Mould January 21, 2008Posted by BiB in Uncategorized.
At last it’s come to me. It’s going to make me so rich I’ll probably be able to help you all out. Someone get China on the phone.
Still suffering post-Christmas so need this financial revolution to really hit the spot. I’m statistically average in this regard, of course, as every radio programme on at the moment appears to be about how to declare yourself bankrupt for almost nothing (though in Scotland) and then isn’t it divorce day round about now for all the couples whom Christmas helped realise just that little bit more glassily clearly quite how much they loathe each other? I’ve had to switch over to BBC Radio Cymru so that I can’t understand a word anyone’s saying. (I lie. Someone said, “…fit for purpose…” a minute ago.)
Though maybe trickle-down will trickle down to me eventually and I’ll soon be reaping the rewards of all the wealth our neighbourhood seems to have generated of late. I’ve told you before that Ruislip’s up-and-coming and I can see this on my trips to the supermarket. Shoponomics. Instead of the supermarket being either utterly empty, which it always had been till recently, bar the staff, the Russian and me, or frequented by the odd teenager buying beer and Coke, it’s now not uncommon to see handsome young couples with perfect babies and perfect prams who obviously couldn’t find a place to live in the funkier area further south.
All a far cry from the days when supermarkets were all new and shiny and spangly to us (well, to me again) after moving here from St. Petersburg, where we lived like in the good old former times, going to the market all the time – I was once told I looked like Thomas Anders by a vendrix as I pored over her herbs. “Have you got any thyme?” I asked, having thanked her for her heart-warming compliment. “Oi, thyme. No. Zere is no thyme in all St. Petersburg. Not in all Raasha vill you find thyme. You never vill find thyme. Must be suicide everybody. Life so tsyerrible.” We cried together for a while and warmed our hands over a dying candle-flame, then bade each other a fond farewell. We knew we’d never see each other again. I dried my eyes. And went to the next vendrix. “Um, hello. Have you got thyme for me?” “For you, Thomas, I’ve got all the time in the world.” “I’m not Thomas. I’m BiB.” “Oh, OK, in that case, I retract my joke. Wouldn’t work in Russian anyway.” “Indeed… So, got any thyme?” “Yep. That’ll be 7 roubles please.” Shopping was an emotional roller-coaster then – and buying different products from the specialist purveyors thereof. The butcher. The baker. The cigarette-maker. All long before our fish-finger days…
“I khev diskaavered gryeat new tasty and nutritious produkt,” said the Russian breathlessly within hours of us clearing immigration and being granted refuge in this fine land. “Oh my god, what? What?” I asked. I was still young. “Double-length cigarettes? Vats of wine on wheels? Big, fat, luscious prawns that even we can afford?” “No, beets of feesh kaavered in bryed-kryamb.” “Darling, you don’t pronounce the b in kryamb. I mean crumb.” “Vot you talkink about? Vi not even speak Eenglyeesh.” “Darling, I do apologise. I must be inventing it all for some point in the future when there’ll be a website where I can spout bollocks, where I can note things down. A web-jotter. A bjot. Or a web-register. Yes, where I can write it all down. In my bredge… Darling, fish-fingers aren’t interesting. You need to try some of the other things the west’s got to offer. Like, um, wine that isn’t from Moldova. And drugs.”
So, yes, now the supermarket’s full of nice couples. So nice I worry for them, almost. So healthy-looking. Fresh-skinned. Happy. Not at all normal. “Look at how perfect he is,” I said to the Russian about the worryingly perfect father of a newly-formed nuclear family loitering at the cheese-counter. We waited for them to choose their cheese and then ordered one twice as expensive to show them we were no slouches when it came to professional success either… then waited for them to wheel themselves out of ear-shot and asked for our money back from the cheese-vendrix, saying I’d just had confirmation of my cheese allergy from the doctor by SMS. Sorry. His wife was perfect too. The child was wrapped up perfectly for the meteorological conditions that prevailed. The Russian and I looked at ourselves in the mirror to see if we were as perfect as they were. We took deep breaths and rolled on in silence. Caught up with the perfect family and found the father’s Achilles’ heel. Hair cut much too high at the back and not even blended in. A straight line. Tosser. It’s the children I feel sorry for.
Anyway, where were we? Oh yes. Shoponomics. So I’m surrounded by rich people. And am poorer than a church-mouse. And we know it’s important to keep up with the Müllers. So I racked my brains for at least a minute and a half to come up with a world-improving and finance-revolutionising plan and, as luck would have it, the brainstorming didn’t go to waste.
So, it’s moulds. I’m envisioning mini elasticated bath-caps, sort of gerbil-head sized. These would be filled with some conveniently unctuous, mobile but sturdy mucus. Then, whenever you sat on a chair or at a table with uneven legs, which probably even The Queen has experienced, you’d whip out your handy mini elasticated bath-cap filled with the secret unctuous but sturdy mucus and it would stabilise the formerly uneven table or chair. And, if we make them pretty enough, they’d be so much more pleasing than a folded bit of fish-finger packaging.
I only need about a 30-grand cut. Someone do all the work and get on to China and then send me the cheque.