Jubilee Frenzee

Fig. 1

It was the Belligerently Optimistic Flatmate's birthday recently. Off galavanting in Dusseldorf, I could not be there, so I've been trying to make up for it with the provision of treats. 

Happily, this doubles as an opportunity to cram the Pad with Jubilee baubles. I've been cultivating a bit of a habit. This means that if I see something with the Queen's face or a Union Jack on, or (even better) some combination of the two, I buy it. Anyone in the UK at the moment will recognise that, with three weeks until Flotilla Day, this could lead to personal financial catastrophe. Shops are rammed with the stuff.

Fig. 2

And it started so well. Union Jack-flavoured Body Wash [Fig. 2] and Jubilee Marmite [Fig. 3] are - I'm sure you'll agree - perfectly useful items. Not to mention that there's a recession on: it's our duty to spend ourselves to safety. But how much shortbread can a small household of two realistically consume? Even if it does come in a tin with Grenadier Guards [Fig. 1] emblazoned upon it.


BOF, as you might expect, is very much on board with the flag-fest. He's spent the past three weeks trying to instigate compulsory bunting on his desk at work, to no avail. It's almost as if his colleagues are becoming hostile to the whole event.


Such domestic support makes my themed oniomania even harder to restrain. It's also vicarious. We don't need to actually own the tat to take pleasure in it. Much better to force it on other people.

Fig. 3

It goes like this:

BOF: Do you know I saw the most amazing Union Jack luggage the other day.

KITC: You should probably get it.

BOF: Yes! No. I'm saving for school fees.

KITC: (downcast) OK.

BOF: Is there anyone we know with a birthday coming up?

KITC: No.

BOF: My mum could probably do with some more Union Jack crockery - let's get that.

KITC: And we'll need another Grenadier Guard tin to put it in. 

BOF: Good thinking.

It was as I found myself, all Jubilee-Special-Carrie-Mathison, being gently removed from the picnic section in Waitrose by a concerned BOF, grasping for 'Royal' Moet as I passed, that I realised it's becoming a problem. There is just not enough money in the world or space in the Pad for this.

But then - it'll all be over in 22 days. Bring on the bunting.

BOF and the Most Efficient Holiday

Belligerently Optimistic Flatmate had a week off recently. He used it wisely, as a springboard for money-saving initiatives. I'm not sure if this is normal. Back at university, whole weeks could slip by without the achievement of a single task. Now that we're grownups, every hour not spent in useful activity is an hour wasted. 

Case in point: last year, my friend Sam (Surprisingly A Mother) had a baby. On the first day of maternity leave from her cut-throat shiny-happy job, she tweeted: 'So much free time! What shall I do with myself?'

Being green is sexy

Oh Sam. How can this be? Was it so long ago that we were students applauding ourselves each time we produced a sentence? We spent whole weeks in Topshop; hours on Facebook; days walking to and from the library in a nonchalant fashion. Not to mention all that time playing quiz machine. The very act of tweeting bespeaks an unhealthily efficient attitude to social media. 

To return to BOF, now investigating insulation. The first step was the acquisition of meters. As I understand it, the council provides such things for free on request. Apparently, our saving on electricity may amount to almost a whole pound per month. The downside is that the cold water no longer runs. How very green.

But Project Efficiency did not end here. Next came the world's most thorough washing-up episode. Pans, spoons, unused tea-pots: nothing was forgotten. It was great. BOF even took the thin vases in hand (fret not money-saving mavens, the retail orgy* that produced them took place in IKEA). They are impossible to clean: but he did have a good go at getting a sponge stuck inside one with a wooden spoon.

I should take some responsibility for the money-saving madness. I performed a devious act a few weeks back. I discovered the bargain that is Sainsbury's own brand tea. 

'Bring back the PG' begs BOF

27p! Eighty tea bags! Surely they couldn't be twelve times worse than your average PG Tip? 

They are. The tangy taste of dust puts a real downer on your day. What I want to do is bin them. But we've renounced waste, so we muscle through. 


BOF thinks I haven't noticed that he has been surreptitiously buying new tea and adding it to the top of the 27p box. One day, we will stumble across our Basics Tea again, decomposed to compost at the bottom of the cupboard, a small tea tree growing from it. 

We shall use it for a window box! The greenest of city activities. Equilibrium restored.

*That will play havoc with my keyword search. I've already had 'horny cockroach' bring someone to the Kate in the Countryside homepage this week. What a disappointment that must have been.