More tea, vicar?
I hear on the morning news that Whittard's of Chelsea (hereinafter referred to simply as "Whittard's") is at risk of being the next major high street retailer to founder in what nobody is ever going to persuade me to call "the credit crunch". (Oh, how I hate that sort of sound bite journalism! A crunch is either something you put in a bowl for your breakfast, or something rather unpleasant you inflict on your abdominal muscles. But I digress...)
Having patronised Whittard's china section for many a long year, I am concerned to hear that it may not be available for me to peruse for very much longer.
I have only, to the best of my recollection, broken one plate ever. In my entire life. (Although plates of mine have been, on occasion, broken by visiting males of the species.) Nevertheless, despite the care I take of my crockery, the rules of my life are such that, should my preferred source of crockery dry up, my entire existing stock will immediately fall prey to some sort of terrible, plate-smashing cataclysm. After which I will be forced - horror of horrors - to replace it with things which match!!
So I determine at once that I will head Whittard's-wards after work.
I want to do my bit to add to their takings for the day, so that the business looks as attractive as it possibly can to any potential buyers.
And that's what I do.
I buy some plates, and some dishes, and a mug which appears to have a cartoon picture of Bertie on it. And then I have to get a taxi home because I daren't carry such fragile - not to mention heavy - items home on a two-days-before-Christmas bus on which the passengers are crammed together in a manner which even sardines would eschew as being downright invasive of their personal space.
And then, once I'm home, I read this.
And discover that my loyalty wasn't needed after all.
But, hey: at least I have some plates, and some dishes, and a mug which appears to have a cartoon picture of Bertie on it.