Stock taking

I was out for a meeting in the city this morning and decided to spend a little time stocking up for the house with odds and ends one never gets down to buying unless one is in the right place at the right time and remembers it all. So in the car I made a list and tucked it away so carefully that I still have not located it. After the meeting, I made my first stop at a fairly new shop that specialises in that manna from the kitchen: chocolate. I walked in and was stopped in my well shod tracks by a wave of aroma from the ovens – fresh bread, cake, chocolate and more chocolate. Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm, I felt, and bought what seemed to be the whole stock. Without a single twinge of guilt, may I add!

From there, we drove to Crawford Market, a general melee of shops and hawkers located in a domed heritage structure. It teemed, even that early, with shoppers, all buying in bulk and at discount prices, which is why most people come there to find groceries from all over the world. I headed for my favourite grocer, who tells me what not to buy and gives me media gossip, news about his family and the price of the dollar all at once. This time he diverted me from Parmesan and into the softer realm of cream cheese, which I didn’t want, so didn’t get, unusually enough. We chatted informedly about different shapes of pasta, nodded sagely at a lady who insisted that a local make was the best and wondered if the situation in Thailand would affect the sales of coconut milk.

From there I headed for the paper products. Foil, weighing a veritable ton, stretched my arm even longer, while tissues and toilet paper tried in vain to balance it out on the my other side, along with mayonnaise, mustard and bullseyes. I examined heaps of cane baskets for our little cat to curl up in, but found none that would satisfy her exacting tastes. I looked for cashewnuts of a particular size for a special recipe and tasted a variety of raisins, each sweeter than the other. And I avoided the milling paathiwalas, the men carrying huge baskets who would, for a fee, heft your shopping to your car for you.

Finding the car in the chaos outside was easy. Finding a toy for the baby feline was not. I walked far along a very dirty and crowded street, for a change without anyone heckling me in any way - except for one chappie who insisted that I buy some very oddly shaped apples – to no avail. I looked into stores wholesale and retail, went in and out of smaller establishments and smiled coaxingly at what seemed like the entire male population of the area, but there was nothing that would suit the kitten. And, each time I said “ping pong ball”, I got stared at in a very odd manner, as if I had said something incredibly smutty on the wrong day of the week.

Finally, driver, car, shopping and myself were collected in the same place and we started back to work. I had all my chores done, though when I find that list I made, I will probably see something I had clear forgotten about. And though no ping pong ball has been acquired for our small beast, she will be very happy to have a whole new collection of very noisy plastic bags to play in!