Journal articles on the topic 'Setting back dykes'

A sheeted dolerite dyke swarm has been discovered at Duniewick Fort, Ballantrae. It forms part of the Early Ordovician Ballantrae Complex of Ayrshire, southwest Scotland. Asymmetric chilled margins, parallel to sub-parallel dykes and multiple dykes (dykes within dykes) are found. Although the mineralogy has been altered by metamorphism, the geochemistry is comparable with modern day back-arc marginal basin basalt. Cross-cutting sills have the chemistry of within-plate basalt. The regional geological setting suggests that an ophiolite sequence has been dismembered and incorporated into a serpentinite mélange. This is the first description of a 100% sheeted dyke complex (senso stricto) from the Ballantrae ophiolite.

The volcanic and sedimentary rocks of the Passamaquoddy Bay (PB) area of southeastern New Brunswick are part of the Silurian–Devonian Coastal Volcanic Belt (CVB), an extensive belt of bimodal volcanic rocks. The PB sequence is 4 km thick, has four cycles of mafic and felsic volcanism, and is intruded by mafic dykes at all levels. There are two ages of dykes, those related to the Late Silurian PB volcanism (PB dykes) and Mesozoic dykes (the Minister Island Dyke) related to the opening of the North Atlantic. The PB mafic dykes are subalkalic basalt to basaltic andesite, within-plate tholeiites. The dykes are moderately to highly evolved (Mg# = 66.6 to 26.6), with trends of major and trace elements typical of the fractionation of olivine, pyroxene, plagioclase, and ilmenite. The PB mafic dyke swarm comprises over 155 dykes which represent a greater range of compositions than the associated flows, suggesting that they give a more complete representation of the Late Silurian PB mafic magmas. They exhibit incompatible element characteristics best accounted for by crustal contamination. The dykes plot on a linear array away from mantle mixing lines between depleted and enriched mantle sources and toward the composition of the PB felsic units, suggesting that these felsic units are representative of partial melts and fractionates of the source contaminate. The variable TiO2 contents (1.2–4.3 wt.%) and incompatible element ratio trends plotted against a fractionation index suggest that mantle metasomatism, either fluid or melt derived, may also have influenced the mantle source of the dykes. The dykes dip steeply and have a relatively consistent strike to the north. Most dykes range in thickness from 0.5 to 2 m, but range up to 9 m. The single orientation of the dykes, along with their chemical characteristics and volume, and association with a bimodal intraplate volcanic sequence, are consistent with an extensional tectonic setting. Constraints of the regional geology suggest that this extension was associated with convergence, perhaps in a back-arc setting.

Abstract In this paper, we present detailed field observations, chronological, geochemical and Sr–Nd isotopic data and discuss the petrogenetic aspects of two types of mafic dykes, of alkaline to subalkaline nature. The alkaline mafic dykes exhibit a cumulate to foliated texture and strike NW–SE, parallel to the main trend of the region. The 40Ar/39Ar amphibole age of 321.32 ± 0.55 Ma from an alkaline mafic dyke is interpreted as an indication of Carboniferous cooling through ca. 550 °C after intrusion of the dyke into the granitic Galeh-Doz orthogneiss and Amphibolite-Metagabbro units, the latter with Early Carboniferous amphibolite facies grade metamorphism and containing the Dare-Hedavand metagabbro with a similar Carboniferous age. The alkaline and subalkaline mafic dykes can be geochemically categorized into those with light REE-enriched patterns [(La/Yb)N = 8.32–9.28] and others with a rather flat REE pattern [(La/Yb)N = 1.16] and with a negative Nb anomaly. Together, the mafic dykes show oceanic island basalt to MORB geochemical signature, respectively. This is consistent, as well, with the (Tb/Yb)PM ratios. The alkaline mafic dykes were formed within an enriched mantle source at depths of ˃ 90 km, generating a suite of alkaline basalts. In comparison, the subalkaline mafic dykes were formed within more depleted mantle source at depths of ˂ 90 km. The subalkaline mafic dyke is characterized by 87Sr/86Sr ratio of 0.706 and positive ɛNd(t) value of + 0.77, whereas 87Sr/86Sr ratio of 0.708 and ɛNd(t) value of + 1.65 of the alkaline mafic dyke, consistent with the derivation from an enriched mantle source. There is no evidence that the mafic dykes were affected by significant crustal contamination during emplacement. Because of the similar age, the generation of magmas of alkaline mafic dykes and of the Dare-Hedavand metagabbro are assumed to reflect the same process of lithospheric or asthenospheric melting. Carboniferous back-arc rifting is the likely geodynamic setting of mafic dyke generation and emplacement. In contrast, the subalkaline mafic sill is likely related to the emplacement of the Jurassic Darijune gabbro.

AbstractDoleritic sills, lopoliths and dykes were emplaced into the Paleoproterozoic craton in central Sweden at 1271–1264, 1259–1256 and c. 1247 Ma, a complex temporal zonation occurring in a WSW–ENE direction. The dolerites are subalkaline to alkaline and show predominantly gabbroic, with a trend towards monzogabbroic and quartz monzodioritic, compositions. Positive ɛNd and ɛHf values suggest a significant depleted mantle component in the source volume of the parental magmas. Dyke orientations indicate extension, at least locally, in a northwesterly direction, consistent with a magma flow direction determined using the anisotropy of magnetic susceptibility values. Intracratonic rifting linked to the break-up of the supercontinent Columbia, back-arc extension above a subduction boundary in a westwards-retreating mode or a mantle plume tail above a continental hotspot have all been proposed for the tectonic setting. Renewed intracratonic rifting at c. 1.14 Ga in the coastal area in northeasternmost Sweden resulted in the emplacement of alkaline ultrabasic dykes, including carbonatites (beforsites), silico-carbonatites and lamprophyres, in a north–south direction along an older shear belt. The broader tectonic setting of this extensional event is not known.

A late Mesozoic belt of volcanic-intrusive complexes occurs in Southeast China. The Qianlishan granites are distributed in the northwest of the belt. The pluton is composed of porphyritic biotite granite (153 Ma) and equigranular biotite granite (151 Ma) and was intruded by granite-porphyry dykes (144 Ma) and mafic dykes such as lamprophyre and diabase (142 Ma). The granitic rocks, consisting mainly of K-feldspar, plagioclase, quartz and Fe-rich biotite, have SiO2 contents of 72.9–76.9%, and are enriched in alkalis, rare earth elements (REE), high field strength elements (HFSE) and Ga with high Ga/Al ratios, but depleted in Ba, Sr and transition metals. Trace-element geochemistry and Sr–Nd isotope systematics further imply that the Qianlishan granitic magmas were most probably derived by partial melting of Palaeo- to Mesoproterozoic metamorphic lower-crustal rocks that had been granulitized during an earlier thermal event. These features suggest an A-type affinity. The Qianlishan lamprophyre and neighbouring coeval mafic dykes (SiO2 = 47.9–53.8 wt%) have high MgO and compatible element contents. These rocks also have high K2O contents and are enriched in alkalis, light REE, large ion lithophile elements, and depleted in HFSE. They have low initial εNd values and relatively high initial 87Sr/86Sr ratios. We suggest a subduction-modified refractory lithospheric mantle (phlogopite-bearing harzburgite or lherzolite) for these high-Mg potassic magmas. The Qianlishan diabases (SiO2 = 48.4–48.7 wt%) are alkaline and have high TiO2 and total Fe2O3 contents, together with the positive initial εNd value, suggesting derivation from fertile asthenopheric mantle (phlogopite-bearing lherzolite). A back-arc extensional setting, related to subduction of the Palaeo-Pacific plate, is favoured to explain the petrogenesis of the Qianlishan granites and associated mafic dykes. Between 180 and 160 Ma, Southeast China was a continental arc, forming the 180–160 Ma plutons of the late Mesozoic volcanic-intrusive complex belt, and the lower-crust was granulitized. Since 160 Ma the northwestern belt has been in a back-arc extensional setting as a consequence of slab roll-back, resulting in the lithosphere thinning and an influx of asthenophere. The upwelling asthenosphere, on the one hand, induced the local lithospheric mantle to melt partially, forming high-Mg potassic magmas, and on the other hand it underwent decompression melting itself to form alkaline diabase magma. Pulsatory injection of such high-temperature magmas into the granulitized crustal source region induced them to partially melt and generate the A-type magmas of the Qianlishan granitic rocks.

Mineralization at the Bralorne mesothermal gold vein deposit is closely related to a suite of early Late Cretaceous to early Tertiary dykes. Premineral albitite dykes (91.4 ± 1.4 Ma by U–Pb on zircons) and postmineral lamprophyre dykes (43.5 ± 1.5 Ma by K–Ar on biotite) set definite age limits on the mineralizing event. A late intra- to post-mineral green hornblende dyke set (85.7 ± 3.0 Ma by K–Ar on hornblende) that forms a transitional series to the albitites may further restrict the age. Thus, mineralization occurred long after emplacement of the host Bralorne intrusions, dated as Early Permian (minimum age of approximately 270 ± 5 Ma by U–Pb on zircons, 284 ± 20 Ma by K–Ar on hornblende, and 40Ar/39Ar plateau at 276 ± 31 Ma). Lithologically similar intrusions 20 km to the north near Gold Bridge are also Early Permian (287 ± 20 Ma by K–Ar on hornblende and 320 ± 80 Ma by a Rb–Sr whole-rock isochron). Geochronology, radiogenic and stable isotopes, and fluid-inclusion studies suggest that there were several pulses of mineralizing activity adjacent to and east of the Coast Plutonic Complex (CPC). Decreasing temperatures and younger age of mineralization with increasing distance from the CPC imply that plutons of the CPC were the main heat source responsible for mineralization. The main pulses were about 90 Ma for mesothermal Au–Ag–As ± W,Mo mineralization at Bralorne near the CPC, ranging outwards to 65 Ma for Ag–Au–Sb–As ± Hg mineralization at the Minto and Congress deposits, to 45 Ma for Ag–Au epithermal mineralization at Blackdome, 100 km east of the CPC.The Bralorne intrusions may have been emplaced below the sea floor in a spreading-ridge oceanic environment, as suggested by the petrology of the intrusive suite, which includes serpentinized ultramafite, hornblende diorite, and soda granite (trondhjemite), typical of an ophiolite association. The chemistry of volcanic rocks mapped as Cadwallader Group, which host these intrusive bodies, is transitional from mid-ocean-ridge basalts to island-arc tholeiite, suggesting a back-arc-basin setting. Gradational contact relations between the hornblende diorite and the volcanic rocks suggest that the diorite intruded its own volcanic products. Intrusive contacts of the diorite with adjacent elongate ultramafic bodies imply that the ultramafic rocks are of Permian or older age and had been structurally emplaced into crustal levels by the time of diorite intrusion. In the Bralorne fault block the Bralorne intrusions appear to cut the adjacent Cadwallader and Bridge River groups, implying an Early Permian or older age for at least parts of these groups. Thus, rocks mapped as Cadwallader Group in the Bralorne area could be distinct from and older than lithologic equivalents exposed elsewhere, although they are similar in terms of their petrology and major- and trace-element chemistry.

