Lies!

There are official bodies to protect the consumer from over-zealous advertising companies telling us untruths to sell their clients products. So you would think that it is safe to believe what's written on the label of any product you buy from, say the supermarket. Wouldn't you? This evening my attention was drawn to an outright lie printed on the packaging of something I use everyday.

"Up to 18 hours fresh breath."

You've probably guessed I'm referring to mouthwash. Although this statement may as well be printed on a packet of hoover bags for all the truth it holds. How can they get away with so boldly claiming such nonsense? There isn't a mouthwash in the world that could last that long. When have you ever eaten lunch to find you can still taste this morning's mouthwash? When have you ever woken in the morning still feeling fresh from the previous evening's application?

I ate a curry this evening, then afterwards swigged some of this miracle mouthwash. I could taste curry again within ten minutes.

How can the mouthwash industry tell such lies? Hoover bag companies don't claim to give you up to eighteen hours clean carpet confidence now do they?

A Diary Of The Events Leading Up To and Following The Running Out Of Washing Up Liquid

Day 1.

It becomes apparent that I am nearly out of washing up liquid. The thought doesn't occupy my mind for too long, I continue with my day unaffected.


Day 2.

I am very close to finishing the bottle. I manage to squeeze enough out to complete this morning's washing up. I make a mental note to buy some on the way home from work. I put the bottle upside down to allow the remaining liquid to gather at the top ready for the next application.


Day 3.

Having forgotten to make the aforementioned purchase on the way home from work the previous evening, I curse myself for such stupidity, promise to buy some tomorrow, and squeeze out the remaining washing up liquid.
The dishes come up a treat, squeaky clean. They won't be so fortunate tomorrow however, if I don't get another bottle.

There's definitely no more to be squeezed from here, I put it back next to the sink on its head once more, just in case.


Day 4.

How will I be able to keep the dishes in the manner to which they've been accustomed, if I can't remember to buy any washing up liquid?
I half-heartedly squeeze the bottle, not expecting much. Yet somehow, miraculously, just enough seeps out to allow me to continue the job. The dishes glisten and gleam.

Tomorrow is the day. The empty bottle is once more turned on its head and placed next to the sink, (although I definitely won't forget again.)


Day 5.

I squeeze and squeeze, but nothing. I have used it all. There is none left. I haven't time to go to the shop but refuse to leave the dishes neglected. There must be a way.

I pour water from the tap into the empty bottle and shake it around a bit. There are some bubbles, phew!
I add this heavily diluted liquid to the sink and just about manage to achieve clean dishes once more.
There really is no more. If I fail to bring some home tomorrow, its all over. I have to find a way to remember.


Day 6

I load the dishes into the sink and add water. I then reach for the washing up liquid, but I'm hit with the terrifying realisation that I still haven't remembered to buy any. I take a look at the sink. Dirty plates, bowls, spoons, looking back up at me in disgust through the clear water.

How will we get clean now? A dirty mug taunts me.

I can think of nothing. I frantically rack my brains for a way out of this sordid mess. The dirty cutlery laughs at me. In desperation I grab the empty Fairy Liquid bottle, and throw it in the sink in hope that something magical will happen. Nothing does. The dishes will have to wait. I'll have to make a trip to the supermarket tomorrow.

Damn.



Come back tomorrow to observe the dramatic conclusion of this epic adventure. One man and his struggle to remember much needed household items...

Self-Service Nation

Today I visited a well known supermarket chain's, convenience store in central London. One of those mini supermarkets that have sprung up all over the country. All traditional grocery stores have been driven out of business and replaced by these soulless, almost identical stores. But this isn't a rant about the homogenous modern world. It isn't even a rant about huge companies getting richer and richer at the expense of the poor independent shop keeper trying to earn an honest living.
No. This is a rant about these companies being too tight to employ staff and trying to make the customer do all the work. Today I observed a revolution in supermarket shopping. Self service payment.

I had put all the items I required into my basket, and headed straight for the checkout. I saw a queue for a till operator with about five people in front of me. I looked across the store for another and saw there were no other manned checkouts. The old ones had been replaced with a new concept. The self service till. There was one member of staff frantically trying to get us old school shoppers to join the revolution, but I was defiant.

If I take my shopping over there, swipe the barcode of each item, pack it into carrier bags, put my card in the machine, swipe for reward points, enter my PIN, then colect my receipt, I have just started working in a shop. Of course it's done in the name of saving time. But wouldn't having a row of competent till operators be just as quick? They're just trying to save money, and I'm not falling for it. Once they get you hooked on this idea, notices like this could become commonplace:

Would customers please take a box on entering the shop, and empty the contents of it on the relevant shelves, thank you. (Come on, it'll be quicker than waiting for us to do it, and you're going that way anyway.)

Would six customers please come to help unload the truck. (it's in your interests, otherwise there will be nothing on the shelves to choose from.)

Could customers please get involved in the bakery. (This bread isn't going to bake itself.)

I hope this isn't going to become a way of life in supermarkets. At the moment I refuse to do it on principal, but how long before it becomes normal?

