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Saturday, January 14, 2017

I love those hand-cooked crisps


As I drank my way through the New Year's Eve left-overs, I also munched a packet of those genuine hand-cooked (as opposed to pan-fried) crisps. But where's the truth in advertising? Shouldn't the packet also display an image of the crisp-maker's hideously charred palms on the front?

Once upon a time, packaging was supposed to be a wrapping that protected the things inside from getting dirty, damp, damaged or whatever, but which has now been hijacked by people who write in small type such things as "low fat" (how low?) or "may contain nuts" (what about traces of rodent found running around the food factory, or false eyelashes, fingernails or other small body parts of the packaging personnel?) I'm still waiting to see a packet of salt bearing the label "no added salt".

I'm also waiting, albeit not with bated breath, for the sequel to what happened this afternoon as I quietly quaffed my HENKELL Trocken: I heard voices, not in my head this time but from the front gate, and walked the hundred metres to find out. Saw a couple of aboriginal gentlemen standing by the gate who, on seeing me, waved me over.

They introduced themselves and said they'd come down to look at a vacant quarter-acre block on sale for $750,000 and, on coming to the end of the lane, were surprised to find "Riverbend" for sale, and even more surprised when I told them the comparatively low price.

One of them, Michael, said he had just inherited some seventeen-point-something-million dollars from somebody in Belgium who had died on the North Sea oilfields. It all sounded a bit like one of those emails I get every day but I didn't have the heart to tell him.

Instead, I gave them a walk around the property, shook hands with them, and told them I'd be happy to see them again in two weeks' time when, according to Michael, the formalities of the inheritance should be finalised. He seemed like a nice guy and I just hope they don't rip him off too much.