ABSTRACTCombined field and geophysical data show that plutons from the Bega Batholith are elongate, meridional, wedge-shaped bodies which intruded during a period of regional east–west extension in the Palaeozoic eastern Lachlan orogen, eastern Australia. Plutons within the core of the batholith have intruded coeval, syn-rift sediments and co-magmatic volcanics. The batholith is bound by high-temperature, dip-slip faults, and contains several major NE-trending transtensional faults which were active during batholith construction. In the central part of the batholith, the Kameruka pluton is an asymmetric, eastward-thickening, wedge-shaped body with the base exposed as the western contact, which is characterised by abundant, shallow-dipping schlieren migmatites which contain recumbent folds and extensional shear bands. A shallow (<30°), east-dipping, primary magmatic layering in the Kameruka pluton steepens progressively westward, where it becomes conformable to the east-dipping basal migmatites. The systematic steepening of the layering is comparable to sedimentary units formed during floor depression in syn-rift settings. The present authors suggest that the wedge-shaped plutons of the Bega Batholith are the deeper, plutonic expression of a hot, active rift. The batholith was fed and sustained by injection of magma through sub-vertical dykes. Displacement along syn-magmatic, NE-trending faults suggests up to 25 km of arc-perpendicular extension during batholith construction. The inferred tectonic setting for batholith emplacement is a continental back-arc, where modern half-extension rates of 20–40 mm yr−1 are not unusual, and are sufficient to emplace the entire batholith in ∼1 Ma. This structural model provides a mechanism for the emplacement of some wedge-shaped plutons and is one solution to the ‘room problem’ of batholith emplace

A continental-margin magmatic arc is inferred to have existed on the southeastern (present coordinates) margin of Laurentia from Labrador to Texas from ~1500-1230 Ma, with part of the arc subsequently being incorporated into the 1190-990 Ma collisional Grenville Orogen. Outside the Grenville Province, where the arc is known as the Granite-Rhyolite Belt, it is undeformed, whereas within the Grenville Province it is deformed and metamorphosed. The arc comprises two igneous suites, an inboard, principally quartz monzonitic to granodioritic suite, and an outboard tonalitic to granodioritic suite. The quartz monzonite-granodiorite suite was largely derived from continental crust, whereas the tonalitic-granodiorite suite is calc-alkaline and has a juvenile isotopic signature. Available evidence from the Grenville Province suggests that the arc oscillated between extensional and compressional settings several times during the Mesoproterozoic. Back-arc deposits of several ages, that formed during relatively brief periods of extension, include (1) mafic dyke swarms subparallel to the arc; (2) continental sediments, bimodal volcanics and plateau basalts; (3) marine sediments and volcanics formed on stretched continental crust; and (4) ocean crust in a marginal basin. Closure of the back-arc basins occurred during the accretionary Pinwarian (~1495-1445 Ma) and Elzevirian (~1250-1190 Ma) orogenies, as well as during three pulses of crustal shortening associated with the 1190-990 Ma collisional Grenvillian Orogeny. During the Elzevirian Orogeny, closure of the Central Metasedimentary Belt marginal basin in the southeastern Grenville Province was marked by subduction-related magmatism as well as by imbrication of back-arc deposits. The presence of a continental-margin magmatic arc on southeastern Laurentia during the Mesoproterozoic implies that other coeval magmatism inboard from the arc took place in a back-arc setting. Such magmatism was widespread and chemically diverse and included large volume "anorogenic" anorthosite-mangerite-charnockite-granite (AMCG) complexes as well as small volume alkaline, quartz-saturated and -undersaturated "within-plate" granitoids. Recognition of the ~300 million year duration of the Mesoproterozoic convergent margin of southeastern Laurentia suggests that there may be useful parallels with the evolution of the Andes, which has been a convergent margin since the early Paleozoic.

ABSTRACTFluid dynamic modelling of crystallising calc-alkalic magma bodies has predicted that differentiated liquids will ascend as boundary layers and that accumulation of these buoyant liquids near chamber roofs will result in compositionally stratified magma chambers. This paper reports physical features in La Gloria Pluton that can be interpreted as trapped ascending differentiated liquids. Leucogranitic layers decimetres thick, which are locally stratified, are trapped beneath overhanging wall contacts. The same felsic magmas were also preserved where they were injected into the wall rocks as dykes and as large sill complexes. These rocks do not represent differentiated magmas produced by crystallisation along the exposed walls because the felsic layers occur at the wall rock contact, not inboard of it. Rather, we speculate that evolved felsic liquids are generated by crystallisation all across the deep levels of chambers and that initial melt segregation occurs by flowage of melt into tension fractures. Melt bodies so formed may be large enough to have significant ascent velocities as diapirs and/or dykes. The other way in which the leucogranite occurrence is at variance with the convective fractionation model is that the ascending liquids did not feed a highly differentiated cap to the chamber, as the composition at the roof, although the most felsic in this vertically and concentrically zoned pluton, is considerably more mafic than the trapped leucogranitic liquids. This suggests that these evolved liquids were usually mixed back into the main body of the chamber. Backmixing may be general in continental-margin calc-alkalic magmatic systems, which, in contrast to those in intracontinental settings, rarely produce volcanic rocks more silicic than rhyodacite. That the highly differentiated liquids are preserved at all at La Gloria is a result of the unusual stepped nature of the contact and the entirely passive mode of emplacement of the pluton, which, in contrast to ballooning in place, does not result in wall zones being “scoured”.

Rocks of the Bravo Lake Formation on Turtle Back Island and Pillow Island off the western coast of central Baffin Island, Nunavut, represent a well-exposed example of the mafic volcanic and intrusive sequences commonly preserved near the base of Paleoproterozoic intracratonic basins in the Archean Rae and Hearne provinces of the Canadian Shield. The Bravo Lake Formation is composed of relatively undeformed amygdaloidal pillowed flows, radial columnar and tortoise-shell jointed pillows, hydroclastic breccia, extensional partially sheeted dyke swarms, laminated mafic sediments, massive and fragmental flows, and layered and megacrystic intrusions. Volcanic structures and textures imply emplacement in a low-energy shallow (<2 km depth) submarine environment. High-temperature submarine hydrothermal alteration of the Bravo Lake Formation mobilized Ba and Rb and was subsequently followed by dry closed system prograde amphibolite-facies regional metamorphism. Selected immobile trace element and rare-earth element (REE) compositions characterize these rocks as alkali basalt, minor tholeiitic basalt, and minor fractionated intermediate rocks that display significant light REE enrichment and high field-strength element concentrations suggestive of within-plate basalts. The stratigraphic setting, volcanic and intrusive structures, and chemical compositions suggest formation during local strike-slip-related rifting, rather than a mantle plume environment. The Bravo Lake Formation and its correlatives in other Paleoproterozoic intracratonic basins indicate that crustal thinning and the resultant local rifting of continental crust was widespread throughout the Rae and Hearne provinces of the Canadian Shield during the Paleoproterozoic.

Recent models suggest that Laurentia and Baltica were contiguous during the Mesoproterozoic and shared a long-lived active continental margin, subsequently reworked during the Grenvillian orogeny. Around 1.25 Ga, the geological record is dominated by dyke-swarm intrusion, continental rift basin formation, A-type felsic magmatism, and arc – back-arc basin development. It points to a dominantly extensional tectonic regime over most of the craton and the Grenvillian margin, suggesting a retreating subduction boundary at that time. In the westernmost allochthonous domain of the Sveconorwegian Orogen, southern Norway, the Sæsvatn–Valldal supracrustal sequences are interpreted as rift or pull-apart basins. They formed at and after 1.27 Ga, in a continental setting, at the margin of Baltica. This interpretation is based on geological, geochemical, and new secondary ion mass spectrometry (SIMS) zircon U–Pb data. A subvolcanic quartz porphyry at the base of the Sæsvatn sequence yields a 1275 ± 8 Ma intrusion age. Metarhyolite samples in the lower part of the sequences yield equivalent extrusion ages of 1264 ± 4 Ma (Sæsvatn sequence) and 1260 ± 8 Ma (Valldal sequence). The metarhyolite units are overlain by sequences of metabasalt and metasandstone. An angular unconformity between the metarhyolites and overlying rocks is locally observed and possibly reflects rift tectonics during formation of the basin. A sample of arkosic metasandstone at the top of the exposed Sæsvatn sequence yields a few Archaean detrital zircon grains and a large spectrum of 2.2–1.2 Ga Proterozoic grains. These data point to a varied continental provenance and constrain sedimentation to later than 1211 ± 18 Ma.

New field work, U–Pb ages, geochemical data, and Sm–Nd isotopic analyses have established the timing and determined the nature of volcanism, deformation, and tectonic assembly of the Pickle Lake greenstone belt in the Uchi subprovince of the western Superior Province of the Canadian Shield. The >2860 Ma Pickle Crow assemblage has been redefined to include the former Northern Pickle assemblage on the basis of stratigraphic continuity and similar volcanic geochemistry between the two units across a previously inferred fault contact. The Pickle Crow assemblage consists of tholeiitic basalt with thin, but laterally extensive, oxide-facies iron formation overlain by alkalic basalts and minor calc-alkaline andesites to dacites with primitive Nd isotopic compositions (εNd2.89 Ga = +2.1 to +2.4) suggestive of deposition in a sediment-starved oceanic basin. The ~2 km thick ~2836 Ma Kaminiskag assemblage (former Woman assemblage) consists of tholeiitic basalt interbedded with intermediate and rare felsic pyroclastic flows with primitive Nd isotopic compositions (εNd2.836 Ga = +2.4). Two samples of intermediate volcanic rocks interbedded with southeast-younging pillowed basalt, previously inferred to be part of the Pickle Crow assemblage, yielded U–Pb zircon ages of 2744 [Formula: see text] Ma and 2729 ± 3 Ma. These rocks are thus part of the younger Confederation assemblage, which consists of intercalated basalt and dacite (εNd2.74 Ga = +0.1 to +0.8) exhibiting diverse compositions probably reflecting eruption in a continental margin arc to back-arc setting. The contact between the Confederation and Kaminiskag assemblages is assumed to be a fault. The greenstone belt is intruded by late syn- to posttectonic plutons including the composite quartz dioritic to gabbroic July Falls stock with a new U–Pb zircon age of 2749 [Formula: see text] Ma, and the ~2741 to 2740 Ma trondhjemitic to granodioritic Ochig Lake pluton and Pickle Lake stock, as well as the ~2697 to 2716 Ma Hooker–Burkoski stock. The earliest recognized deformation (D1) is recorded by a local bedding-parallel foliation in the Pickle Crow assemblage. This foliation is truncated by the ~2735 Ma Albany quartz–feldspar porphyry dyke and is not recognized in the volcanic rocks of the Confederation assemblage. The early deformation event is attributed to overturning of the Pickle Crow assemblage prior to deposition of the ~2744 to 2729 Ma Confederation assemblage. Subsequent deformation and development of a regionally penetrative planar fabric (S2) postdates ~2729 Ma volcanism, pre-dates the intrusion of the ca. <2716 Ma Hooker–Burkoski stock and is host to gold mineralization.

AbstractPresent study reports two lamprophyre dykes from the Rapuru area along the margin of Eastern Dharwar Craton (EDC) and Nellore Schist Belt (NSB). The Rapuru lamprophyre (RL) dykes are situated along southern extension of the Prakassam Alkaline Province (PAP). The Rapuru lamprophyre (RL) dykes are deformed yet preserves the porphyritic-panidiomorphic texture with mica phenocrysts and amphibole and feldspars in the groundmass. The geochemically RL have low Mg# (0.28-0.37), Ni (30 ppm - 60 ppm) and Cr (119 ppm - 228 ppm) concentration indicates their evolved nature like other reported lamprophyre from PAP and EDC. Which is a further supported Sr-Nd isotopic ratios shows affinity towards MORB-OIB like signature and juvenile magmatic nature. The RL seems to have inherited by two major influences, namely, primary source region: which is geochemically juvenile similar to the compositional field of enriched-MORB, and the continental lithosphere. Such magmas are known to have formed in the back-arc-basin environment. The initial 87 Sr/ 86 Sr ratio (∼0.7012-0.7045) and initial εNd (3.13 to 7.93) ratios are in line with the Back-Arc Basin Basalts (BABB) recorded in other parts of the world. The field observation and bulk-rock Sr-Nd radiogenic isotope in the present study support Palaeoproterozoic nature of RL. This concurrence of juvenile radiogenic isotopes and fluid-related trace element compositions apparently suggest dehydration of a subducted slab triggered metasomatism of the overlying mantle wedge in subduction related geodynamic setting. Such intrusive lamprophyre rocks of the older ages are limited in India as well as other part of the world. The rocks of 2.1 and 1.8 Ga, are widely considered to be the ages of initial accretion and final breakup of an erstwhile Columbia Supercontinent assembly. We argue that the RLs were formed in Palaeoproterozoic period during the waxing stages of the Columbia Supercontinent Assembly in BAB environment; most probably due to low degree of partial melting of asthenosphere and lithospheric interaction by the introduction of influx of subduction component into arc-back arc basin system.Supplementary material at https://doi.org/10.6084/m9.figshare.c.5598266

Abstract The Himalaya is characterized by the presence of both pre-Himalayan Palaeozoic and syn-Himalayan Cenozoic granitic bodies, which can help unravel the pre- to syn-collisional geodynamics of this orogen. In the Bhagirathi Valley of Western Himalaya, such granites and the Tethyan Himalayan Sequence (THS) hosting them are bound to the south by the top-to-the-N extensional Jhala Normal Fault (JNF) and low-grade metapelite of the THS to its north. The THS is intruded by a set of leucocratic dykes concordant to the JNF. Zircon U–Pb laser ablation multi-collector inductively coupled plasma mass spectrometry (LA-MC-ICP-MS) geochronology of the THS and one leucocratic dyke reveals that the two rocks have a strikingly similar age distribution, with a common and most prominent age peak at ~1000 Ma. To the north of the THS lies Bhaironghati Granite, a Palaeozoic two-mica granite, which shows a crystallization age of 512.28 ± 1.58 Ma. Our geochemical analysis indicates that it is a product of pre-Himalayan Palaeozoic magmatism owing to extensional tectonics in a back-arc or rift setting following the assembly of Gondwana (500–530 Ma). The Cenozoic Gangotri Leucogranite lies to the north of Bhaironghati Granite, and U–Pb dating of zircon from this leucogranite gives a crystallization age of 21.73 ± 0.11 Ma. Our geochemical studies suggest that the Gangotri Leucogranite is a product of muscovite-dehydration melting of the lower crust owing to flexural bending in relation to steepening of the subducted Indian plate. The leucocratic dykes are highly refracted parts of the Gangotri Leucogranite that migrated and emplaced along extensional fault zones related to the JNF and scavenged zircon from the host THS during crystallization.

