if she applied herself seriously to writing erotic fanfic, she would definitely make a million pounds. D was wondering what the maximum amount of compensation would be for a range of workplace accidents, what limb you'd have to lose for a million pounds. She's dreaming. She's a graphic designer. One million pounds has been the objective unit of gigantic wealth for as long as I've been alive. There has never been any point in two million and it would sound unbelievably pedantic to wish for three. That's 50 years, during which time the value of one million pounds has changed quite a lot. Half a century ago, you could have bought an island, and now you might get a house with a well-made kitchen island. Yet the word has meant 'unimaginably massive' all that time. It never even respected currency variation – when a photo caption once ran 'Elizabeth Taylor arrived looking like a million dollars' and the newspaper sub added, per house style, '(£565,000)', people found that ridiculous; of course she didn't look like £565,000. If she looked like a million dollars, she looked like a million pounds. Has it been this way for ever? Have we been fantasising about a million pounds ever since a million actually meant a billion, and correspondingly, are we condemned by convention for our fantasies to get smaller and smaller, in real terms? Actually, no; almost a century ago (1934), it was a thousand pounds. 'Darling,' someone says to the harlot in Evelyn Waugh's A Handful of Dust, 'what does the country do to you? You look like a thousand pounds.' If money words could get anywhere close to conveying their value, there would have been some gradation, a good few decades ago when pretty people looked like 257 grand before they leapt up to six figures. But it's hard to do metaphor and denomination at the same time, and the poet always wins. Zoe Williams is a Guardian columnist Do you have an opinion on the issues raised in this article? If you would like to submit a response of up to 300 words by email to be considered for publication in our letters section, please click here.
