Which marmalade . . . ?

I feel a little guilty at raising this subject, it's one of the sacred cows of modern society and no-one is more respectful of cows than I am. But do you mind if we give a moment's thought to the subject of choice?

I'm not sure whether or not you like marmalade, but it was on my shopping list this week. Have you any idea how many varieties of marmalade there are available to the casual shopper? I didn't actually stop to count, I was too bemused. Instead my wandering gaze strayed from coarse-cut orange marmalade to fine-cut lemon marmalade, to ruby grape-fruit marmalade, to mandarin marmalade, to marmalade with a dash of honey, to marmalade consisting of no other fruit than lime . . . to every variety of marmalade that a pernickety shopper could possibly be expected to fancy.

And, at the end, when I'd finally put a pot of marmalade in my shopping trolley, was I satisfied? Did I feel that I was purchasing what

I truly wanted? Far from it! Having entered the shop with a simple, uncomplicated desire for marmalade, I was now wondering whether my choice had been the right one. Mightn't the coarse-cut orange marmalade have been tastier? And what of the lime? I had never tried lime. Such a wide choice hadn't made me any happier, quite the reverse. It had merely made me question the wisdom of my choice.

I could be wrong, but isn't this problem inherent in the very context of choice? It leaves a nagging sense of uncertainty . . . what if your choice has been the wrong one?

And there's another aspect to choice . . . this doesn't apply to marmalade, but it does apply to oranges and many other fruit. If there were less choice in the range of perishable goods - food that is often imported from halfway round the world - would it mean that less would be thrown away on reaching its 'sell-by date'?

To travel across continents only to end up producing methane gas in a distant landfill site . . . well, it does seem a little absurd.

In my childhood I was told each Christmas how lucky I was to be going to the pantomime. Convinced of my good fortune, I couldn't wait to enjoy this annual treat.

Would I have anticipated this event with such a sense of excitement and privilege had I been invited to choose between the pantomime and the circus? Or would I have ended up slightly dissatisfied with the one whilst feeling slightly deprived of the other?

Now, as an adult, I wonder whether a myriad television channels (each devoting more and more time to future promotion in order to capture and keep their viewers) are going to offer a more satisfying evening's entertainment than the previous four or five?

In much the same way, had I less books on my shelves to choose from, might I value them more?

For an undisciplined, impressionable person, such as myself, choice and confusion frequently go hand in hand.

There is, perhaps, only one area where I would unreservedly support the need for choice . . . the choice to share my thoughts with you . . . the choice to study what I will . . . the choice to make my own mistakes and to follow my own path.

But when it comes to cosmetics . . . or soap powder . . . or marmalade . . . ?

Choice . . . ?

You can keep it!

Undoubtedly DIM!

Smugness is never an attractive characteristic. I know that. But would you forgive me if, just for this one letter, I indulge in a bout of joyful, unmitigated, self-satisfaction?
Thank you . . . I knew you would!

Over the past few months, my much-loved ergonomic typing chair has been slowly disintegrating beneath me. Alright, I know you don't feel comfortable perching on it, but it has suited me perfectly. The first sign of trouble was when the seat came loose. The screw holes having worn away, it needed to be tied on with string. Then the padding went, leaving me with somewhat sore knees. I had had the seat for over twenty years, it had been a kind gift from a friend . . . but everything is mortal, and it was becoming very clear that the end was in sight for my chair.

Where on earth, I asked myself, would I find another such chair? Then inspiration struck. I put 'typing chair' into Google and up came a beautiful ergonomic chair that was manufactured by Furniture@work in Glasgow. I clicked . . . and typed . . . and clicked again . . . and, within minutes, an email had arrived telling me that my chair would be with me shortly.
It was . . . it arrived the following morning!

Only I didn't receive a chair. What I received was a very large cardboard box containing a myriad bits and pieces - plus a sheet of paper identifying what the bits and pieces were. Sadly, for someone as ignorant as myself, there was no diagram plotting me through the stages of construction. There was not even an indication as to where a total amateur would begin. I closed the box. This, I realised, after my experience with the air cooler, needed time, courage and application . . . and I felt in very short supply of all three!

A week later, sick of stumbling over the large box in the hall, I opened it once again. Somewhat fearful of finding myself left with the myriad components, not well-wrapped in the box but scattered at random over my flat, I started, very cautiously, to investigate.
There were two, large pieces of polished wood . . . two stout wooden tubes with a brass core . . . screws . . . rods . . . washers . . . a padded seat and a knee rest . . . four castors . . . a spanner . . . and a curious black rod with a bent end.

D.I.Y has never been my natural bent and, looking at this miscellany on the carpet, I felt convinced that it never would be.
BUT . . . just look at this photo . . .
. . . a definite case of Did-It-Myself!
I won't give you the acronym as it's hardly flattering!

And the curious black rod with the bent end? This, I learned was an Allen Key (who, I wonder, was Allen?) which skilfully enabled me to fix the brass ends into the rods.

There are no unidentified pieces left over, the chair moves sweetly on its castors, it is comfort personified to sit on, and I am thrilled to bits!

And look what a wonderful resting place it provides for Chloe!

Smug . . . ? Me . . . ? Never . . . !