This reminded me of a recent trip to a well known pizza restaurant. I was strongly encouraged towards the option of the buffet. Self service, eat as much as you like for a set amount. I noticed there were hardly any staff, no wonder they wanted me to serve myself. Naturally I refused, and ordered something from the menu. But if I hadn't?

I could have greeted myself in a welcoming friendly manner, and shown myself to a seat of my choosing. Upon deciding what to eat, I would have gone and filled a plate with pizza, serving it to myself at my table, not forgetting to offer the option of black pepper.

"Enjoy your meal."
"Thank you."

I would have waited until I had a mouth full of food before asking if everything was to my satisfaction. I would have nodded my approval convincingly. After refusing my kind offer of dessert, I would pay the waiter, who did absolutely nothing, then leave tipping myself handsomely.

Eggs

Eggs. Everyone likes eggs. Well, except for vegans perhaps. And maybe hens. They're probably sick to death of them. I guess if you had an allergy or a phobia of the shelled goodness, then you wouldn't be too keen.* On the whole though, eggs are very popular. But love them as you will, nobody wants egg on their face. Nor do they want to be wearing one. Many politicians will find themselves victims of egg crime at some point in their lives. Some feel that politicians deserve to be 'egged' when they make a wrong decision. Some people just go out 'egging' for fun, which brings me to the point of this post.

It was a cold, dark, winter night. (It always is in this kind of story.) I had decided to go to the gym which was a bus ride away, but tonight I felt the need to walk. It was a two mile walk which would take me approximately half an hour. I put my earphones in and turned up my favourite walking tunes on my Ipod. I happily marched towards the gym in time with the music in my own world. I was about three quarters of the way there, on the home stretch, when something happened which would change my relationship with eggs forever.

Two objects were thrown at me from a passing car. One landed close in front of me, the other just behind me. What were these objects? You've guessed it. Eggs. They splattered on the floor around me, it looked like a scene from some kind of egg disaster movie. The kind that is often shown to rookie egg delivery drivers on their first day at work.
"Bastards!" I didn't bother to shout out, as the car had long since disappeared from earshot. I looked myself up and down to see if my clothing had suffered any casualties. I was amazed to discover that there was no egg on me or my clothing whatsoever. I couldn't believe my luck. The weapon had been totally ineffective. I continued on my way to the gym and soon forgot about the incident.

How did this change my relationship with eggs? Be patient. This was only the beginning.

I completed my very satisfying work out, and left the gym with a much exaggerated memory of my last look in the mirror. Looking good! I followed the same route home, once again marching along to my favourite tunes. I purposely crossed the road to study the crime scene once more, and had to laugh at my good fortune. The eggs were less than a foot apart. It was fairly miraculous that I'd had such a clean escape. I reached for my Ipod to change the dreadful song that had just started in my ears, then happy with the new choice, continued on my way home. I had walked about fifty metres when I saw another egg splattered on the floor. Probably the work of the same egg gang I deduced. They must have been throwing eggs at somebody else. I passed, wondering if the other person had been as lucky as I was. About another fifty metres and I turned off the main road, still following the same route I had walked earlier. To my surprise there was another egg splattered on the pavement. A while later another, then another. They were nearly all the way home. Then it dawned on me.
I had been the target all along! I had walked the best part of two miles oblivious to the fact that a car was following me, trying to throw eggs at me. How had I missed this? More importantly, how had they managed to miss me, on what appeared to be at least twelve attacks?

Maybe the weapons operator was a bad shot. Someone who was never any good at rounders or frisby. They could have been heavy, awkward shaped eggs, making them difficult to throw. But I like to think that I have some kind of egg force-field. A special relationship. The eggs refused to hit me. Why? I cannot explain this right now. Maybe it will never be fully understood.

One of the great natural mysteries.





*Alfred Hitchcock reportedly had a phobia of eggs.

"I’m frightened of eggs, worse than frightened, they revolt me. That white round thing without any holes … have you ever seen anything more revolting than an egg yolk breaking and spilling its yellow
liquid?"

This is a recognised condition known as Ovophobia. You can't say that the Spoon doesn't give you the odd interesting fact from time to time...

Who Has The Time?

I've never been one to queue. I can't bear standing in line, slowly shuffling forward for what seems to be an eternity. Everyone would claim to feel the same way. You never hear anybody declare their love for queues.
"I hope it's busy at the supermarket today, I really fancy a good queue."

I guess some people are just better at it than others. I simply cannot wait at a post office. I'll come back another day. I've seen people in line at cash machines, bars and restaurants. I'll come back later or go elsewhere. However, these all seem to me to be legitimate reasons to be in a queue, if you have the patience.

Imagine my surprise when I saw this group of people waiting outside a bakery on a cold morning in Glasgow.

How could you justify the half hour wait it would take here, just to be presented with a cake, pasty or sausage roll? This would take forever! How badly could you need a doughnut? I wouldn't stand in a queue that long if they were giving away free ten pound notes!

I give it to you ladies and gentlemen, an example of people who love to queue!