As seen in the Daily Telegraph

I am sitting in my living room watching Songs of Praise, when a sudden burning smell assails my nostrils. I leap up from my armchair, deposing my poor delicate bichon frisé Wordsworth from my lap. ‘WILDFIRE,’ I shriek. I had heard the news of thousands being displaced in the South of France, but I never imagined the fires would reach Otford, Kent.

Leaving Wordsworth to his fate, I make for the back door in the kitchen, only to discover the real culprit: my toaster, billowing black smoke. Oh heavens, I must have forgotten. Retrieving the two slabs of solid carbon from the now-defunct toaster, I muse on how, even if I hadn’t been about to be consumed by a climate change-induced wildfire, my fear of one raises an important point.

If ignoring climate change would mean we could lazily drift down the Isis on punts eating strawberries forever more, then I’d be all for it

The Conservative and Unionist party, of which I have been a loyal member since the death of the Queen Mother, has a problem. It has abandoned the task of protecting the Earth from higher temperatures at the precise moment that much of Europe appears to be on fire. This may work well for those latter-day Roderick Spodes infesting the dark corners of the internet, but for those of us with televisions, or eyes to look out of the window, we can see that the climate is changing. And not for the better.

Much pleases me about the warmer weather. Here in Kent the sunny spells promise new vineyards, a bounty of English sparkling wine. And I must say I find traditional English summer dress rather fetching. Picture me in my white linen suit and wide-brimmed hat, smiling benignly at those handsome young ruffians in their thigh-length shorts, bronzed by the glaring sun, faces a mask of sweat, those glistering peaches of deepest summer.

If ignoring climate change would mean the maypole dances would never stop and that we could lazily drift down the Isis on punts eating strawberries and cream forever more, then I would be all for it. But look around you. Behold your local park. What was once a green and pleasant land has become brown and baleful, acrid yellow grass but a match strike away from blazing inferno. All for the profit of these oilmen and industrialists, these Gradgrinds who know the price of everything and the value of nothing.

The truth is, a deindustrialised – indeed degrowth – economy would have many attractions. Britain would sink back into a warm, snug, premodernity. Old-fashioned deference would return. Barefooted peasant children would tug their forelocks and doff their caps as I walked by. ‘Oi sir, aren’t you the one that wroites for the Daily Telegraph? Your weekly op-eds sparkle with wit and insight, milord.’ As for the newly redundant factory workers, they could just start writing freelance opinion pieces for the Critic instead.

‘So you see, Mummy, there really is no good reason for a Conservative to abandon the environment. After all, what exactly are we Conservatives trying to conserve?’ I stride around the kitchen, as Mother fusses over the remains of the toaster and the black ash which has spilled onto the linoleum, on her knees with the dustpan and brush. I channel Lord Hailsham, thrusting my chest out. ‘And so, Mrs Badenoch, you may be the leader of our Conservative and Unionist party!’ I wave my hands for emphasis. ‘But you cannot tell us! You cannot tell us! Mrs Badenoch you shall not tell us, per George Orwell, to reject the evidence in front of our very eyes, and our very…’

‘James, darling, would you give me a moment to sweep this up. Then I’d love to hear what you have to say about “Mrs T” or whatever it is today.’

It is then that the smoke begins to billow out of my own ears, my face turning a violent shade of puce. I will be revenged on you, you appalling little woman. You horrible, grasping little sneak. You will pay for this. I turn to face Wordsworth, who has padded into the kitchen. We exchange a knowing look. We both know what must be done.