Friday, February 25, 2005


Good old Heinz Weightwatchers Beef Hotpot. The readymeal has appeared in the endlessly updated Sudan 1 deathlist of foods containing a trace of the bootpolish dye which has caused cancer in laboratory tests on rats, although there is apparently "no immediate risk to health". The aforementioned meal is a staple of my diet, so a shout goes out to Everyone Who Knows Me - make a mental note to keep a window free for my funeral in 2007.

So far there hasn't been a clammering hysterical media response (well, by the usual standards). I saw the slimeball Dr Hilary "A Boy Named Sue" Jones hinting on GMTV that it might be advisable to return to traditional cooking methods rather than relying on convenience foods. Oh great, so the housewife viewers of the show, already guilty about juggling career, motherhood, housework, kids' homework, useless husband, etc., ought to add another couple of hours or so onto the daily slog. Perhaps it's only right that they should give up sleeping to accommodate everything. Dr "Believe Me, I'm All Man Down There" Hilary already has, to my knowledge, around six children and an extra-marital affair under his belt (ahem, quite literally). I can't be the only woman who thinks it beyond the pale to listen to supposedly expert advise from a bloke who is such an obvious sexual incontinent.

Still, the coverage of the dye in food scare hasn't tested my patience too far, but there are limits, Fair enough, I've not scrutinized the weekly papers, but there is the "I won't be held responsible for my actions" limit, the thin red line ...

... if some smug cow from North London sends a letter to the broadsheets suggesting that it's a great wake up call for "everyone" (i.e., common people who haven't been to university) to really think about what they put in their shopping baskets, and how it would be completely unthinkable for her (or the nanny) to let Poppy and India eat - heavens forbid - Dairylea Triangles or packets of crisps, and how she always takes the people carrier down for the three hour trip to a pretty little village in Sussex at the weekend where there's a super little organic market where all the stallholders really know there stuff, and all the produce is guaranteed fresh and free of additives, and she knows it will be tasty and wholesome, unlike mass produced supermarket fodder, and you really have to pay throught the nose for quality, and she (or the nanny) spends seven hours a day cooking at the Aga, but it's all very rewarding at the end because you know you have done right by your family and can have a guilt free conscience ...

... then, I will have to send a letter bomb to her home address.

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