We drove out to our nearest farm shop, today. It’s just a couple of miles or so down the road from us and is set in a very pretty village, next to some woods (where we snuck in a quick walk afterwards. It was bliss). I didn’t have to queue and it was lovely to wander around with so few people in there. Normally, it’s heaving with Surrey Blondes (see a previous blog) and their spoilt progeny, so it was a relief not to have to encounter any of these and witness their toe-curling disdain as they give me the rapid once-over and proceed to dismiss me as utterly beyond rescue (suits me fine, by the way). They are indeed a completely alien species and it always strikes me that they don’t appear to be very happy. I suppose they’re afraid to laugh in case their faces crack open, or something.
I have often pondered the “nature/nurture/chicken/egg” thing. In other words, are these SBs already inclined to look and behave in a certain way, or do they become that way after spending time with other SBs, and wanting to fit in? Many years ago, I was in an antiques shop in Fulham, and a woman walked in, dressed in what I can only describe as a uniform pertaining to that particular area at that particular time: slim-cut jeans, blazer-style jacket, white T-shirt and loafers. Even her hair, shaped into a smooth bob, looked the part. Sunglasses pushed up above her forehead completed the look. I wondered if she had always dressed like that, or only since she moved to the area (if indeed she had)? I suppose it goes way back and gives out a subliminal message, a signal, a code: “Look! I’m one of you! I belong here! Don’t chase me out of the village! Put those pitchforks and flame-bearers down! I come in peace!”
Anyway. I digress. I know this farm shop is in a well-heeled area, but I do feel they are taking the P-I-S-S with some of their prices. I spied a butterfly leg of lamb for 27 pounds and a free-range chicken for 25 pounds! Even in Waitrose, you don’t pay those sorts of prices. They’re for people with more money than sense, and yet there are two very good Waitroses within a couple of miles in either direction. (Other supermarkets are also available, of course. I’m only mentioning Waitrose for comparison, because people always reckon it’s expensive to shop there.)
I managed to buy the last packet of bread flour for our neighbours, who have been waiting weeks for their supply. Apparently, there had been a new delivery only this morning and already the baking products shelves were almost bare. It looks as though even the posh people have finally caved in on that front. I guess the live-in cooks, nannies, housekeepers, gardeners and whatever else have all buggered off back home, leaving vast numbers of wealthy households without “staff”. How on earth will they cope?! Remember the SB I mentioned in a recent blog, who, on having friends round, would send the housekeeper out for takeaway coffees rather than “dirty” her own kitchen? Things could start to get very interesting for her from here on in!
Funnily enough, there was a piece in the Telegraph the other day on just this subject, talking about wealthy homeowners who are taking online courses on how to run an efficient household. It’s hard to believe, I know, but it appears some poor darlings have never had to change a bed, vacuum a carpet or iron any clothes in their entire pampered lifetimes. Lucky sods! I hate all housework and only do it because I like order and tidiness and a nice-looking home, and clothes that aren’t creased and sinks and baths without tidemarks. The only thing I rarely do, because we have so many things to have to move out of the way first, is dusting. My top tip: if you are tidy, you can get away with minimal dusting. Believe me, people are always fooled. You’re welcome.