Still scribbling

Funny, the idle thoughts that go through your head when you’re sitting around  wondering what you’ll make for tea tonight. Where do huntsman spiders go in winter. Do goldfish fart. Why do some coffee shops dole out those mingy little wrappings of sugar. You want three of them but this indicates gross lack of self-control so you ask for one, then don’t enjoy your coffee. How come newspapers don’t have social pages anymore. Those photos used to be scrutinised to death, especially if you twigged someone you knew, looking naff. Ditto long coverage of social events. Every junior reporter at some stage got to cover a social event. On the boredom and fiendishly complicated scale of journalistic endeavour, social events were only matched by results and descriptions from dog shows. That required hours and hours of typing and took up a zillion column inches of newspaper space. If there is a dog in Tasmania that has not been entered in a show I’d like to meet it.

But my personal favourite is, how do women with really long fingernails get through the day. Furthermore, how do they keep those nails and fingers so beautifully groomed. I marvel at them.  Whenever a shop attendant manicured to the hilt daintily pops items into a swish paper bag my eyes are glued to the beautiful staging of it. It’s got echoes of Noh theatre or Kabuki.  Were Brian Ritchie to be spotted playing the takuhashi from behind a rack of cotton tees it would be entirely in keeping with the performance. Each movement is stylised as the attendant manoeuvres the stiletto-like nails through the process. Then the bag is proffered to the buyer with utmost delicacy, bag handle held just so, nails aglitter with blushing peach varnish. Damn, I almost feel like applauding.

Shop attendants, particularly if they’re at the helm of posh frock shops or perfumeries seem to have stolen a march on the long nails front. A day at the counter could be ruined by a crack or chip or, God forbid, a hint of grubbiness. Clientele might think they’ve wandered by accident into a shop frequented by the down at heel. Can’t have that. Your Melania Trumps and your Meghan Sussex’s would expect nothing less than nails of perfection when the $3000 cashmere sweater is being wrapped. 

Then there’s cooking. This must require the skill of a bomb disposal expert. Think of all that chopping, slicing, dicing, sauteing and peeling with fingers incapable of being bent. A lapse of concentration while holding a sharp knife wedged into the palm of the hand could spell curtains for not only the nails but the fingers as well. Certainly put any ideas about knocking up a plate of crudites on hold. 

Which leads me to the proposition women with long nails don’t actually cook. They may not even know how to locate the kitchen in their home. But when it comes to placing a flower strategically on top of a cake they can really pull their culinary weight.