Abstract Associations between tholeiitic and calc-alkaline arc magmatism with close spatial and temporal relationships can provide critical constraints on magma genesis and allow the reconstruction of subduction polarity at convergent margins. This study identifies two compositionally distinct intrusive series from the Yusufeli region in the Eastern Pontides arc, NE Turkey. The intrusive rocks from the Yusufeli intrusive complex were emplaced at 179–170 Ma and are dominated by the low- to medium-K tholeiitic series, with depleted Hf isotopic compositions. In contrast, the intrusive rocks from the Camlikaya intrusive complex were emplaced at 151–147 Ma and are characterized by the medium- to high-K calc-alkaline series, with relatively enriched Hf isotopic compositions. The Al-in-hornblende geobarometer reveals that the magmas of both two intrusive complexes crystallized at upper crustal levels (∼150–250 MPa, ∼5–8 km). The presence of patchy-textured plagioclase and the widespread occurrence of coeval dykes and magmatic mafic enclaves (MMEs) indicate that two intrusive complexes are derived from multiple magma pulses in open magmatic systems. The mineral crystallization order of amphibole and plagioclase, the trace elemental signatures (e.g. Sr/Y and Y), and rare-earth element modeling collectively suggest that the Yusufeli intrusive complex was dominated by plagioclase and clinopyroxene fractionation with earlier plagioclase crystallization than amphibole, whereas the Camlikaya intrusive complex was dominated by the fractionation of amphibole accompanied by co-crystallization of plagioclase. Such significant differences in the fractionating mineral assemblages at comparable intrusion pressures can be attributed to different initial H2O contents of the Yusufeli and Camlikaya parental magmas, which ultimately control their distinct liquid lines of descent (LLD). In accord with thermodynamic modeling results derived using the Rhyolite-MELTS software, we propose that the Yusufeli intrusive rocks are derived from damp (∼1–2 wt.% H2O) parental magmas formed dominantly by decompression melting of mantle wedge in a back-arc setting. In contrast, the wet parental magmas (>∼2 wt.% H2O) of Camlikaya intrusive rocks are more hydrous and formed through flux melting of supra subduction zone mantle wedge. Combined with the back-arc basin related Jurassic sedimentary and structural records previously determined in the Southern Zone of the Eastern Pontides, the geochemical compositions and spatial relationship of the Yusufeli and Camlikaya intrusive complexes are preferred to be explained by the southward subduction of the Paleotethys oceanic lithosphere in the Early to Late Jurassic.

Abstract Ultrapotassic rocks are volumetrically minor, but widely distributed in different geological settings. Extensive studies have concerned mantle melting processes that generated these rocks. However, crustal processes that they may have involved are poorly known. In this paper, we describe complex oscillatory zoning patterns of clinopyroxene (Cpx) macrocrysts from an ultrapotassic lamprophyre dyke in the Kyrgyz North Tianshan orogen. These macrocrysts commonly have a corroded or patchy-zoned core surrounded by a mantle with distinct oscillatory zoning, which is, in turn, surrounded by a euhedral rim. The oscillatory zoning of the mantle is composed of alternating coarse and fine layers with a clear resorption surface, or closely packed layers with a straight or wavy boundary in back-scattered electron images. High-amplitude oscillation of Mg#, Ti, Al, Cr and Sr across the layers of the mantle is attributed to magma mixing. Low-amplitude, high-frequency oscillation of Mg# across the closely packed layers was probably developed as a result of kinetic effects or crystal movement under thermal and chemical gradients. In addition, cryptic sector zoning of some macrocrysts clearly shows a Si- and Mg-rich hourglass sector and an Al- and Ti-rich prism sector. The sector zoning indicates crystallization of these macrocrysts under low degrees of undercooling, and the presence of concentric Cr-rich and Cr-poor layers within the same grain indicates that the growth process was disrupted by multiple magma recharging events. The cores of the macrocrysts have Mg# with three distinctive ranges: <84–90 (Core I), 74–84 (Core II) and 60–70 (Core III). The mantles have Mg# ranging from 64 to 90 without a distinct gap. The rims have a narrow range of Mg# from 76 to 80. The cores and mantles with high Mg# (≥85) have variable La/Yb from 1·8 to 5·0 and Dy/Yb from 2·3 to 4·6. The macrocrysts overall have variable 87Sr/86Sr from 0·7072 to 0·7084. Highly variable trace elements and 87Sr/86Sr within a single grain indicate that both primary and evolved magmas with different compositions were periodically recharged into the crustal magma reservoirs. Modelling results reveal that the melts in equilibrium with the Cpx macrocrysts may have been derived from the magma reservoirs at three different depths equivalent to crystallization pressures of ∼5·4, ∼3·3 and ∼1·6 kbar, respectively, making up a transcrustal magmatic system. The Cpx-laden melts in deep magma reservoirs may have been frequently transported to shallower reservoirs. Magma mixing in the shallower reservoirs led to heterogeneous magmas with different cooling rates and chemical compositions. Early crystallized Cpx crystals were overprinted with diverse zoning patterns during overgrowth and accumulation. Thus, the complex zoning patterns and compositions of the Cpx macrocrysts have important implications for a transcrustal magmatic system in the formation of ultrapotassic rocks.

Abstract Stem/progenitor cells are the naughty cells of the endometrium! The term “naughty” has a number of connotations, one being immaturity which I will apply to the rare stem/progenitor cell populations hiding in the endometrium, where they have eluded scientists for so long. Despite their rarity, these immature cells have the capability of growing up and differentiating into the functional cells of the endometrium, producing their progenies in the process. The self-willed human endometrial epithelial progenitor cells (eEPC) and mesenchymal stem cells (eMSC) first revealed themselves through their clonogenic activity, shunning their mates and setting up clones of cells on their own. Their risqué production of identical copies of themselves ensures their continuity, much to the chagrin of their mature counterparts. They are sneaky and can produce large numbers of mature progeny, but rarely proliferate themselves preferring to take life easy and do little. They also spit out viability dyes (Hoechst) at a greater rate than mature endometrial cells to become Side Population (SP) cells. A number of approaches have been used to tame these naughty endometrial stem/progenitors. In order to determine the identity and location of these elusive cells, specific markers had to be found. The immature endometrial epithelial progenitor cells play tricks with the specific markers they express. For example, clonogenic eEPC are N-cadherin+, an epithelial mesenchymal transition marker, found by unbiassed gene profiling, revealed their hiding place in the bases of glands deep in the endometrial basalis. Similarly, SSEA-1+ basalis epithelial progenitors pirated their marker from mature neutrophils and differentiating human pluripotent stem cells. In mice the stem/progenitor cells like to play chase, with lineage tracing of individual genetically marked cells revealing their location in the intersection zone of the glands and luminal epithelium, and also in the gland bases (Axin2+ and Lgr5+). The identity of eMSCs has also been determined by discovery of specific markers, but even here the eMSC play games in human endometrium where sometimes they are pericytes (CD140b and CD146 double positive cells), sometimes perivascular cells (SUSD2+) and sometimes CD34+ cells in the adventitia of blood vessels. They are also adventitial perivascular cells in ovine endometrium, but this time they are CD271+. Mature endometrial stromal cell progeny are also naughty, often pretending to be eMSC, particularly when shed into menstrual fluid, confusing many of their status. Adding further to their misbehaviour, they express the same official MSC surface markers. To get even immature endometrial MSC strike back, claiming immunomodulatory properties in attempt to upstage their mature stromal progeny, also endowed with these properties. Finally, other endometrial cells such as macrophages may also be naughty as their mischievousness in evading detection can trick us to consider them as stem cells from the bone marrow, masquerading as endometrial epithelial or stromal cells. Naughty implies behaving badly and I will show data suggesting that stem/progenitor cells may escape the endometrium to cause a nasty disease, endometriosis. They may also become wayward and unruly, invading the myometrium to form adenomyosis. Some naughty epithelial progenitors defiantly pick up mutations to become cancer stem cells and initiate endometrial cancer. They may also malfunction because they do not obey estrogen signalling instructions, failing to proliferate and causing thin unresponsive endometrium. In their naughtiness, they may run away or get totally lost, thereby resulting in Asherman’s syndrome. Therefore, for numerous reasons, stem/progenitor cells are the naughty cells of the endometrium. © The Author(s) 2020. Published by Oxford University Press on behalf of the European Society of Human Reproduction and Embryology. All rights reserved. For permissions, please e-mail: journals.permission@oup.com.

