Apparently the latest retailing sensation is Shreddies. No, not the cardboard like substance that you eat for breakfast because it’s supposed to be good for you, but pants. Special pants. “Flatulence filtering underwear” to be precise.
I can see a problem here, not because the product isn’t needed, it undoubtedly is, especially amongst people like my mother’s third husband whom she married when she was 81 and he was 83. We often suspected that much of Ronnie’s forward propulsion was due to wind power. However, are those who need such garments really going to face going into a shop to buy them? Can you imagine the suppressed sniggers of the sales assistants as you ask for a, ‘Mixed 5 pack. No, they aren’t for me, you know, a friend asked me to get them…’?
I can see a booming trade in packages in brown envelopes.
And giving your nearest and dearest a three pack of Shreddies is hardly going to get the same delighted response as a beribboned package from Victoria’s Secret, is it? It would take a brave person to suggest that the contents might come in useful. If they’d been around after I’d sat next to my mother at the ballet at the Grand Theatre in Bordeaux I might have been tempted, reckoning that the inevitable disinheriting was worth it. On second thoughts, as she was staying for several more days and I’d have had to cope with a deeply affronted and reproachful parent, I’d probably have bottled out.
Anyway, it seems to me that the inventors of Shreddies have missed the real target market…
Come off it, more often than not, you’re right to do so, especially in this house. If they came up with a ‘flatulence filtering’ device for dogs (not a cork) which worked on Dalmatians, I’d be beating a path to their door, waving my credit card. Right now. Flynn keeps visiting something particularly noisome in the woods and having a snack, and boy do we know about it…
Luckily he’s my daughter’s dog and sleeps in her room. She’s a brave girl.
Victoria Corby 