Not buying local
There has been a small truck around town of late, looking interesting but mostly out of my reach. It had an advert on the side for meat, eggs, fish and veges. Just plain writing, looked kind of localish and suitably small time.
Today I met Mr Smalltime.
Not Thompsons' from Hokitika as I had speculated. Not from Nelson or Christchurch as are the next most likely options here in Wetville. Mr Smalltime hailed from Otago. He had genuine Southland swedes at prices which seemed a little posh. Especially considering I could buy genuine Reefton swedes on the roadside for one sixth of the price last year.
He had sausies from Mosgiel and savs too. He had fish from Talleys. I had to grill for both of these pieces of information. I didn't quiz him on the eggs. The apples weren't cheap and I was unexcited about the spuds, seeing as I'm still digging my own.
Mr Smalltime tried a little charm. He comes all the way to my town because of the beautiful women.
No, really? You come all this way to make silly comments to a 37 year old woman in a huge overcoat with children hanging out of the car and a mini-lecture about buying local?
Took me a while to realise that people under 37 probably didn't stop at his truck.
I bid him farewell and climbed back in the car to head off to Runanga, where Jonesy the butcher sold me local sausies (new variety - Mexican - big excitement), savs, black pudding and some more bones for stock. Bugger about the trotters, hocks and other bacon bones I wanted - big wedding in town cleaned the butcher's out of pig meat. Jonesy doesn't muck around with telling women stupid comments about beauty. He was more interested in my boy's progress on the league field.
On the way home we passed Mr Smalltime and Fionn asked why we didn't buy his meat.
"Well he has come from Otago and I like to buy local meat."
(Plaintive six year old voice) "But I would like to try meat from other countries."
Might be time to get the atlas out.
From the countryside Helen Clark labelled feral., goodnight and sweet dreams.
Today I met Mr Smalltime.
Not Thompsons' from Hokitika as I had speculated. Not from Nelson or Christchurch as are the next most likely options here in Wetville. Mr Smalltime hailed from Otago. He had genuine Southland swedes at prices which seemed a little posh. Especially considering I could buy genuine Reefton swedes on the roadside for one sixth of the price last year.
He had sausies from Mosgiel and savs too. He had fish from Talleys. I had to grill for both of these pieces of information. I didn't quiz him on the eggs. The apples weren't cheap and I was unexcited about the spuds, seeing as I'm still digging my own.
Mr Smalltime tried a little charm. He comes all the way to my town because of the beautiful women.
No, really? You come all this way to make silly comments to a 37 year old woman in a huge overcoat with children hanging out of the car and a mini-lecture about buying local?
Took me a while to realise that people under 37 probably didn't stop at his truck.
I bid him farewell and climbed back in the car to head off to Runanga, where Jonesy the butcher sold me local sausies (new variety - Mexican - big excitement), savs, black pudding and some more bones for stock. Bugger about the trotters, hocks and other bacon bones I wanted - big wedding in town cleaned the butcher's out of pig meat. Jonesy doesn't muck around with telling women stupid comments about beauty. He was more interested in my boy's progress on the league field.
On the way home we passed Mr Smalltime and Fionn asked why we didn't buy his meat.
"Well he has come from Otago and I like to buy local meat."
(Plaintive six year old voice) "But I would like to try meat from other countries."
Might be time to get the atlas out.
From the countryside Helen Clark labelled feral., goodnight and sweet dreams.
Comments