This article explores how fat women protesting challenges norms of womanhood, the place of women in society, and who has the power to have their say in public spaces. We use the term fat as a political reclamation; Fat Studies scholars and fat activists prefer the term fat, over the normative term “overweight” and the pathologising term “obese/obesity” (Lee and Pausé para 3). Who is and who isn’t fat, we suggest, is best left to self-determination, although it is generally accepted by fat activists that the term is most appropriately adopted by individuals who are unable to buy clothes in any store they choose. Using a tweet from conservative commentator Ann Coulter as a leaping-off point, we examine the narratives around women in the public sphere and explore how fat bodies might transgress further the norms set by society. The public representations of women in politics and protest are then are set in the context of ‘activist wisdom’ (Maddison and Scalmer) from two sides of the globe. Activist wisdom gives preference to the lived knowledge and experience of activists as tools to understand social movements. It seeks to draw theoretical implications from the practical actions of those on the ground. In centring the experiences of ourselves and other activists, we hope to expand existing understandings of body politics, gender, and political power in this piece. It is important in researching social movements to look both at the representations of protest and protestors in all forms of media as this is the ‘public face’ of movements, but also to examine the reflections of the individuals who collectively put their weight behind bringing social change.A few days after the 45th President of the United States was elected, people around the world spilled into the streets and participated in protests; precursors to the Women’s March which would take place the following January. Pictures of such marches were shared via social media, demonstrating the worldwide protest against the racism, misogyny, and overall oppressiveness, of the newly elected leader. Not everyone was supportive of these protests though; one such conservative commentator, Ann Coulter, shared this tweet: Image1: A tweet from Ann Coulter; the tweet contains a picture of a group of protestors, holding signs protesting Trump, white supremacy, and for the rights of immigrants. In front of the group, holding a megaphone is a woman. Below the picture, the text reads, “Without fat girls, there would be no protests”.Coulter continued on with two more tweets, sharing pictures of other girls protesting and suggesting that the protestors needed a diet programme. Kivan Bay (“Without Fat Girls”) suggested that perhaps Coulter was implying that skinny girls do not have time to protest because they are too busy doing skinny girl things, like buying jackets or trying on sweaters. Or perhaps Coulter was arguing that fat girls are too visible, too loud, and too big, to be taken seriously in their protests. These tweets provide a point of illustration for how fat women protesting challenge norms of womanhood, the place of women in society, and who has the power to have their say in public spaces While Coulter’s tweet was most likely intended as a hostile personal attack on political grounds, we find it useful in its foregrounding of gender, bodies and protest which we consider in this article, beginning with a review of fat girls’ role in social justice movements.Across the world, we can point to fat women who engage in activism related to body politics and more. Australian fat filmmaker and activist Kelli Jean Drinkwater makes documentaries, such as Aquaporko! and Nothing to Lose, that queer fat embodiment and confronts body norms. Newly elected Ontario MPP Jill Andrew has been fighting for equal rights for queer people and fat people in Canada for decades. Nigerian Latasha Ngwube founded About That Curvy Life, Africa’s leading body positive and empowerment site, and has organised plus-size fashion show events at Heineken Lagos Fashion and Design Week in Nigeria in 2016 and the Glitz Africa Fashion Week in Ghana in 2017. Fat women have been putting their bodies on the line for the rights of others to live, work, and love. American Heather Heyer was protesting the hate that white nationalists represent and the danger they posed to her friends, family, and neighbours when she died at a rally in Charlottesville, North Carolina in late 2017 (Caron). When Heyer was killed by one of those white nationalists, they declared that she was fat, and therefore her body size was lauded loudly as justification for her death (Bay, “How Nazis Use”; Spangler).Fat women protesting is not new. For example, the Fat Underground was a group of “radical fat feminist women”, who split off from the more conservative NAAFA (National Association to Aid Fat Americans) in the 1970s (Simic 18). The group educated the public about weight science, harassed weight-loss companies, and disrupted academic seminars on obesity. The Fat Underground made their first public appearance at a Women’s Equality Day in Los Angeles, taking over the stage at the public event to accuse the medical profession of murdering Cass Elliot, the lead singer of the folk music group, The Mamas and the Papas (Dean and Buss). In 1973, the Fat Underground produced the Fat Liberation Manifesto. This Manifesto began by declaring that they believed “that fat people are full entitled to human respect and recognition” (Freespirit and Aldebaran 341).Women have long been disavowed, or discouraged, from participating in the public sphere (Ginzberg; van Acker) or seen as “intruders or outsiders to the tough world of politics” (van Acker 118). The feminist slogan the personal is political was intended to shed light on the role that women needed to play in the public spheres of education, employment, and government (Caha 22). Across the world, the acceptance of women within the public sphere has been varied due to cultural, political, and religious, preferences and restrictions (Agenda Feminist Media Collective). Limited acceptance of women in the public sphere has historically been granted by those ‘anointed’ by a male family member or patron (Fountaine 47).Anti-feminists are quick to disavow women being in public spaces, preferring to assign them the role as helpmeet to male political elite. As Schlafly (in Rowland 30) notes: “A Positive Woman cannot defeat a man in a wrestling or boxing match, but she can motivate him, inspire him, encourage him, teach him, restrain him, reward him, and have power over him that he can never achieve over her with all his muscle.” This idea of women working behind the scenes has been very strong in New Zealand where the ‘sternly worded’ letter is favoured over street protest. An acceptable route for women’s activism was working within existing political institutions (Grey), with activity being ‘hidden’ inside government offices such as the Ministry of Women’s Affairs (Schuster, 23). But women’s movement organisations that engage in even the mildest form of disruptive protest are decried (Grey; van Acker).One way women have been accepted into public space is as the moral guardians or change agents of the entire political realm (Bliss; Ginzberg; van Acker; Ledwith). From the early suffrage movements both political actors and media representations highlighted women were more principled and conciliatory than men, and in many cases had a moral compass based on restraint. Cartoons showed women in the suffrage movement ‘sweeping up’ and ‘cleaning house’ (Sheppard 123). Groups like the Women’s Christian Temperance Union were celebrated for protesting against the demon drink and anti-pornography campaigners like Patricia Bartlett were seen as acceptable voices of moral reason (Moynihan). And as Cunnison and Stageman (in Ledwith 193) note, women bring a “culture of femininity to trade unions … an alternative culture, derived from the particularity of their lives as women and experiences of caring and subordination”. This role of moral guardian often derived from women as ‘mothers’, responsible for the physical and moral well-being of the nation.The body itself has been a sight of protest for women including fights for bodily autonomy in their medical decisions, reproductive justice, and to live lives free from physical and sexual abuse, have long been met with criticisms of being unladylike or inappropriate. Early examples decried in NZ include the women’s clothing movement which formed part of the suffrage movement. In the second half of the 20th century it was the freedom trash can protests that started the myth of ‘women burning their bras’ which defied acceptable feminine norms (Sawer and Grey). Recent examples of women protesting for body rights include #MeToo and Time’s Up. Both movements protest the lack of bodily autonomy women can assert when men believe they are entitled to women’s bodies for their entertainment, enjoyment, and pleasure. And both movements have received considerable backlash by those who suggest it is a witch hunt that might ensnare otherwise innocent men, or those who are worried that the real victims are white men who are being left behind (see Garber; Haussegger). Women who advocate for bodily autonomy, including access to contraception and abortion, are often held up as morally irresponsible. As Archdeacon Bullock (cited in Smyth 55) asserted, “A woman should pay for her fun.”Many individuals believe that the stigma and discrimination fat people face are the consequences they sow from their own behaviours (Crandall 892); that fat people are fat because they have made poor decisions, being too indulgent with food and too lazy to exercise (Crandall 883). Therefore, fat people, like women, should have to pay for their fun. Fat women find themselves at this intersection, and are often judged more harshly for their weight than fat men (Tiggemann and Rothblum). Examining Coulter’s tweet with this perspective in mind, it can easily be read as an attempt to put fat girl protestors back into their place. It can also be read as a warning. Don’t go making too much noise or you may be labelled as fat. Presenting troublesome women as fat has a long history within political art and depictions. Marianne (the symbol of the French Republic) was depicted as fat and ugly; she also reinforced an anti-suffragist position (Chenut 441). These images are effective because of our societal views on fatness (Kyrölä). Fatness is undesirable, unworthy of love and attention, and a representation of poor character, lack of willpower, and an absence of discipline (Murray 14; Pausé, “Rebel Heart” para 1).Fat women who protest transgress rules around body size, gender norms, and the appropriate place for women in society. Take as an example the experiences of one of the authors of this piece, Sandra Grey, who was thrust in to political limelight nationally with the Campaign for MMP (Grey and Fitzsimmons) and when elected as the President of the New Zealand Tertiary Education Union in 2011. Sandra is a trade union activist who breaches too many norms set for the “good woman protestor,” as well as the norms for being a “good fat woman”. She looms large on a stage – literally – and holds enough power in public protest to make a crowd of 7,000 people “jump to left”, chant, sing, and march. In response, some perceive Sandra less as a tactical and strategic leader of the union movement, and more as the “jolly fat woman” who entertains, MCs, and leads public events. Though even in this role, she has been criticised for being too loud, too much, too big.These criticisms are loudest when Sandra is alongside other fat female bodies. When posting on social media photos with fellow trade union members the comments often note the need of the group to “go on a diet”. The collective fatness also brings comments about “not wanting to fuck any of that group of fat cows”. There is something politically and socially dangerous about fat women en masse. This was behind the responses to Sandra’s first public appearance as the President of TEU when one of the male union members remarked “Clearly you have to be a fat dyke to run this union.” The four top elected and appointed positions in the TEU have been women for eight years now and both their fatness and perceived sexuality present as a threat in a once male-dominated space. Even when not numerically dominant, unions are public spaces dominated by a “masculine culture … underpinned by the undervaluation of ‘women’s worth’ and notions of womanhood ‘defined in domesticity’” (Cockburn in Kirton 273-4). Sandra’s experiences in public space show that the derision and methods of putting fat girls back in their place varies dependent on whether the challenge to power is posed by a single fat body with positional power and a group of fat bodies with collective power.Fat Girls Are the FutureOn the other side of the world, Tara Vilhjálmsdóttir is protesting to change the law in Iceland. Tara believes that fat people should be protected against discrimination in public and private settings. Using social media such as Facebook and Instagram, Tara takes her message, and her activism, to her thousands of followers (Keller, 434; Pausé, “Rebel Heart”). And through mainstream media, she pushes back on fatphobia rhetoric and applies pressure on the government to classify weight as a protected status under the law.After a lifetime of living “under the oppression of diet culture,” Tara began her activism in 2010 (Vilhjálmsdóttir). She had suffered real harm from diet culture, developing an eating disorder as a teen and being told through her treatment for it that her fears as a fat woman – that she had no future, that fat people experienced discrimination and stigma – were unfounded. But Tara’s lived experiences demonstrated fat stigma and discrimination were real.In 2012, she co-founded the Icelandic Association for Body Respect, which promotes body positivity and fights weight stigma in Iceland. The group uses a mixture of real life and online tools; organising petitions, running campaigns against the Icelandic version of The Biggest Loser, and campaigning for weight to be a protected class in the Icelandic constitution. The Association has increased the visibility of the dangers of diet culture and the harm of fat stigma. They laid the groundwork that led to changing the human rights policy for the city of Reykjavík; fat people cannot be discriminated against in employment settings within government jobs. As the city is one of the largest employers in the country, this was a large step forward for fat rights.Tara does receive her fair share of hate messages; she’s shared that she’s amazed at the lengths people will go to misunderstand what she is saying (Vilhjálmsdóttir). “This isn’t about hurt feelings; I’m not insulted [by fat stigma]. It’s about [fat stigma] affecting the livelihood of fat people and the structural discrimination they face” (Vilhjálmsdóttir). She collects the hateful comments she receives online through screenshots and shares them in an album on her page. She believes it is important to keep a repository to demonstrate to others that the hatred towards fat people is real. But the hate she receives only fuels her work more. As does the encouragement she receives from people, both in Iceland and abroad. And she is not alone; fat activists across the world are using Web 2.0 tools to change the conversation around fatness and demand civil rights for fat people (Pausé, “Rebel Heart”; Pausé, “Live to Tell").Using Web 2.0 tools as a way to protest and engage in activism is an example of oppositional technologics; a “political praxis of resistance being woven into low-tech, amateur, hybrid, alternative subcultural feminist networks” (Garrison 151). Fat activists use social media to engage in anti-assimilationist activism and build communities of practice online in ways that would not be possible in real life (Pausé, “Express Yourself” 1). This is especially useful for those whose protests sit at the intersections of oppressions (Keller 435; Pausé, “Rebel Heart” para 19). Online protests have the ability to travel the globe quickly, providing opportunities for connections between protests and spreading protests across the globe, such as SlutWalks in 2011-2012 (Schuster 19). And online spaces open up unlimited venues for women to participate more freely in protest than other forms (Harris 479; Schuster 16; Garrison 162).Whether online or offline, women are represented as dangerous in the political sphere when they act without male champions breaching norms of femininity, when their involvement challenges the role of woman as moral guardians, and when they make the body the site of protest. Women must ‘do politics’ politely, with utmost control, and of course caringly; that is they must play their ‘designated roles’. Whether or not you fit the gendered norms of political life affects how your protest is perceived through the media (van Acker). Coulter’s tweet loudly proclaimed that the fat ‘girls’ protesting the election of the 45th President of the United States were unworthy, out of control, and not worthy of attention (ironic, then, as her tweet caused considerable conversation about protest, fatness, and the reasons not to like the President-Elect). What the Coulter tweet demonstrates is that fat women are perceived as doubly-problematic in public space, both as fat and as women. They do not do politics in a way that is befitting womanhood – they are too visible and loud; they are not moral guardians of conservative values; and, their bodies challenge masculine power.ReferencesAgenda Feminist Media Collective. “Women in Society: Public Debate.” Agenda: Empowering Women for Gender Equity 10 (1991): 31-44.Bay, Kivan. “How Nazis Use Fat to Excuse Violence.” Medium, 7 Feb. 2018. 