What is more I could even be carrying a gun. It’s all to do with the plastic that they encapsulate my food in. I’m standing there struggling, salivating, and going nowhere in trying to open the goodies. Instead of getting England’s Strongest Man to test the security of a plastic container, they should get me, the Wimp of the Week. I sit there and, night after night, my Scotch warming up, while I am fighting with a plastic container to get to the crisps. The infuriating thing is that they put a black tab to indicate a soft bit of the bag, and it is as tough as all the rest. My great-granddaughter, aged three+, can sit on the naughty step eating crisps to her hearts content, and to the best of my knowledge nobody has opened the bag for her. Actually of course, it isn’t the crisp bags that are the real problem, it is food packaging. I shall probably carry the gun until find I the guy who designs these packages and then I shall shoot him.
When my generation was young, we not only carried a Swiss Army knife in the pocket, we had a sheath knife hanging from our trouser belt, and no one thought a thing about it. Now I’m going to have to carry a knife to open these damn packages, but I shall get away with it because I’ve got white hair and am sitting in a wheelchair.