Having been back in Cape Town for only thirteen years, I was at a loss as to where to obtain such a commodity. Fortunately, my younger daughter (who currently lives in Abu Dhabi) was able to advise me. Clearly, I have no talent as a shopper.
At the recommended shop, I found an enormous roll, about a metre in diameter and one-and-a-half metres wide, that seemed to go on for ever. I’ve never been in contact with so much bubble-wrap in my life. It was amazing! I was so tempted to buy the whole roll and not just a piece! The thought of wall-papering my flat with bubble-wrap was so attractive, but I managed to resist the temptation. It struck me that, if I constantly popped it, maintenance would become a nightmare; a bit like when you plaster the walls of your house with chocolate.
I got chatting to the significantly-tattooed young lady who skilfully dispensed my two-metre aliquot, and we enthusiastically exchanged opinions about motorbikes, long-distance biking, motorbike engines, motorbike clutches, motorcycling apparel, motorbike service intervals, the best weather for motorcycling, the worst weather for biking, etc. I think she was a biker, but I’m convinced that the presence of the bubble-wrap contributed to our sense of oneness. We valiantly fought off the temptation to pop a few cells. Perhaps it would have laid her open to a charge of professional misconduct; I don’t know. We parted amicably, pledging—as bikers do—to see one another on the road (a cute sentiment, but it never happens—we always travel incognito).
At the check-out, I accidentally tapped the bum of the large lady in front of me with my long roll of bubble-wrap. She was looking very annoyed at the delay that her husband was causing in his efforts to get his credit not to be politely declined. Fearing violent repercussions (you never can tell, these days), and with my tendency to pour potassium on troubled waters, I blithely said: “This is for my son’s motorbike. Would you like to do a bit of popping”? I braced myself to get popped.
Well, blow me down! This rather formidable-looking lady turned towards me and gave me an enormous smile. Instantly, she grabbed my bubble-wrap, and started popping. No longer able to resist the temptation, I joined in, and we had a pleasant time chatting and popping bubbles, while her husband and the check-out clerk (who had by now successfully completed the financial transaction) looked on in bemusement with great smiles on their previously-scowling physiognomies. In my head I could hear Freddie Mercury & Montserrat Caballé singing Amigos Para Siempre. Fortunately, few other people—apart from my immediate family—can hear the noise in my head.
Finally, fulfilled, we parted; the best of friends. I noticed the lady playfully taking her husband’s arm as they headed for their car. It looked as if they had fallen in love all over again. Smugly, I thought: “my work here is done”.
But, I was left to deal with the previously-irritated check-out lady. For some obscure reason, she was looking at me as if she thought that I might be a trifle eccentric. Maybe I was singing (sotto voce) Amigos Para Siempre; I’m not sure. Anyway, we had pleasant dealings, and my credit card passed with flying colours. She bravely resisted the temptation to pop my bubble-wrap. Perhaps she thought that it was by invitation only; perhaps she was bound by the same professional code of ethics as the tattooed dispensing lady. Strangely, as I was leaving, she quietly suggested that I might find shopping via the Internet “more convenient”.
This shopping expedition has challenged me to radically reconsider my philosophy of social interaction and—of course—world peace. If you accept Chaos Theory and, if Edward Lorenz is to be believed, then—according to the Butterfly Effect—my few brief friendly encounters might have had a significant international effect.
Perhaps, thanks to us, Vladimir Putin and the Ukrainians might set aside violence and spend some time together, happily popping bubble-wrap.
If they cover the northern borders of South Ossetia and Abkhazia with bubble-wrap, maybe the Russians might get out of Georgian territory, or—at least—try to be nice.
Who can imagine what might happen if international arms smugglers started to wrap AK-47s in bubble-wrap, instead of smearing them with grease?
What might happen if the robes of ISIS warriors were to be made from bubble-wrap instead of cotton or goat-hair?
Could it be that we have in our hands the very ingredient for world peace, and we just haven’t realised it? Could we perhaps finally bid farewell to the tedium of watching incredibly beautiful entrants in the Miss World competition walking round in bikinis and ball-gowns and talking of world peace?
Oh yes, and perhaps one day bubble-wrapped pigs might fly. That would certainly bring home the bacon!