The Word Cloud

Returning from the club one day last week, received a telephone call from the memsahib, requesting (instructing) that I pick up a loaf of bread on my way home.

"Can't you send the Boy into the village?" I unwisely protested. The ancestral pile lies less than a mile from the quaint peasant hamlet of Much Blithering-on-the-Wold.

Lady F-B's voice hectored yours truly via the infernal device (mobile phones work of the Devil in my opinion): "The little blister is nowhere to be found, as usual-"

(About to engage a new Boy since Crompton caught the little blighter doing something unspeakable in the stables. What with that and the complaints from the scullery maid, have had to invite the wretched creature to seek alternative employment. Really, it is too vexing: one simply cannot get the staff these days. Um, where was I? Oh yes . . .)

"Send the butler, then."

"Crompton is currently overseeing the repairs to the west wing. You know full well that those builders have to be scrupulously supervised - turn one's back for a minute and they're on yet another tea break . . ." Went on in similar vein for quite a while, then: "Would it really be too difficult for you to stop in at the baker's?"

Subsequently found myself in the baker's shop, looking through the baffling array of products for the particular species of bread required.

Rather jolly young filly addressed self from behind the counter: "Can I help you, Sir?"

Self: "Do you have crusty bloomers?"

"No, it's just the way I walk."

Fell into a massive elephant trap there, by Jupiter!

Cheeky twinkle in her eye as she added: "Last time you were in here, you asked me if I had cheesey buns!"

One has to laugh, one supposes.

Just as bad in the supermarket. Was under orders (similar circumstances to those detailed above - of course, marriage is a wonderful institution, and Lady F-B is a decent old stick really, *ahem*) to acquire bread product - large soft rolls required for some W.I. function. Perusing the shelves, came across (um, permit me to rephrase that, reason will shortly become apparent) discovered the requisite items, and was unable to restrain a short bark of laughter. Woman passing in the same aisle heard, and glanced where I was looking - a shelf label which read: "Extra large soft white baps".

Rum coves, these baker Johnnies.  

One of the things I enjoy most about going back to England is the choice of fresh bread available. Over here, there is only one sort of loaf. Its crust is thick and tough, and the bread is hard and often full of holes. Sometimes it is sliced, but often if the power is off, it is sold whole. It never lasts more than a day, before becoming stale. Either that or the ants move in. I will never forget the first time I met my future father-in-law, back in the early ‘90s.

I was staying with my husband-to-be and his parents in my husband’s lakeshore house. That sounds rather grander than it actually was. A modest teacher’s bungalow, with a cold shower and a wood-burning stove, it was run-down and infested with cockroaches.  The cat had died after eating insects, which had been doused in ‘Doom’ (it does what it says on the can), and his pet monkey, Monica, had recently hung herself in a tragic accident with a mosquito net. At that time, my husband was renowned for his poor hygiene; a friend of ours had spent New Year in hospital with severe food poisoning, after sharing Christmas lunch with us.

Anyway, this particular morning, trying to impress the future in-laws, I decided to make toast for breakfast. The wood burner was glowing, and I had pounded some of the slower cockroaches in the cutlery drawer, with the rolling pin, as was the daily custom. I carefully sliced into the new loaf of bread, purchased the day before, and let out a shriek. My father-in-law (to be) was first on the scene. A stocky Welsh retired engineer, he had no time for Southern girly wusses, like me.

‘What on earth’s the matter?’ he said, as I stared open mouthed at the loaf, with the knife raised in the air.

‘A…a…ants,’ I cried, waving the knife.

‘You’re not afraid of a few ants are you, girl?’ he scoffed, pushing me aside. But then he saw the full horror. The entire interior of the loaf had been eaten away by what seemed to be a seething mass of ants. There must have been thousands of the things, and not a crumb in sight.

‘Toast’s off,’ my father-in-law stated, very matter of factly. ‘Got any bacon?’

That was about twenty years ago now, but the memory has stayed with me. Since then, I have encountered ants of all shapes and sizes. Like Eskimos, who have a hundred odd different words to describe snow, my kids have a large vocabulary to describe the many varieties of ants here. Their favourite are the stink ants, which when squished, release a powerful, foul odour. Once, when staying in a rest house by the lake, there were so many ants in our room, that my youngest daughter, then aged about seven, got out of bed in the morning, with her back heaving with them. On the white bed sheet, there was the perfect shape of her body outlined by red ants.

But, to bring me back to the start, yesterday I bought a loaf of bread that amazingly closely resembled any white sliced loaf you might find in supermarkets back in the UK. It could have been a Kingsmill or Mother’s Pride (does that still exist?), and yet I purchased it here in Malawi. It even came packaged in a plastic bag, printed with ingredients and other nutritional information and a best before date. These things are all taken for granted back home, but here nothing is ever sold with any sort of information like use by, or best before. It doesn’t really matter with bread. You know it will only last a day, and can tell, with a squeeze, whether it is fresh or not. But for meat and dairy products, it is so valuable. Around a third of the milk, cream and yoghurts that I buy, I end up having to throw away, as they are off before I get them home. Such basic necessities that we all take for granted, like fridges and freezers, are alien here to most of the population. So, when shop assistants receive a delivery of milk, they do not realise the urgency to refrigerate it. Milk can be left sitting in the midday sun for hours before it is put in the cooler. Since they are unlikely to drink it themselves, with it being priced way out of their reach, they don’t realise how the taste is affected.

So, at last, a sliced loaf that compares with home. In the last few months Malawi seems to have been crawling into the 21^st century. We are now proud to have a proper cinema which shows real films (not just the badly dubbed ninja rubbish), albeit a few months late. We just saw Disney’s ‘A Christmas Carol’. Our first fast food burger restaurant, owned by a South African chain, opened last week. Not quite MacDonalds, (are we the only country in the world not to have a MacDonalds?) and not very fast, but that’s a whole other story. For now, I am enjoying my loaf of bread, which really is the best thing since sliced bread.