FigGate - the fallout

Following from the previous entry, I received a very prompt and sincere email response to my foreign-object-in-figs feedback. Two days later came a real letter – gratifyingly grovelly – apologising again for the concern caused, and expressing the laudable hope that lessons could be learned. To that end, I was assured, the relevant buyers and technologists had been made aware of the complaint. Not just technicians or mere engineers, mind you, but Technologists. Colour me impressed! And as a token of their goodwill, a gift voucher was attached.
Five Pounds.
Better than a slap in the face, and certainly not to be sneezed at in these crunchy times. No indeed. More than fair.
That’ll buy a lot of figs.
This afternoon a letter arrived from the supplier, asking me to send them the offending packet in the freepost pouch provided. “Exhibit A” is on its way to who knows how many white-coated Technologists for forensic analysis. Wheels are in motion…

Figment

No, I didn’t imagine it. This is what I found halfway through my packet of figs.
I realise it’s not broken glass or razor blades, and there wasn’t a huge risk that I’d put it into my mouth and break a tooth. (Even I’m not such a speed eater that my fingers didn’t have time to register the difference between smooth/dense and sticky/wrinkled.) But still, I mean to say. I definitely felt less than well at the thought and (imagined?) taste of rust and engine grease. Not sick enough to rush frothy-mouthed to Emergency or Fair Trading. But distinctly off-colour.
Once over my slight queasy shock, I wondered what to do. If anything. I could hardly claim physical or mental distress. I doubt “mild momentary nausea” would justify compensatory millions. But I felt that someone should know. If only for the smug altruism of helping protect fellow figgy shoppers from such unpleasantness. And what if a vast and complex packing conveyer somewhere was about to fall catastrophically apart? I hastened to my local supermarket’s website and fedback.
We’ll see what happens. I’ll either be able to glow with self-righteous indignation if ignored, or bask in grovelling thanks and apologies. And I might even deign to accept some small token of contrition.
Flex that consumer muscle!

Foxy

The very first morning in our London flat I looked out the back window and saw an old fox treading along the garden wall. It was a magical introduction to urban English wildlife. I have since seen him a few times, slinking through our garden or trotting around Wandsworth Common. Finally today he rested long enough for me to take his photo. Bless his silver whiskers.

Sideswipe

London is the most pavementally challenged city in the world. This can make a walk down the street incredibly frustrating, as every footpath becomes a warpath of eye rolling affront; every sidewalk a side-stepping minefield of manners.

Please, someone tell me: are you supposed to keep to the left or the right?

Perhaps it was naive think that the pedestrian rules would follow the Highway Code: in this country, you drive on the left, right? Rove down most motorways and you’ll find that the majority of Brits abide by this convention. So why is there so little consensus when it comes to travelling on foot?

I have theories.

Firstly, the puddle has been muddied by the Escalator Exception. Tube tradition demands you stand on the right of the moving stairs, leaving passage on the left for more rushed or sprightly folk. This curious anomaly (How did it start? Why?) is enshrined in signs and rigorously observed. And from staircase to street, people drift.

Secondly, this is a truly international city, embracing all comers regardless of habits formed on homeland autoroutes, bahns or strade. Thus the law of the left is diluted and London’s worldly-wise citizens adopt a more middle-of-the-road approach.

Finally, I’ve found that confusion accrues when wheels roll into the picture. As soon as people mount a bike, blade or scooter, they switch to motorway mentality and ride rigidly on the left, regardless of what the pictures on park pathways suggest. Unless the wheels happen to be on a pram, of course, in which case they weave slowly down the middle, taking as much space as possible, oblivious to everyone else trying to share the way.

Don’t get me started…

Sprung

It’s cold today, but not thrillingly so. It’s dismal with desultory rain, as if the weather couldn’t be bothered with extremes, but just wants to sit gloomily, spitefully in one place. An atmospheric manifestation of my mood.
So lovely to know that on such a day as this, I can look through the clammy kitchen window and see this:



My brave Spring bulbs offering defiant promise of fragrant days around the corner.

A handbag?

This Christmas, I spent some time with a bunch of old bags in Amsterdam. Handbags, I hasten to add, before my Dutch family and friends take offence. And purses.
I’m referring of course to the Museum of Bags. (And Purses.)
Located in a stunning house on the Herengracht, an überswank canal, the museum is the result of a 30-year obsession of one Hendrikje Ivo, collector and accessory fetishist. I suppose once you hit 3000 bags, a walk-in wardrobe just won’t cut it any more.
Despite our initial misgivings and mirth (mandatory photos outside, lips puckered, underneath the ‘Bags and Purses’ lettering), the museum turned out to be a perfectly-proportioned treat. Not nearly as camp and frivolous as feared (or hoped), it presented a fascinating slice of history from the 16th Century to present; an oblique glimpse into the lives of our ancestors. It is amazing what the contents of a handbag can tell you about the society of the time. The objects women carry with them make such eloquent statements about their status and role: from the pendulous keys, scissors and thimbles on chatelaines hanging over full-hooped skirts, to belle époque fans and dance cards; from art deco powder compacts and lipsticks, to the phones and credit-cards of today.
The bags themselves are fashioned from every conceivable material, including glomesh, which reminded me of the purse Mum had which seemed dazzlingly, impossibly glamorous for 1970s Sydney. If you still have it, Mum, maybe you should wrap it in acid-free tissue paper. Or pop it on Ebay. It’s a museum piece, don’t you know.

Remembering

Every Thursday morning, Dad would get up early to make a pot of tea. He’d put a banana on a plate, with a knife, because he always used one to make a cut at the base of the stalk to make it easier to peel. Or neater maybe. He was fastidious like that, in strange little ways. So I’d come out to find everything ready for my usual rushed breakfast, the morning after my weekly dinner and sleepover at Mum and Dad’s place, before making the trek back into the city. And because he knew I had to throw things down so quickly before running for the bus, he’d pour me a mug of hot tea, then add a dash of cold water to bring it to gulping temperature. He’d always remember.
Every morning I remember too. I make my mug of tea, then take it to the sink for a quick twist of the cold tap. It’s just one small ritual which hurts sometimes, and helps. It reminds me of the care I took for granted, and which I go on missing. Two years on, I’m learning to cherish these daily moments of memory.