Daft Old Duffer returns. Guest opinion articles do not necessarily reflect the views of the publication. Ed
When I did my weekly shopping the last time, I was overcome – quite out of the blue – with the urge to add on a tin of Ravioli.
It wasn’t on my list, but I’m subject to these mad impulses from time to time.
I located the shelves displaying kindred items, such as baked beans, hoola hoops, spaghetti etc. Easy enough, that. What man does not know where the baked beans in tomato sauce are kept?
But no ravioli to be seen.
Surely a mistake?
Again and again I scanned the rows of tins, studying each one individually. But no – I wasn’t mistaken. A complete devoidness of ravioli met my exasperated gaze.
I’m not the sort to give up that easily however.
Hiding in the tinned meat section?
If the ravioli wasn’t among the in-tomato-sauce section, then it must be housed with the tinned meat. And I knew where that was too.
But among the tinned sausages, corned beef, mincemeat, ham, I met another complete absence of ravioli.
As among the neighbouring tinned anchovies, mackerel, sardines, tuna – whether in brine or tomato.
Losing rationality
By this point, as you can judge, my sense of rationality was ebbing fast. My dander was at a dangerously high level. Ravioli was now essential to my well-being, my very sense of self worth.
I had to have my ravioli. I needed it, and I was going to get it.
I returned to the baked bean section for an even more thorough scan. Then back to the tinned Irish stew.
I even went to the extreme step of actually lifting my overwrought stare and scanning – nay, actually reading – those hung-up notices which try to point the likes of me to where we need to go.
Continued searching
Then, finding no help there I roamed the entire shop, intently scanning every inch of every shelf.
Twice.
Ravioli, however, simply did not exist insofar as that store was concerned.
So I left, defeated and deprived.
Of course I didn’t ask. I am yet a man, godammit.
Outta town
The very next day, still a bit a-niggle I was strolling another of our little townlets when I noticed I was passing an in-town version of the self same supermarket that had spurned my advances only a matter of hours earlier.
On impulse, knowing I was courting further rejection, yet with my obstinacy at full throttle I went in.
And, just inside the door met with a stroke of luck. A female assistant was re-arranging the pile of shopping baskets. Recognising a typical male shopper on the loose, she offered me one.
I declined, explaining I was after only one item.
Help please
Then I said, in a rare moment of weakness,
“Can you point me at the ravioli?”
So she did, leading the way and keeping a careful eye on me in case I began to wander off on my own.
Obviously she was a seasoned Mum, with a hubby and at least one male child in her care.
At the appropriate place she stopped and pointed her finger, not moving until she was sure I was properly focused.
I looked and thanked her and she went on her way, and I could see no sign whatever of any ravioli.
Soup, soup and more soup
There was soup, plenty of soup. Mulligatawny soup, Tomato soup, Vegetable soup, Pea soup, Onion soup. Four shelves of it. But no ravioli. Not even ravioli soup, which I would have settled for at that point.
Once again I stared intently at each tin in turn, wondering if the woman suffered perhaps from dyslexia. Perhaps she only knew where the ravioli was kept from memory. Only someone had re-arranged things without letting her know.
One thing was certain – I couldn’t ask her again for fear of embarrassing her – or me. Even if she hadn’t disappeared from human ken in that miraculous way shop assistants sometimes do.
So once again I gave up. Fate wasn’t going to allow me my ravioli and that was an end to the matter.
Bullseye
With one more resigned glance at the soup rows I turned away. And in that precise instant the Mulligatawny soup ceased to be soup and transformed into Beef Ravioli.
Before my very eyes. I swear it.
Moving very slowly and carefully, pretending not to look, I slid my hand near and then swiftly grabbed.
With the tin in my grasp I closed my eyes then looked again.
Miraculously it remained Beef Ravioli.
Triumphantly I paid for it and bore it home, not letting go.
The trials of being a man
Back indoors I placed it gently in the cupboard. Where it will doubtless gather dust as I day after day forget I meant to have it as my dinner. Still, I can look at it from time to time.
Sometimes I think you women don’t realise how difficult modern day living can be for us men.
