It started one afternoon in our small Somerset garden. Five years ago I stepped off the kids’ trampoline onto a large outdoor beanbag. The once sturdy canvas gave way with a satisfying rip. For a moment, while the family giggled helpfully, the tiny polystyrene balls swirled and eddied around my leg. Within seconds they started to whisper and whirl around, settling on plants, pots, the children’s hair, before scuttling across the gravel, over the wall, into the drain.
In the end I spent six hours outside with the vacuum cleaner. I felt sick at the pit of my stomach. Our demand for an affordable but unimportant item — a beanbag — had resulted in us fundamentally polluting not only our own backyard, but also the