Monday November 22, 2004
Alright, I’m wicked. To be fair, I’ve never really pretended to be anything other than wicked.
And what form did my wickedness take today? Well, I was on my way to the supermarket, motoring through the centre of Boston for a change, when I heard a compelling call from the art supplies shop: “We have brushes a’plenty!” it seemed to say.
So there you go. Another of my weaknesses revealed. I simply cannot resist art materials. I was reasonably restrained, confining myself to four new brushes—three sable and one synthetic, and the synthetic only because they don’t seem to make riggers from sable anymore. I also picked a pad of nice new watercolour paper and a small roll of frame sealing tape. Nothing too extravagant, I thought, until I saw the bill. Nineteen pounds 23p! Ho hum. I slapped the plastic on the counter with a wry smile. Actually, it’s not so very extravagant, not really it isn’t. The brushes will do well over a hundred miniatures, the paper is sufficient for at least forty, and the sealing tape will do any number of frames. Even so. Nineteen quid!
The supermarket, still in process of refurbishment, has re-opened its glitzy new coffee shop, so I took my lunch there. Sausage, beans and chips. Nothing to attract the attention of Egon Ronay, I’m afraid, for my meal was cold of temperature (the hotplate isn’t working yet, luv), greasy of texture, and strangely lacking in anything you might describe as flavour. And dry, too, mainly because the coffee machine hadn’t been plumbed in yet. Can you imagine a coffee shop without coffee? In a supermarket with a complete aisle of coffee of all sorts, all prices and from every coffee producing country in the world? Hell and giant pickle jars, you’d have thought someone would have had the wit to open a can of instant coffee granules and boil a kettle!
I could kick myself, however, because the thought of taking a photograph just didn’t occur to me. Must have been the shock of finding myself in a coffee shop that has no coffee.
And then, home, to a decent, big mug of coffee complemented with a nice fresh Danish pastry. I sat, savouring, and smiling at the coffee-shop fiasco. Only in Britain, folks, only in Britain.
In the evening, instead of settling down with my new watercolour brushes, I cleared the table and set to the job of packing up some eBay sales ready to post tomorrow. That’s when I came up against the one snag of eBaying I’ve yet to encounter. I hate packing things. Some people love it. I don’t. Not even the brightly coloured wrappings for a certain upcoming natal event helped. I just don’t like packing. I wonder if Father Christmas has a spare pixie standing around somewhere and, if so, will His Jolliness take the time to put the handy little creature up on eBay? I’d bid a fair price. Pixies are good at packing, by all account.