1 May 2018 <https://medium.com/@kivabay/how-nazis-use-fat-to-excuse-violence-b7da7d18fea8>.———. “Without Fat Girls, There Would Be No Protests.” Bullshit.ist, 13 Nov. 2016. 16 May 2018 <https://bullshit.ist/without-fat-girls-there-would-be-no-protests-e66690de539a>.Bliss, Katherine Elaine. Compromised Positions: Prostitution, Public Health, and Gender Politics in Revolutionary Mexico City. Penn State Press, 2010.Caha, Omer. 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 Introduction There is much to be said about house and home and about our media’s role in defining, enabling, as well as undermining it. […] For we can no longer think about home, any longer than we can live at home, without our media. (Silverstone, “Why Study the Media” 88) For lesbians, inhabiting the queer slant may be a matter of everyday negotiation. This is not about the romance of being off line or the joy of radical politics (though it can be), but rather the everyday work of dealing with the perception of others, with the “straightening devices” and the violence that might follow when such perceptions congeal into social forms. (Ahmed 107) Picture this. Once or twice a week a small, black, portable TV set goes on a journey; down from the lofty heights of the top shelf of the built in storage cupboard into the far corner of the living room. A few hours later, it is being stuffed back into the closet. Not far away across town, another small TV set sits firmly in the corner of a living room. Yet, it remains inanimate for days on end. What do you see? The techno-stories conveyed in this paper are presented through – and anchored to – the idea of the cultural biography of things (Kopytoff 1986), revealing how objects (more specifically media technologies) produce and become part of an articulation of particular and conflicting moral economies of households (Silverstone, “Domesticating Domestication”; Silverstone, Hirsch and Morley, “Information and Communication”; Green). In this context, the concept of the domestication of ICTs has been widely applied in Media Studies during the 1990s and, more recently, been updated to account for the changes in technology, household composition, media regulation, and in fact the dislocation of domesticity itself (Berker, Hartmann, Punie and Ward). Remarkable as these mainstream techno-stories are in their elucidation of contemporary techno-practices, what is still absent is the consideration of how gender and sexuality intersect and are being done through ICT consumption at home, work and during leisure practices in alternative or queer households and families. Do lesbians ‘make’ house and home and in what ways are media and ICTs implicated in the everyday work of queer home-making strategies? As writings on queer subjects and cyberspace have proliferated in recent years, we can now follow a move to contextualize queer virtualities across on and offline experiences, mapping ‘complex geographies of un/belonging’ (Bryson, MacIntosh, Jordan and Lin) and a return to consider online media as part of a bigger ICT package that constitutes our queer everyday life-worlds (Karl). At the same time, fresh perspectives are now being developed with regards to the reconfiguration of domestic values by gay men and lesbians, demonstrating the ongoing processes of probing and negotiation of ‘home’ and the questioning of domesticity itself (Gorman-Murray). By aligning ideas and concepts developed by media theorists in the field of media domestication and consumption as well as (sexual) geographers, this paper makes a contribution towards our understanding of a queer sense of home and domesticity through the technological and more specifically television. It is based on two case studies, part of a larger longitudinal ethnographic study of women-centred households in Brighton, UK. Gill Valentine has identified the home and workplaces as spaces, which are encoded as heterosexual. Sexual identities are being constrained by ‘regulatory regimes’, promoting the normalcy of heterosexuality (4). By recounting the techno-stories of lesbian women, we can re-examine notions of the home as a stable, safe, given entity; the home as a particular feminine sphere as well as the leaky boundaries between public and private. As media and ICTs are also part of a (hetero)sexual economy where they, in their materiality as well as textual significance become markers of sexual difference, we can to a certain extent perceive them as ‘straightening devices’, to borrow a phrase from Sara Ahmed. Here, we will find the articulation of a host of struggles to ‘fight the norms’, but not necessarily ‘step outside the system completely, full-time’ (Ben, personal interview [all the names of the interviewees have been changed to protect their anonymity]). In this sense, the struggle is not only to counter perceived heterosexual home-making and techno-practices, but also to question what kinds of practices to adopt and repeat as ‘fitting in’ mechanism. Significantly, these practices leave neither ‘homonormative’ nor ‘heteronormative’ imaginaries untouched and remind us that: In the case of sexual orientation, it is not simply that we have it. To become straight means that we not only have to turn towards the objects that are given to us by heterosexual culture, but also that we must “turn away” from objects that take us off this line. (Ahmed 21) In this sense then, we are all part of drawing and re-drawing the lines of belonging and un-belonging within the confines of a less than equal power-economy. Locating Dys-Location – Is There a Lesbian in the Home? In his effort to re-situate the perspective of media domestication in the 21st century, David Morley points us to ‘the process of the technologically mediated dislocation of domesticity itself’ (“What’s ‘home’” 22). He argues that ‘under the impact of new technologies and global cultural flows, the home nowadays is not so much a local, particular “self-enclosed” space, but rather, as Zygmunt Bauman puts it, more and more a “phantasmagoric” place, as electronic means of communication allow the radical intrusion of what he calls the “realm of the far” (traditionally, the realm of the strange and potentially troubling) into the “realm of the near” (the traditional “safe space” of ontological security) (23). The juxtaposition of home as a safe, ‘given’ place of ontological security vis a vis the more virtual and mediated realm of the far and potentially intrusive is itself called into question, if we re-consider the concepts of home and (dis)location in the light of lesbian geographies and ‘the production and regulation of heterosexual space’ (Valentine 1). The dislocation of home and domesticity experienced through consumption of (mobile) media technologies has always already been under-written by the potential feeling of dys-location and ‘trouble’ by lesbians on the grounds of sexual orientation. The lesbian experience disrupts the traditionally modern and notably western ideal of home as a safe haven and refuge by making visible the leaky boundaries between private seclusion and public surveillance, as much as it may (re)invest in the production of ideas and ideals of home-making and domesticity. This is illustrated for example by the way in which the heterosexuality of a parental home ‘can inscribe the lesbian body by restricting the performative aspects of a lesbian identity’, which may be subverted by covert acts of resistance (Johnston and Valentine 111; Elwood) as well as by the potentially greater freedoms of lesbian identity within a ‘lesbian home’, which may nevertheless come under scrutiny and ‘surveillance of others, especially close family, friends and neighbours’ (112). Nevertheless, more recently it has also been demonstrated how even overarching structures of familial heteronormativity are opportune to fissures and thereby queered, as Andrew Gorman-Murray illustrates in his study of Australian gay, lesbian and bisexual youth in supportive family homes. So what is, or rather, what can constitute a ‘lesbian home’ and how is it negotiated through everyday techno-practices? In and Out of the Closet – The Straight-Speaking ‘Telly’ As places go, the city of Brighton and Hove in the south-east of England fetches the prize for the highest ratio of LGBT people amongst its population in the UK, sitting at about 15%. In this sense, the home-making stories to which I will refer, of a white, lesbian single mother in her early 40s from a working-class background and a white lesbian/dyke couple in their 30s (from middle-/working-class backgrounds), are already engendered in the sense that Brighton (to them) represented in part a kind of ‘home-coming’ in itself. Helen and Ben, a lesbian butch-femme couple (‘when it takes our fancy’, Helen), had recently bought a terraced 1930s three-bedroom house with a sizeable garden in a soon to be up and coming residential area of Brighton. The neighbours are a mix of elderly, long-standing residents and ‘hetero’ families, or ‘breeders’, as Ben sometimes referred to them. Although they had lived together before, the new house constituted their first purchase together. This was significant especially for Helen, as it made their lives more ‘equal’ in terms of what goes where and the input on the overall interior decoration. Ben had shifted from London to Brighton a few years previously for a ‘quieter life’, but wished to remain connected to a queer community. Helen had made the move to Brighton from Germany – to study and enjoy the queer feel, and never left. Both full-time professionals, Helen worked in the publishing industry and Ben as a social worker. Already considering Brighton their ‘home’ town, the house purchase itself constituted another home-making challenge: as a lesbian/dyke couple on equal footing they were prepared to accept to live in a pre-dominantly straight neighbourhood, as it afforded them more space for money compared to the more visibly gay male living areas in the centre of town. The relative invisibility of queer women (and their neighbourhoods) compared to queer men in Brighton may, as it does elsewhere, be connected to issues of safety (Elwood) as well as the comparative lack of financial capacity (Bell and Valentine). Walking up to this house on the first night of my stay with them, I am struck by just how inconspicuous it appears – one of many in a long street, up a steep hill: ‘Most housing in contemporary western societies is “designed, built, financed and intended for nuclear families”’ (Bell in Bell and Valentine 7). I cannot help but think – more as a reflection on myself than of what I am about to experience – is this it? Is this the ‘domesticated lesbian’? What I see appears ‘familiar’, ‘tamed’, re-tracing the straight lines of heterosexual culture. Helen opens the door and orders me directly into the kitchen. She says ‘Ben is in the living room, watching television… Ben takes great pleasure in watching “You’ve been Framed”’. (Fieldnotes) In this context, it is appropriate to focus on the television and its place within their home-making strategies. Television, in its historical and symbolic significance, could be deemed the technological co-terminus to the ideal nuclear family home. Lynn Spigel has shown through her examination of the cultural history of TV’s formative years in post World War America how television became central to providing representations of family life, but also how the technology itself, as an object, informed material and symbolic transformations within the domestic sphere and beyond. Over the past fifty years as Morley points out, the TV has moved from its fixed place in the living room to become more personalised and encroach on other spaces in house and home and has now, in fact, re-entered the public realm (see airports and shopping malls) where it originated. At present, ‘the home itself can seen as having become … the “last vehicle”, where comfort, safety and stability can happily coexist with the possibility of instantaneous digitalised “flight” to elsewhere – and the instantaneous importation of desired elements of the “elsewhere” into the home’ (Morley, “Media, Modernity” 200). Importantly, as Morley confirms, today’s high-tech discourse is often still framed by a nostalgic vision of ‘family values’. There was only one TV set in Helen and Ben’s house: a black plastic cube with a 16” screen. It was decidedly ‘unglamorous’ as Helen pointed out. During the first round of ‘home-making’ efforts, it had found its way into a corner in the front room, with the sofa and armchair arranged in viewing distance. It was a very ‘traditional’ living room set-up. During my weeklong stay and for some weeks after, it was mostly Ben on her own ‘watching the telly’ in the early evenings ‘vegging out’ after work. Helen, meanwhile, was in the kitchen with the radio on or a CD playing, or in her ‘ICT free’ bedroom, reading. Then, suddenly, the TV had disappeared. During one of our ‘long conversations’ (Silverstone, Hirsch and Morley, “Listening”, 204) it transpired that it was now housed for most of the time on the top shelf of a storage cupboard and only ‘allowed out’ ever so often. As a material object, it had easily found its place as a small, but nevertheless quite central feature in the living room. Imbued with the cultural memory of their parents’ and that of many other living rooms, it was ‘tempting’ and easy for them to ‘accept’ it as part of a setting up home as a couple. Ben explained that they both fell into a habit, an everyday routine, to sit around it. However, settling into their new home with too much ‘ease’, they began to question their techno-practice around the TV. For Helen in particular, the aesthetics of the TV set did not fit in with her plans to re-decorate the house loosely in art deco style, tethered to her femme identity. They did not envisage creating a home that would potentially signal that a family with 2.4 children lives here. ‘The “normality” of [working] 9-5’ (Ben), was sufficient. Establishing a perceived visual difference in their living room, partly by removing the TV set, Helen and Ben aimed to ‘draw a line’ around their home and private sphere vis a vis the rest of the street and, metaphorically speaking, the straight world. The boundaries between the public and private are nevertheless porous, as it is exactly that the public perceptions of a mostly private, domesticated media technology prevent Helen and Ben from feeling entirely comfortable in its presence. It was not only the TV set’s symbolic function as a material object that made them restrict and consciously control the presence of the TV in their home space. One of Helen and Ben’s concerns in this context was that TV, as a broadcast medium, is utterly ‘conservative’ in its content and as such, very much ‘straight speaking’. To paraphrase Helen – you can only read so much between the lines and shout at the telly, it can get tiring. ‘I like watching nature programmes, but they somehow manage even here to make it sound like a hetero narrative’. Ben: ‘yeah – mind the lesbian swans’. The employment of the VCR and renting movies helps them to partly re-dress this perceived imbalance. At the same time, TV’s ‘water-cooler’ effect helps them to stay in tune with what is going on around them and enables them, for example, to participate and intervene in conversations at work. In this sense, watching TV can turn into home-work, which affords a kind of entry ticket to shared life-worlds outside the home and as such can be controlled, but not necessarily abandoned altogether. TV as a ‘straightening device’ may afford the (dis)comfort of a sense of participation in mainstream discourses and the (dis)comfort of serving as a reminder of difference at the same time. ‘It just sits there … apart from Sundays’ – and when the girls come round… Single-parent households are on the rise in the US (Russo Lemor) as well as in the UK. However, the attention given to single-parent families so far focuses pre-dominantly on single mothers and fathers after separation or divorce from a heterosexual marriage (Russo Lemor; Silverstone, “Beneath the Bottom Line”). As (queer) sociologists have began to map the field of ‘families of choice and other life experiments’ (Weeks, Heaphy and Donovan), a more concerted effort to bring together the literatures and to shed more light on the queer techno-practices of alternative families seems necessary. Liz and her young son Tim had moved to Brighton from London. As a lesbian working single mother, she raises Tim pre-dominantly on her own: ‘we are a small family, and that’s fine’. Liz’s home-making narrative is very much driven by her awareness of what she sees as her responsibilities as a mother, a lesbian mother. The move to Brighton was assessed by being able to keep her clients in London (she worked as a self-employed communication and PR person for various London councils) – ‘this is what feeds us’, and the fact that she did not want Tim to go to a ‘badly performing’ school in London. The terraced three-bedroom house she found was in a residential area, not too far from the station and in need of updating and re-decorating. The result of the combined efforts of builders, her dad (‘for some of the DIY’) and herself produced a ‘conventional’ set-up with a living room, a kitchen-diner, a small home-office (for tele-working) and Tim’s and her bedroom. Inconspicuous in its appearance, it was clearly child-oriented with a ‘real jelly bean arch’ in the hallway. The living room is relatively bare, with a big sofa, table and chairs, ‘an ancient stereo-system’ and a ‘battered TV and Video-recorder’ in the corner. ‘We hardly use it’, Liz exclaims. ‘We much rather spend time out and about if there is a chance … quality time, rather than watching TV … or I read him stories in bed. I hate the idea of TV as a baby sitter … I have very deliberately chosen to have Tim and I want to make the most of it’. For Liz, the living room with the TV set in it appears as a kind of gesture to what family homes ‘look like’. As such, the TV and furniture set-up function as a signal and symbol of ‘normality’ in a queer household – perhaps a form of ‘passing’ for visitors and guests. The concern for the welfare of her son in this context is a sign and reflection of a constant negotiation process within a pre-dominantly heterosexual system of cultural symbols and values, which he, of course, is already able to ‘compare’ and evaluate when he is out and about at school or visiting friends in their homes. Unlike in Helen and Ben’s home, the TV is therefore allowed to stay out of the closet. Still, Liz rarely watches TV at all, for reasons not dissimilar to those of Helen and Ben. Apart from this, she shares a lack of spare time with many other single parents. Significantly, the living room and TV do receive a queer ‘make-over’ now and then, when Tim is in bed or with his father on a weekend and ‘the girls’ come over for a drink, chat and video viewing (noticeably, the living room furniture and TV get pushed around and re-arranged to accommodate the crowd). In this sense, Liz, in her home-making practices, carefully manages and performs ‘object relationships’ that allow her and her son to ‘fit in’ as much as to advocate ‘difference’ within the construction of ‘normalcy’. The pressures of this negotiation process are clearly visible. Conclusion – Re-Engendering Home and Techno-Practices As women as much as lesbians, Helen, Ben and Liz are, like so many others, part of a historical and much wider struggle regarding visibility, equality and justice. If this article had been dedicated to gay/queer men and their techno- and home-making sensibilities, it would have read somewhat differently to be sure. Of course, questions of gender and sexual identities would have remained equally paramount, as they always should, enfolding questions of class, race and ethnicity (Pink 2004). The concept and practice of home have a deeply engendered history. Queer practices ‘at home’ are always already tied up with knowledges of gendered practices and spaces. As Morley has observed, ‘space is gendered on a variety of scales … the local is often associated with femininity and seen as the natural basis of home and community, into which an implicitly masculine realm intrudes’ (“Home Territories” 59). As the public and private realms have been gendered masculine and feminine respectively, so have media and ICTs. Although traditional ideas of home and gender relations are beginning to break down and the increasing personalization and mobilization of ICTs blur perceptions of the public and private, certain (idealized, heterosexualized and gendered) images of home, domesticity and family life seem to be recurring in popular discourse as well as mainstream academic writing. As feminist theorists have illustrated the ways in which gender needs to be seen as performative, feminist and queer theorists also ought to work further on finding vocabularies and discourses that capture and highlight diversity, without re-invoking the spectre of the nuclear family (home) itself (Weeks, Heaphy and Donovan). What I found was not the ‘domesticated’ lesbian ‘at home’ in a traditional feminine sphere. Rather, I experienced a complex set of re-negotiations and re-inscriptions of the domestic, of gender and sexual values and identities as well as techno-practices, leaving a trace, a mark on the system no matter how small (Helen: ‘I do wonder what the neighbours make of us’). The pressure and indeed desire to ‘fit in’ is often enormous and therefore affords the re-tracing of certain trodden paths of domesticity and ICT consumption. 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Tiffany is running down a suburban street with headphones and a hoodie on. Her breath is clearly audible, rhythmic, steady, and in pace with her footsteps. The Tiffany’s Story video testimonial on the Be Smart. Be Well. website then cuts to Tiffany sitting at home describing her earlier experiences with asthma: “The hospital became like my second home... I couldn’t breathe on my own.” Dr. Wolf, who has been treating Tiffany since she was diagnosed with asthma at age 8, joins in, “At that time she had really severe asthma. It was very difficult to manage and remained very difficult to manage for many years” (Be Smart. Be Well). As a child, Tiffany could never run, with steady breath, as she did at the beginning of the video, titled The Right Meds Keep Her in the Ring (Be Smart. Be Well). But after figuring out a treatment regime that worked, Tiffany became a healthy teenager; the video features her in contexts where she is jogging, smiling radiantly with her mother, and holding up victory belts from her boxing matches. From a child unable to breathe on her own, to a teenager with dreams of going to the Olympics, Tiffany’s asthma story underscores some of the defining narratives of contemporary asthma care. Her experience moves from uncontrolled asthma that limited her activities to a well-managed condition where she is able to pursue her aspirations without interference. Her Olympic dreams fit perfectly, reproduce even, the iconic image of the asthmatic athlete. It’s an image that has been in circulation since the early years of the contemporary asthma epidemic, a moment in the 1990s when federal health agencies and advocacy organizations worked to give the growing population of child asthmatics hope and encouragement to overcome their asthma. Yet the figure of the athletic asthmatic, and other accomplished icons with well-controlled asthma, also promotes an idealized image of health: “you can be greater than you are,” when you take your medication. The messages, of course, are well intentioned, designed to educate and show kids that asthma does not equate with disability. Yet these messages frequently work on logic where drugs control symptoms to enable you to do better in life. In some corners of asthma care, concern with symptoms is subsumed by narratives of activity and accomplishment. This article sketches shifts in the meaning of health and disease in the context of asthma treatment, moving from a time when treatments were not disease-specific and illness was seen as debilitating, to the contemporary moment where pharmaceutical companies market disease and promote health through direct-to-consumer advertising (DTCA). It’s a move situated within a broader, biomedicalized context where health isn’t just achieved, it’s augmented. Tiffany’s story is typical of someone with severe or even moderate asthma: uncontrolled symptoms, use of emergency care, unresponsive to medications, and an inability to live life as fully as desired. Symptoms and the threat of symptoms prevent people from undertaking routine activities (such as exercise, visiting friends, or attending work or school) and going into spaces that might trigger an attack. Asthma, in other words, can prevent people from living a “normal” life. But it can also be more than a chronic inconvenience that shapes behaviors; in the U.S., asthma still kills more than 3,000 people each year (Moorman et al. 20). Medical practitioners, researchers, and patients persistently search for insight into asthma’s causes and possible cures (Whitmarsh). Both cause and cure still allude, but preventative measures have improved dramatically in the last thirty years, through both pharmaceutical advancements and better public health approaches. Whereas a century ago, or even 30 years ago, severe asthmatics would have lead quite restricted lives—confined to their homes and unable to be active—today’s asthmatics are not limited by their condition to the degree they were decades before. We see this in asthma research that shows improved morbidity, decreased hospitalizations, and better quality of life (Moorman et al. 1-67). We also see this in DTCA, asthma advocacy campaigns, and even public health messages that actively combat the historic image of the weak, invalid asthmatic with stories of famous athletes, entertainers, or politicians who overcame asthma to achieve great things. It moves the discourse from an overly negative image—as one asthmatic interlocutor conveyed, “there was a stereotype in the 80s, in the movies, where the nerdy wimpy kid always had asthma, and the inhaler was associated with that”—to an extraordinarily positive image of high achieving asthmatics. Inhalers, formerly a sign of weakness, are now common in competitive sport contexts (Arie 344). The contrast between these representations—the 1980s nerdy wimp and the 21st century athlete—is stark. The latter image participates in the shift towards augmented health, where active bodies have become the new idealized norm. The shifting representations of asthmatics, even over the last twenty years, makes sense in the context of biomedicalization (Clarke et al. 172), where treatment regimes moved from a focus on “attaining control over the body” under medicalization, to “enabling the transformation of bodies to include desired new properties and identities” (Clarke et al. 183). The right treatment will allow you to do things that your body wouldn’t let you do otherwise. The question is: should treatment be sold on this premise? What would have been considered a return to health a hundred years ago wouldn’t be considered doing enough to manage your asthma today. A hundred years ago, the absence of symptoms would have been a success; today, the focus is on the degree to which one feels limited and how much you can accomplish in the span of 24-hours. Missed school and work days are a key measure in asthma epidemiology and care; these public health measures not only signal uncontrolled asthma, but do so by counting absence in the context of labor. The discursive shift can also be seen in the change from the urge to “breathe easy” (language from the Centers for Disease Control) to suggestions in pharmaceutical ads that you can “breathe better.” What new selves are being created by emergent health rhetorics, as Metzel asks (6), rhetorics which seem to be consumerist and neoliberal as much as they are biomedical? Role Reversal Historically, those with severe asthma led their lives carefully, or in reclusion. French novelist Marcel Proust, in addition to his literary accomplishments, spent much of his life confined to his home. Despite searching through medical texts and experimenting with various treatments, Proust’s asthma “dominated” his daily life, in the words of Mark Jackson (6). Writing of asthma’s history, Jackson continues, Proust constitutes the archetypal asthmatic, whose breathlessness and discomfort echo across space and time. Proust’s intimate descriptions of his symptoms—‘an asthmatic never knows if he will be able to breathe’ he wrote to the novelist Andre Gide in 1919—bear striking similarities both to Greek and medieval accounts of asthma many centuries earlier and to recent surveys suggesting that, at