Saga of a woman old enough to know better who lets her life be governed by the ridiculous hobby of breeding and showing dogs, musing on life, the twenty first century, Cameron and his mini-me, and the occasional sheep.

Sunday, February 08, 2015


On the way back from a local show where Tess Trueheart singularly failed to distinguish herself and I picked up a lot of gossip, I called in at the big Tesco to shop.  Plastic bags are forbidden now, in the name of Saving The Planet, so i produced two canvas ones when  the checkout girl kindly offered to pack for me.

They were soon filled, and I reached into a pocket and pulled out the big string

whitestringbag_grande bag. 

She looked at it lying there, like the discarded skin of some exotic animal.

“What is it?.   What does it do?”

I explained, reasonably, that it was a string bag.

“You mean things go inside it?   How does it work?   Where do things go?”

I kept a straight face as I pointed out the opening, and the handles, which pretty well exhausted this branch of string theory.  She continued to be loudly amazed at the amount it held.
I lugged home the sagging bag, also amazed that

a)  at my time of life I had gone back to using string bags, which up to now had been a vague childhood memory
b)  I should have to explain this strange technology to a teenager.   Or indeed anyone.
It is all reusable bags all the time where I live. I have seen string bags available, but have not tried them because they seem to sag. Maybe I will buy one and see how they really work.
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