perplexing popcorn

Today, I ponder the life expectations of a popcorn kernel. You see, a kernel wishes only one thing, to make it big in life. Whether "Big" is to firmly plant itself in nutrient rich soil sprouting to new beginnings or to explode with the fragrant force of molecular pressure in the kitchens of expectant movie viewers everywhere, "Big" is the living dream of a tiny corn seed. Blossomed kernels wish to be covered in butter and consumed by a public that desires their delicious goodness. However, I have discovered a great wrong being committed to the public, that many of the grocery stores in the United Kingdom don't carry popcorn kernels in their aisles. They do have a collection of pre-popped popcorn, but I recoil to think of a rainy future in front of a standard HDTV widescreen, settling down to watch the opening episodes of the third season of Mad Men or perhaps a BluRay of District 9 without the fragrant odor of freshly popped corn wafting through the air. It is for this reason alone that I consider the popcorn culture of this kingdom to be endangered. Join me in ending this affront to nature, contact your local grocer and implore him to enlist the mighty kernel upon his shelves. Preserve the time honored art of popcorn popping.

Confessions from the Cornish Countryside

"You're gonna have to pay for that envelope."

I am in the local Spar, surrounded by the white-haired masses that congregate in the village of Mawnan Smith. Each member stands dutifully in queue for their copy of the treasured Guardian, of which there are always too few on a Saturday morning. Some look a bit perturbed, probably due to the late opening of the shop, which has prolonged their precisely planned out day by exactly seventeen minutes.

"You need to pay for that envelope before you write an address on it."

The voice, a bit peculiar like it had given up halfway through puberty and remained in limbo awaiting its next testosterone kick to guide it home, belonged to the postal employee / shopkeeper that continued to insist. Now I am lengthening the stay of the growing masses behind me, and I can feel their eyes examining my undertakings and making mental notes of the foreign way I go about my business.

"People take the envelopes and then mail them without paying for them. So you have to pay for the envelope beforehand."

Thankfully, the shopkeeper has instructed me on the basics of commerce, perhaps to calm the uncomfortable agitation behind me. The small talk has subsided and the shifting weights indicate that the extending queue has become restless, tired of the fluorescence emanating from the overheads, the faint buzz resonating within their hearing aids, the greenish glow playing tricks on their cloudy, cataract-ridden gaze.

His Cornish twinge constructs a conspiring thought that the policy must have been handed down over centuries. A policy that has no clear bearing of rationality other than the systematic approach to 'how things are done around here.' No doubt this policy has kept this store in the shopkeeper's family for generations.

It seems odd that I am standing directly in front of the shopkeeper's till, addressing the letter that will be in his hands in less than ten seconds, not hiding anything from his overly watchful eye and yet he insists on policy over common courtesy and mutual respect.

I wonder if he is brooding over the interaction as I am now, if he is wondering if the transaction could have been handled in a better manner. I wonder if he is questioning his policy as less customers come into his shop to mail a letter, instead choosing to wait and mail it from the city center where they can avoid the annoyance of the inbred policy of suspicion. Probably not.

Maybe he just needs his morning cuppa to get him on the path of courteousness.