the turn of the millennium, many asthmatics continue to suffer from severe attacks that prevent them from speaking or make them fear for their lives. (8) In Proust’s time, advertisements for asthma and other respiratory treatments focused on providing symptom relief; some even purported to cure respiratory woes. These advertisements were rarely asthma specific, in part, because manufacturers sought the widest possible customer base, but also because it was difficult to distinguish one respiratory illness from another (Jackson 201). Asthmatics like Proust tried a range of remedies, including asthma cigarettes, the Carbolic Smoke Ball, and various forms of early inhalers. Most of these early asthma remedies instructed customers to use their product when in need of relief. Some ads stated that more regular use could stave off symptoms as well remedy them in the moment, but prevention wasn’t the primary message. The principle focus was addressing symptoms at hand. Just about a hundred years later, at the beginning of the U.S. asthma epidemic, symptoms were still center stage. National attention turned towards the asthmatic condition as the public health effects of severe asthma became visible—asthma-related deaths and hospitalizations had increased, along with rising prevalence rates. Asthma—formerly kept hidden in homes and in low-income communities—emerged as a major public health issue (Mitman 245). Advocacy campaigns were created on the heels of the epidemic’s emergence; they aimed to make asthma visible and show kids that their condition didn’t have to get in the way of life. Elite athletes became central figures in these campaigns. The Asthma All-Stars program, which featured Olympic medalists Jackie Joyner-Kersee and Amy Van Dyken, as well as Pittsburgh Steeler Jerome Bettis, worked to educate the public through acknowledgement of the condition as well as treatment advocacy. The National Library of Medicine’s exhibit on asthma, “Breath of Life” (1999), exemplifies this period with a showcase of famous asthmatics. In the exhibit, more than half the profiles of contemporary asthmatics feature Olympic or all-star athletes; entertainers, politicians, and scientists round out the exhibit. The legacy of the asthmatic athlete persists today; it’s still common to see sports figures speaking at fundraisers or spearheading events. These images are important, particularly for patient populations who truly feel limited and unable to do things because of their asthma. Athletes who speak about their condition are always clear: well-controlled asthma comes from adherence to treatment. The importance of these images also stems from the use of the image of the All-Star asthmatic to counter the historical stereotype of the weak, invalid asthmatic, who, like Proust, could not even leave the house. The man who recalled the stereotyped asthmatic from the 1980s, stated “I think I mapped myself onto that [stereotype], like, this is a disability, right, the media tells me this is a disability cause it’s always the kids who can’t do anything who are puffing their puffers.” In step with emergent 21st century health rhetoric, and increasing asthma prevalence, the image of the asthmatic was revised, falling in line with newly normalized health ideals (Clarke et al. 181; Metzel 2; Sinding 262). Active Asthmatics If 19th and early 20th century inhaler advertisements declared their products could relieve if not cure respiratory symptoms, at the beginning of the 21st century asthma treatment went beyond simply relieving symptoms; advertisements and medical discourse emphasized preventative symptom control, improved lung function, and better breathing. With the development of long-term controller medications, many asthmatics could reliably prevent symptoms a majority of the time. When combination inhalers hit the market in the early 2000s, the mood of advertisements could be summed up by a line from a GlaxoSmithKline commercial, “Coping is not the same as controlling” (GlaxoSmithKline). Prevention rather than symptom relief was the order of the new century. And yet just in the last ten years, pharmaceutical messages have shifted yet again, moving from an emphasis on controlling symptoms to living a better life: don’t let asthma slow you down, or stop you from living the life you want to live. It’s a message predicated on a particular view of what a normal life should look like, one characterized as augmented health. A 2012 Advair commercial reflects the tone of augmented health, “Asthma can hold you back, but it doesn’t always have to. Advair is clinically proven to significantly increase symptom free days, to help you do more of the things you like to do, more of the things you have to do, and more of what you want to do” (Advair). Strategically placed throughout the commercial, a voice chimes in “GO!” as the hero of the commercial, a middle aged asthmatic man, bikes down a wooded trail; moves through a busy hallway where he greets one person after the next, all of whom hand him file folders or blue prints; dances at a nightclub; and walks down bleachers to join a group of friends at a ballgame. The commercial ends with the man arriving home well after dark, comfortably settling into bed, and then energetically waking up to do it all over again the next day. Marked by words like increase, more, and go, the Advair commercial depicts a life full of activity. Not only that, the commercial leverages contexts that are commonly problematic for asthmatics: being outside and in foliage rich areas; biking and dancing, or other physical activities that could leave one breathless; and sleeping comfortably—nighttime attacks are common among asthmatics. The message is clear: look at all the things asthmatics can do when their condition is well controlled—with Advair, of course. It’s a message that builds on an earlier trend in asthma advocacy, during the 1990s, when well-known asthmatic athletes were used to bring visibility to asthma. If asthma control in the 1990s emphasized that asthmatics didn’t need to be held back, 21st century ads suggest that one could do more. By augmenting your health, asthma control can transform your life by allowing you to do more.Today, DTCA for asthma drugs are just as likely to emphasize improved lung function as they are symptom control, and, as advertised in the Advair commercial, improved lung function enables one to do more. A man featured in a 2012 Symbicort commercial explains, “Symbicort helps significantly improve my lung function, starting within five minutes… With Symbicort, today I’m breathing better” (Symbicort). The man’s renewed capacity to go on fishing trips with loved ones is the example in this commercial. Control, relief, and cure are nowhere to be found in these DTC advertisements; symptoms have been dropped from the frame. Rather than work off illness, or the older stereotype of the weak, homebound asthmatic, the new wave of DTCA champions augmented health: a higher quality of life, where patient-consumers can “do” whatever they like. What would have been considered a return to normal a hundred years ago, in Proust’s time, wouldn’t be considered doing enough to manage your asthma today. A hundred years ago, getting out of the house would have been enough; today, it’s a question of how much can you accomplish in the span of 24-hours. The portrayal of health in these DTCA calls to mind Lauren Berlant’s description of OTC cold medicine, which claim to make you feel better, but are really more concerned with making sure people can stay productive (28). Conclusion Had Proust lived a century later, he may have, like Tiffany, led a less restricted life. Or as Dr. Wolf put it, “A normal life. Busy and as active as she’d like to be. But she needs to take medication to do it” (Be Well. Be Smart). Symptom-free doesn’t seem to be enough anymore. Contemporary images of asthmatics—as an all-star athlete, an aspiring boxer, and a hyper-busy city dweller—are shaped by an imagined healthy norm. Advocacy campaigns originally intended to combat long-standing negative representations partake in the promotion of augmented health. Increasingly, health is no longer defined by the absence of symptoms, but by how active you are and how much you do. Busy and productive is a gold standard of the idealized norm, a norm that circulates—to a greater or lesser extent—in direct-to-consumer advertising, asthma advocacy campaigns, and public health messages (Sinding 262). Without doubt, the pharmaceutical industry plays a tremendous role in shaping contemporary health norms. Yet, as Joseph Dumit describes it, "the pharmaceutical industry is a massive elephant. Like the blind men of the famous parable, we each catch a hold of a tiny piece of it -- leg, tail, trunk -- and think we have a handle on it" (18). A powerful force with influence on many aspects of contemporary life, the pharmaceutical industry could be understood through the lens of biomedicalization: Biomedicalization imposes new mandates and performances that become incorporated into one’s sense of self. The subjectivities that arise out of these performances of what it is to be healthy (e.g., proactive, prevention-conscious, neo-rational) suggest how biomedical technoscience indicates a type of governmentality that can enact itself at the level of subjective identities and social relations. (Clarke et al. 182) Disease marketing—prevalent in the 1990s—is no longer needed or effective; health marketing has taken over and pharmaceutical companies are not at the table alone (Elliott 97). Instead of working through disease difference, health marketing attempts to level ground through images and standards that everyone can work towards, asthmatics included. Of course, pharmaceutical marketing simultaneously renders invisible socioeconomic conditions that contribute to asthma incidence, and marginalized populations that struggle to access medication and medical care in the first place. Augmented health works to flatten difference across social, economic, political, and ecological scales, as if these inequalities didn’t matter for disease management. Scholars writing about emergent modes of health—how health is imagined, constructed, studied, and sold—have documented how new health regimes work off potential risk categories, race, class, and gendered ideologies, or hoped-for modes of living. Some are literally “against health” (the title of Metzel and Kirkland’s edited volume). But to be against health, as Metzel writes is not to be against needed treatment (9). To examine the ways in which DTCA or advocacy campaigns promote specific, idealized images of health—images where people are athletic, outgoing, and busy—and question whether these drugs go above and beyond the restoration of health, should not be equated with a statement about whether medication is necessary. Epidemiological evidence and clinical studies are clear that contemporary treatments help reduce the burden of asthma in various ways: through reduced hospitalizations, lower death rates, and better-controlled asthma. Drugs keep many asthmatics relatively symptom-free. The point, rather, is that health is complex, structured by various institutions, actors, politics, and materials. One of the valences of the new health regime is augmented health, seen in the context of this paper at work in DTCA and possibly emerging in other corners of the asthma care arena as well. To date, most writing on augmentation has focused on how advancements in science and technology extend the capacity of human bodies—from prosthetics and fertility drugs, to steroids and life support (Hogle 696). Less has been written on the ways in which chronic conditions like diabetes, heart disease, and asthma—conditions where life hinges on medications, but are common enough that they are deemed unexceptional—produce a rhetoric of augmentation; where the new healthy is augmented living. It’s not the drugs for life rhetoric that works off new risk categories, as Dumit has shown (201); asthmatics are symptomatic, always at risk anyways, and often already on drugs for life. Drugs for chronic conditions like asthma may simply control symptoms, but they’re increasingly sold on the promise of enhancing life capacities as well. As Elliott has observed, it’s part of a move from disease marketing to health marketing (97). The discursive shift in asthma care, and perhaps other chronic disease contexts as well, doesn’t register as enhancement or augmentation because it mirrors the new health norm that is part of the broader context of biomedicalization. As the frame of health shifts, questions about bodies, ethics, and enhancement technologies might need to shift as well. Linda Hogle’s question is apt here: “what is necessary to sustain health? At which point does repair become something more than restorative, and for which (and whose) purposes are interventions defined as 'therapeutic'” (697). Since health norms have become augmented in the last ten years, this question becomes all the more difficult to answer. Within these new health regimes, potential has not only become open-ended, it also seems to be a therapeutic goal. References Arie, Sophie. “What Can We Learn from Asthma in Elite Athletes?” British Medical Journal 344 (2012). Be Smart. Be Well. “The Right Meds Keep Her in the Ring.” Be Smart. Be Well. 14 Aug. 2013. 1 Dec. 2013 ‹http://www.besmartbewell.com/childhood-asthma/tiffany.htm›. Clarke, Adele, Janet Shim, Laura Mamo, Jennifer Fosket, and Jennifer Fishman. “Biomedicalization: Technoscientific Transformations of Health, Illness, and U.S. Biomedicine.” American Sociological Review 68 (2003): 161-194. Dumit, Joseph. Drugs for Life: How Pharmaceutical Companies Define Our Health. Durham: Duke University Press, 2012. Elliott, Carl. Better than Well: American Medicine Meets the American Dream. New York: W.W. Norton & Company, 2012. GlaxoSmithKline. “Advair Commercial – 2012.” 14 Sep. 2013. 1 Dec. 2013 ‹http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OZ4hgIfU4AI›. GlaxoSmithKline. “GlaxoSmithKline (GSK) Commercial – Asthma.com.” 1 Aug. 2013. 14 Sep. 2013. ‹http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bvyxbX3Jnp4›. Hogle, Linda. “Enhancement Technologies and the Body.” Annual Review of Anthropology 34 (2005): 695-716. Jackson, Mark. Asthma: A Biography. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009. Metzl, Jonathan M., and Anna Kirkland. Against Health: How Health Became the New Morality. New York: New York University Press, 2010. Moorman, J.E., L.J. Akinbami, C.M. Bailey, et al. “National Surveillance of Asthma: United States, 2001–2010. National Center for Health Statistics.” Vital Health Stat 3.35 (2012). Mitman, Gregg. Breathing Space: How Allergies Shape Our Lives and Landscapes. New Haven: Yale University Press, 2007. National Library of Medicine. “Breath of Life.” National Library of Medicine Archives, 1999. 31 Aug. 2013. 1 Dec. 2013 ‹http://www.nlm.nih.gov/archive/20120918/hmd/breath/breathhome.html›.Sinding, Christiane. “The Power of Norms: Georges Canguilhem, Michel Foucault, and the History of Medicine.” In Locating Medical History: Their Stories and Meanings, eds. Frank Huisman and John Harley Warner. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2004. Symbicort. “Symbicort Fishing Video.” 1 Jan. 2013. 13 Sep. 2013 ‹http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oG9MxLwnapE› . Whitmarsh, Ian. Biomedical Ambiguity: Race, Asthma, and the Contested Meaning of Genetic Research in the Caribbean. Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2008.

