Foraging

Foraging. That’s what we ladies are programmed for. I’ve worked it out.
Some time ago I was watching a programme presented by an excellent anthropologist whose name escapes me. I know him as the one with the cuddly face, curly hair, black-framed glasses and soft moustache under his Jewish nose (the rest of him is Jewish so, I suppose, his nose is as well). He was pointing out the different attitude of children in front of videogames: the boys (the hunters) attacked aggressively; the girls (the gatherers) observed collecting information. (Could this, by the way, explain why women read instruction manuals and men don’t?)
And then it struck me: women, the foragers stalking the modern jungle. From bush to boutique, from digging for roots to routing for bargains. Men seem to be content chasing something that moves, like a ball, or even just sit looking at other men chasing a ball and dreaming of their hunting days.

So it was that one sunny Saturday my faithful foraging companions- The Chef and Catwoman- and I went loitering deep into the jungle with intent.
We met in a clearing near Trinity Collage nice and early to beat the gathering crowds. First indispensable stop was a watering hole. The Chef’s expert eye spotted in the undergrowth berries in a little coffee shop window. And under the berries was pastry and over them was jelly. We entered. The small turquoise room had an old fashioned, sober, continental air about it. After a swimming pool size cappuccino we headed for the biggest tree in the forest: Brown Thomas. We had a good scout around and there we found dresses with matching bags (oh, temptation!) and price tags matching a month’s wages (oh inflation!). As we left, the posh side of the jungle was starting to fill up with primates of all shapes and sizes. After a couple of scrawny looking shrub-like shops we landed the perfect going-to-posh-wedding frock for Catwoman who nonetheless declined dipping into that feminine logic which makes us, the fairer sex, so interesting.
Lunch in Wagamama was scrumptious. The Chef, condemned to a perpetual diet by indulgence earlier in life, only looking on from behind a bowl of boiled rice.
We then developed the theory that a belly full to capacity gives a clear advantage in fitting a frock that would withstand wedding libations. It was then that shoppers’ luck struck.: my perfect dress, perfect fit perfect half price discount.. In my moment of delight, I started making all those girly high pitched noises and hand gestures that go beyond the confines of language and culture: the gatherer found and extraordinarily juicy fruit. And she communicated as much.
A couple of fruitless spots later we paused for a lemonade and a thought.. Result: the lemonade in Munchies is too sweet and Catwoman was to retrace her steps back to her perfect dress discarded in the morning. The Chef, with heroic restraint, only picked up what she originally was looking for (a top to go with a shirt, for the record). This didn’t stop her shearing in our primeval girly giggles at the prospect of looking for accessories.
A forager’s work is never done.

Pinzimonio