Three things

We need less things, or at least we need to use the things that already exist on this over-cluttered planet.
When nipping into the hyper-market this morning to buy a packet of yogurt culture (yes, intelligent stuff, yogurt) I felt a familiar panic creeping up on me. This one store on the edge of a small town in France, (one of about 36,000 according to Wikipedia) has an aisle just for yogurt about as long as a bus. All those pots - all that plastic . . . and then there's the 'bits and bobs' aisle, even more scary; the stuff you can't even eat - just made for . . . I don't know, looking at, removing dust from - large silver apples, hideous giant retro wall clocks, a thousand 'make-your-life-easier' plastic kitchen gadgets . . .
Any car-boot sale or 'vide-grenier' you might go to will be full of this crap, so why not buy it there for a fraction of the price, or perhaps don't buy it all.
The vast world treadmill we are on, producing all this unnecessary junk must somehow be ceased.
I know nothing of business but it seems to me that if all the people currently forced to make plastic Santas holding signs saying 'this way to the North Pole', Frankfurter slicers, glow in the dark toilet roll, pistol-shaped ketchup dispensers and all the rest of it were to be employed making parts for solar panels, cladding inner-city buildings with mural vegetation or making recycled paper, or . . . a billion other actually-needed things it would be a lot more useful and less soul-destroying. Like I say, I know nothing of business, but I do know about the satisfaction in coming across good quality second hand stuff.
Last week in our local recycling emporium I found this lovely little sofa for twenty euros: tad dusty but really comfortable and plenty of life in it yet.



And today's finds in the junk shop after reeling from the supermarket's football pitch of stuff, two perfect-nick old teapots for a euro each.

They don't make 'em like this no more

Last Thursday's Vide Grenier yielded fine things: two white china hotel-ware casseroles, 1920's teapot, shoes, jeans, Café de la paix ash-tray and this excellent example of early twentieth century 'aspiration'- an all metal and bakelite hoover.

I had casually picked up a more recent model (1960s) to examine it when the lady 'vendeur' said:
    "Madame (you are obviously the sort of mad person who might consider what I am about to suggest) we have an earlier type of aspirateur here in this valise. "Would you care to - "
"Yes," I replied far too quickly, snapping open the case's locks, and gazing with adoration on chrome and early fake crocodile skin.
    "It is old, Madame,"
    I waited for the usual follow up words that would proclaim old = very expensive, but no! Five euros . . .
    "Does it work?" I asked, nonchalantly.
    "Bien sur, Madame - come, we will find a plug."
    Grasping the hoover she barged into a house on the square and demanded we try the apparatus. The two elderly people engaged in making their lunch stood back and covered their ears, perhaps wary of a possible house-wrecking explosion while their neighbour searched for a suitable socket.
The machine started up as if it had never been in storage and efficiently sucked up crumbs and dog hair much to the amazement of the small crowd that had gathered on the step.
I paid my five euros; we agreed that the deal benefited everyone and I walked back to the car realising the hoover's motor alone probably weighed more than thirty Dyson's.
    When we got it home, I cleaned it and tested out the various shaped tools on our sofa and floor while making a mental comparison to our sulking, yellow, plastic Miele model. It is heavy, yes, but very powerful with two cloth bags you can change over and wash out. The tools are beautifully ergonomic especially the main metal one with a swivelling action that reaches every crumb of dried- out cat food in every corner of the kitchen. It is more of a 'performance' to use this vacuum; a conscious effort: "Let's DO the hoovering," unpacking the ceremonial case, twisting the chrome poles into place - click-click . . .

To read the instruction manual is a trip back into time as well - the first page reading:

'Madame, we wish that your 'Lux' will give you all the satisfaction that you have the right to wait for in your abode: comfort, hygiene and rest, that will allow you to have more leisure time; in one word, a faithful servant, sure and devoted . . . '

   Must go and find the Miele book, if we still have it. I can't imagine the prose being quite so poetic - or sexist!