This article investigates the possibilities for understanding waste as a resource, with a particular focus on understanding food waste as a food resource. It considers the popular yeast spread Vegemite within this frame. The spread’s origins in waste product, and how it has achieved and sustained its status as a popular symbol of Australia despite half a century of Australian gastro-multiculturalism and a marked public resistance to other recycling and reuse of food products, have not yet been a focus of study. The process of producing Vegemite from waste would seem to align with contemporary moves towards recycling food waste, and ensuring environmental sustainability and food security, yet even during times of austerity and environmental concern this has not provided the company with a viable marketing strategy. Instead, advertising copywriting and a recurrent cycle of product memorialisation have created a superbrand through focusing on Vegemite’s nutrient and nostalgic value.John Scanlan notes that producing waste is a core feature of modern life, and what we dispose of as surplus to our requirements—whether this comprises material objects or more abstract products such as knowledge—reveals much about our society. In observing this, Scanlan asks us to consider the quite radical idea that waste is central to everything of significance to us: the “possibility that the surprising core of all we value results from (and creates even more) garbage (both the material and the metaphorical)” (9). Others have noted the ambivalent relationship we have with the waste we produce. C. T. Anderson notes that we are both creator and agent of its disposal. It is our ambivalence towards waste, coupled with its ubiquity, that allows waste materials to be described so variously: negatively as garbage, trash and rubbish, or more positively as by-products, leftovers, offcuts, trimmings, and recycled.This ambivalence is also crucial to understanding the affectionate relationship the Australian public have with Vegemite, a relationship that appears to exist in spite of the product’s unpalatable origins in waste. A study of Vegemite reveals that consumers can be comfortable with waste, even to the point of eating recycled waste, as long as that fact remains hidden and unmentioned. In Vegemite’s case not only has the product’s connection to waste been rendered invisible, it has been largely kept out of sight despite considerable media and other attention focusing on the product. Recycling Food Waste into Food ProductRecent work such as Elizabeth Royte’s Garbage Land and Tristram Stuart’s Waste make waste uncomfortably visible, outlining how much waste, and food waste in particular, the Western world generates and how profligately this is disposed of. Their aim is clear: a call to less extravagant and more sustainable practices. The relatively recent interest in reducing our food waste has, of course, introduced more complexity into a simple linear movement from the creation of a food product, to its acquisition or purchase, and then to its consumption and/or its disposal. Moreover, the recycling, reuse and repurposing of what has previously been discarded as waste is reconfiguring the whole idea of what waste is, as well as what value it has. The initiatives that seem to offer the most promise are those that reconfigure the way waste is understood. However, it is not only the process of transforming waste from an abject nuisance into a valued product that is central here. It is also necessary to reconfigure people’s acculturated perceptions of, and reactions to waste. Food waste is generated during all stages of the food cycle: while the raw materials are being grown; while these are being processed; when the resulting food products are being sold; when they are prepared in the home or other kitchen; and when they are only partly consumed. Until recently, the food industry in the West almost universally produced large volumes of solid and liquid waste that not only posed problems of disposal and pollution for the companies involved, but also represented a reckless squandering of total food resources in terms of both nutrient content and valuable biomass for society at large. While this is currently changing, albeit slowly, the by-products of food processing were, and often are, dumped (Stuart). In best-case scenarios, various gardening, farming and industrial processes gather household and commercial food waste for use as animal feed or as components in fertilisers (Delgado et al; Wang et al). This might, on the surface, appear a responsible application of waste, yet the reality is that such food waste often includes perfectly good fruit and vegetables that are not quite the required size, shape or colour, meat trimmings and products (such as offal) that are completely edible but extraneous to processing need, and other high grade product that does not meet certain specifications—such as the mountains of bread crusts sandwich producers discard (Hickman), or food that is still edible but past its ‘sell by date.’ In the last few years, however, mounting public awareness over the issues of world hunger, resource conservation, and the environmental and economic costs associated with food waste has accelerated efforts to make sustainable use of available food supplies and to more efficiently recycle, recover and utilise such needlessly wasted food product. This has fed into and led to multiple new policies, instances of research into, and resultant methods for waste handling and treatment (Laufenberg et al). Most straightforwardly, this involves the use or sale of offcuts, trimmings and unwanted ingredients that are “often of prime quality and are only rejected from the production line as a result of standardisation requirements or retailer specification” from one process for use in another, in such processed foods as soups, baby food or fast food products (Henningsson et al. 505). At a higher level, such recycling seeks to reclaim any reusable substances of significant food value from what could otherwise be thought of as a non-usable waste product. Enacting this is largely dependent on two elements: an available technology and being able to obtain a price or other value for the resultant product that makes the process worthwhile for the recycler to engage in it (Laufenberg et al). An example of the latter is the use of dehydrated restaurant food waste as a feedstuff for finishing pigs, a reuse process with added value for all involved as this process produces both a nutritious food substance as well as a viable way of disposing of restaurant waste (Myer et al). In Japan, laws regarding food waste recycling, which are separate from those governing other organic waste, are ensuring that at least some of food waste is being converted into animal feed, especially for the pigs who are destined for human tables (Stuart). Other recycling/reuse is more complex and involves more lateral thinking, with the by-products from some food processing able to be utilised, for instance, in the production of dyes, toiletries and cosmetics (Henningsson et al), although many argue for the privileging of food production in the recycling of foodstuffs.Brewing is one such process that has been in the reuse spotlight recently as large companies seek to minimise their waste product so as to be able to market their processes as sustainable. In 2009, for example, the giant Foster’s Group (with over 150 brands of beer, wine, spirits and ciders) proudly claimed that it recycled or reused some 91.23% of 171,000 tonnes of operational waste, with only 8.77% of this going to landfill (Foster’s Group). The treatment and recycling of the massive amounts of water used for brewing, rinsing and cooling purposes (Braeken et al.; Fillaudeaua et al.) is of significant interest, and is leading to research into areas as diverse as the development microbial fuel cells—where added bacteria consume the water-soluble brewing wastes, thereby cleaning the water as well as releasing chemical energy that is then converted into electricity (Lagan)—to using nutrient-rich wastewater as the carbon source for creating bioplastics (Yu et al.).In order for the waste-recycling-reuse loop to be closed in the best way for securing food supplies, any new product salvaged and created from food waste has to be both usable, and used, as food (Stuart)—and preferably as a food source for people to consume. There is, however, considerable consumer resistance to such reuse. Resistance to reusing recycled water in Australia has been documented by the CSIRO, which identified negative consumer perception as one of the two primary impediments to water reuse, the other being the fundamental economics of the process (MacDonald & Dyack). This consumer aversion operates even in times of severe water shortages, and despite proof of the cleanliness and safety of the resulting treated water. There was higher consumer acceptance levels for using stormwater rather than recycled water, despite the treated stormwater being shown to have higher concentrations of contaminants (MacDonald & Dyack). This reveals the extent of public resistance to the potential consumption of recycled waste product when it is labelled as such, even when this consumption appears to benefit that public. Vegemite: From Waste Product to Australian IconIn this context, the savoury yeast spread Vegemite provides an example of how food processing waste can be repurposed into a new food product that can gain a high level of consumer acceptability. It has been able to retain this status despite half a century of Australian gastronomic multiculturalism and the wide embrace of a much broader range of foodstuffs. Indeed, Vegemite is so ubiquitous in Australian foodways that it is recognised as an international superbrand, a standing it has been able to maintain despite most consumers from outside Australasia finding it unpalatable (Rozin & Siegal). However, Vegemite’s long product history is one in which its origin as recycled waste has been omitted, or at the very least, consistently marginalised.Vegemite’s history as a consumer product is narrated in a number of accounts, including one on the Kraft website, where the apocryphal and actual blend. What all these narratives agree on is that in the early 1920s Fred Walker—of Fred Walker and Company, Melbourne, canners of meat for export and Australian manufacturers of Bonox branded beef stock beverage—asked his company chemist to emulate Marmite yeast extract (Farrer). The imitation product was based, as was Marmite, on the residue from spent brewer’s yeast. This waste was initially sourced from Melbourne-based Carlton & United Breweries, and flavoured with vegetables, spices and salt (Creswell & Trenoweth). Today, the yeast left after Foster Group’s Australian commercial beer making processes is collected, put through a sieve to remove hop resins, washed to remove any bitterness, then mixed with warm water. The yeast dies from the lack of nutrients in this environment, and enzymes then break down the yeast proteins with the effect that vitamins and minerals are released into the resulting solution. Using centrifugal force, the yeast cell walls are removed, leaving behind a nutrient-rich brown liquid, which is then concentrated into a dark, thick paste using a vacuum process. This is seasoned with significant amounts of salt—although less today than before—and flavoured with vegetable extracts (Richardson).Given its popularity—Vegemite was found in 2009 to be the third most popular brand in Australia (Brand Asset Consulting)—it is unsurprising to find that the product has a significant history as an object of study in popular culture (Fiske et al; White), as a marker of national identity (Ivory; Renne; Rozin & Siegal; Richardson; Harper & White) and as an iconic Australian food, brand and product (Cozzolino; Luck; Khamis; Symons). Jars, packaging and product advertising are collected by Australian institutions such as Sydney’s Powerhouse Museum and the National Museum of Australia in Canberra, and are regularly included in permanent and travelling exhibitions profiling Australian brands and investigating how a sense of national identity is expressed through identification with these brands. All of this significant study largely focuses on how, when and by whom the product has been taken up, and how it has been consumed, rather than its links to waste, and what this circumstance could add to current thinking about recycling of food waste into other food products.It is worth noting that Vegemite was not an initial success in the Australian marketplace, but this does not seem due to an adverse public perception to waste. Indeed, when it was first produced it was in imitation of an already popular product well-known to be made from brewery by-products, hence this origin was not an issue. It was also introduced during a time when consumer relationships to waste were quite unlike today, and thrifty re-use of was a common feature of household behaviour. Despite a national competition mounted to name the product (Richardson), Marmite continued to attract more purchasers after Vegemite’s launch in 1923, so much so that in 1928, in an attempt to differentiate itself from Marmite, Vegemite was renamed “Parwill—the all Australian product” (punning on the idea that “Ma-might” but “Pa-will”) (White 16). When this campaign was unsuccessful, the original, consumer-suggested name was reinstated, but sales still lagged behind its UK-owned prototype. It was only after remaining in production for more than a decade, and after two successful marketing campaigns in the second half of the 1930s that the Vegemite brand gained some market traction. The first of these was in 1935 and 1936, when a free jar of Vegemite was offered with every sale of an item from the relatively extensive Kraft-Walker product list (after Walker’s company merged with Kraft) (White). The second was an attention-grabbing contest held in 1937, which invited consumers to compose Vegemite-inspired limericks. However, it was not the nature of the product itself or even the task set by the competition which captured mass attention, but the prize of a desirable, exotic and valuable imported Pontiac car (Richardson 61; Superbrands).Since that time, multinational media company, J Walter Thompson (now rebranded as JWT) has continued to manage Vegemite’s marketing. JWT’s marketing has never looked to Vegemite’s status as a thrifty recycler of waste as a viable marketing strategy, even in periods of austerity (such as the Depression years and the Second World War) or in more recent times of environmental concern. Instead, advertising copywriting and a recurrent cycle of cultural/media memorialisation have created a superbrand by focusing on two factors: its nutrient value and, as the brand became more established, its status as national icon. Throughout the regular noting and celebration of anniversaries of its initial invention and launch, with various commemorative events and products marking each of these product ‘birthdays,’ Vegemite’s status as recycled waste product has never been more than mentioned. Even when its 60th anniversary was marked in 1983 with the laying of a permanent plaque in Kerferd Road, South Melbourne, opposite Walker’s original factory, there was only the most passing reference to how, and from what, the product manufactured at the site was made. This remained the case when the site itself was prioritised for heritage listing almost twenty years later in 2001 (City of Port Phillip).Shying away from the reality of this successful example of recycling food waste into food was still the case in 1990, when Kraft Foods held a nationwide public campaign to recover past styles of Vegemite containers and packaging, and then donated their collection to Powerhouse Museum. The Powerhouse then held an exhibition of the receptacles and the historical promotional material in 1991, tracing the development of the product’s presentation (Powerhouse Museum), an occasion that dovetailed with other nostalgic commemorative activities around the product’s 70th birthday. Although the production process was noted in the exhibition, it is noteworthy that the possibilities for recycling a number of the styles of jars, as either containers with reusable lids or as drinking glasses, were given considerably more notice than the product’s origins as a recycled product. By this time, it seems, Vegemite had become so incorporated into Australian popular memory as a product in its own right, and with such a rich nostalgic history, that its origins were no longer of any significant interest or relevance.This disregard continued in the commemorative volume, The Vegemite Cookbook. With some ninety recipes and recipe ideas, the collection contains an almost unimaginably wide range of ways to use Vegemite as an ingredient. There are recipes on how to make the definitive Vegemite toast soldiers and Vegemite crumpets, as well as adaptations of foreign cuisines including pastas and risottos, stroganoffs, tacos, chilli con carne, frijole dip, marinated beef “souvlaki style,” “Indian-style” chicken wings, curries, Asian stir-fries, Indonesian gado-gado and a number of Chinese inspired dishes. Although the cookbook includes a timeline of product history illustrated with images from the major advertising campaigns that runs across 30 pages of the book, this timeline history emphasises the technological achievement of Vegemite’s creation, as opposed to the matter from which it orginated: “In a Spartan room in Albert Park Melbourne, 20 year-old food technologist Cyril P. Callister employed by Fred Walker, conducted initial experiments with yeast. His workplace was neither kitchen nor laboratory. … It was not long before this rather ordinary room yielded an extra-ordinary substance” (2). The Big Vegemite Party Book, described on its cover as “a great book for the Vegemite fan … with lots of old advertisements from magazines and newspapers,” is even more openly nostalgic, but similarly includes very little regarding Vegemite’s obviously potentially unpalatable genesis in waste.Such commemorations have continued into the new century, each one becoming more self-referential and more obviously a marketing strategy. In 2003, Vegemite celebrated its 80th birthday with the launch of the “Spread the Smile” campaign, seeking to record the childhood reminisces of adults who loved Vegemite. After this, the commemorative anniversaries broke free from even the date of its original invention and launch, and began to celebrate other major dates in the product’s life. In this way, Kraft made major news headlines when it announced that it was trying to locate the children who featured in the 1954 “Happy little Vegemites” campaign as part of the company’s celebrations of the 50th anniversary of the television advertisement. In October 2006, these once child actors joined a number of past and current Kraft employees to celebrate the supposed production of the one-billionth jar of Vegemite (Rood, "Vegemite Spreads" & "Vegemite Toasts") but, once again, little about the actual production process was discussed. In 2007, the then iconic marching band image was resituated into a contemporary setting—presumably to mobilise both the original messages (nutritious wholesomeness in an Australian domestic context) as well as its heritage appeal. Despite the real interest at this time in recycling and waste reduction, the silence over Vegemite’s status as recycled, repurposed food waste product continued.Concluding Remarks: Towards Considering Waste as a ResourceIn most parts of the Western world, including Australia, food waste is formally (in policy) and informally (by consumers) classified, disposed of, or otherwise treated alongside garden waste and other organic materials. Disposal by individuals, industry or local governments includes a range of options, from dumping to composting or breaking down in anaerobic digestion systems into materials for fertiliser, with food waste given no special status or priority. Despite current concerns regarding the security of food supplies in the West and decades of recognising that there are sections of all societies where people do not have enough to eat, it seems that recycling food waste into food that people can consume remains one of the last and least palatable solutions to these problems. This brief study of Vegemite has attempted to show how, despite the growing interest in recycling and sustainability, the focus in both the marketing of, and public interest in, this iconic and popular product appears to remain rooted in Vegemite’s nutrient and nostalgic value and its status as a brand, and firmly away from any suggestion of innovative and prudent reuse of waste product. 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