A beautiful thing would be the elimination from modern life of cellophane paper. It is hard to open DVDs and the like wrapped in it; it makes an insidious noise and fragments into untidy shards. Perhaps there are cellophane lovers in the world. I am not one of them.
Aches all day from the polymyalgia rheumatic which persists in a less insidious form. These are are alleviated by massage from Heidi's daughter Caroline and 15 minutes exposure to ultra violet rays. Better already. Better is a lovely word.
Ah. I must say I rather like cellophane! A good, sturdy grade of cellophane on a roll is something I am seldom without. It's good for wrapping home-made food presents, or flowers from the garden, at once offering the appeal of a shiny, glossy, crackling surface and giving a glimpse of what is held within it, and it folds and gathers very attractively. Like fibres such as rami and viscose, it's somewhere between a natural and synthetic product, from natural, plant-based origins but chemically engineered. It's true that dvd, and worse cd wrappers are a bane, though, and the smell of it is a little odd. The odour of the cellophane factory in Bridgewater in Somerset is notorious for miles around, and the subject of one or two unrepeatable jokes.
So glad you've someone and something to rub and warm away some of the aches. Better is indeed a lovely word.
At first I thought Lucy was deliberately acting the contrarian but then recognised an important distinction: between waste cellophane and cellophane awaiting application or cellophane that has been applied. Quite soon that shiny wrapping through which (yes I take this vital, almost uplifting point) one may see the contents will become a sort of fool's gold; the source of disappointing glitter on the carpet or between blades of glass.
One delight Lucy does not mention is the pleasure one gets from mounting the film dispenser on the wall, so that precisely measured sheets may be torn away confidently in extrovert abandon. Leading to the curiously erotic moment when the film clings submissively to that which must be wrapped.
The user nevertheless conscious that these delights will disappear, forgotten, when the film is peeled away and it contracts in on itself to become the screwed-up quintessence of waste.
No no no Robbie, that is cling film of which you speak, a completely other, fossil-fuel-based product, used only for the temporary preservation of kitchen substances. Can you imagine wrapping jars and bottles of home-made preserves and liqueurs, often in dear little (!) baskets, or bunches of Michaelmas daisies and marigolds from the garden, in that? I would not thank you for them if you did! (Well, I would really because I am polite and welcome any gift).
My cellophane comes on a large roll like wrapping paper, and is made, as its name suggests, from cellulose from wood pulp, I believe, and hence is safely biodegradable. It is much heavier than the stuff used for DVD wrappers, doesn't shred easily, and is quite noisy to handle, squeaking and crackling volubly. I don't have a dispenser for it, though I now rather wish I did, but it must be cut with scissors anyway.
Act the contrarian, moi?
Sorry, Joe, to take over your comments space in this way, but felt I had to set the record straight on this matter!
I realize now how little I knew about cellophane.
Lucy: In fact I see my comment has quite casually mixed up both sorts of transparent wrapping. I bow to your superior techno-knowledge about bio-degradability, etc, sighing in secret that such a bouleversement would never have happened to Barrett Bonden. But he is elsewhere and oh the difference in me (so feeble, so damn literary). Where are the Armstrong Whitworth bolts of my youth?
Again, Joe, sorry to have taken over, in this thrust, parry, thrust - touché. Me, I always thought Lucy was armed with an épée, later I discerned a sabre, now close up and personal I recognise a claymore.
All. No apologies please. Your comments are entertaining as well as informative. If my trivial observations promote the wisdom of others, all is not lost.
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