“Yes, I need rice,” she says, pulling two plastic ice-cream tubs out of her tote. “And maybe some pasta. And the sweet potatoes look good, don’t they?” As she speaks, she produces an extra cotton shopping tote and shakes out a couple of brown paper bags.
I stare at all her bags and tubs, feeling discomfited. “Did you bring those with you?”
“Well, yes,” says Suze, sounding surprised. “Of course I did. There isn’t any packaging, Bex. You have to bring your own receptacles.”
Right.
I mean, obviously, I knew that. It’s just…
Oh God. Why didn’t I bring a few tubs and things? I haven’t even got a bag for life with me, I realize with a jolt of horror. But I’m not going to admit that. No way.
As I wander around the jars of spices and pulses, I feel both inspired and stressed out. I want everything here! Only I need some packaging. I need a tub or bag or something….
Then, thankfully, I spot a shelf behind the till holding some glass wide-necked jars. Excellent. I’ll buy a load of jars and pretend that’s what I intended to do all along.
“Hello!” I say, approaching the girl at the till. “Your shop is so inspiring. I’m totally giving up on packaging.”
“Oh, good,” she says.
“So, could I have thirty jars, please? Fifteen tall and fifteen short?”
“Thirty jars?” She stares at me.
“To put stuff in,” I explain.
I’m never having packets again, I’ve decided. I can just see my kitchen, looking like something out of Livingetc, with labeled matching jars lined up neatly. It’ll be amazing!
But the girl is frowning dubiously.
“I don’t even have thirty jars in stock,” she says. “Can you carry thirty glass jars?”
Oh. I hadn’t thought about that.
“Most people bring old plastic tubs,” she continues. “We encourage recycling as much as possible. Didn’t you bring anything?” She looks at my empty hands. “Nothing at all?”
She doesn’t need to sound so condescending.
“I’m plastic-free,” I retort in a supercilious voice. “All right, I’ll have six jars for now, please.”
The girl raises her eyebrows, which I think is needless, but reaches behind her and puts six glass jars on the counter.
They are quite bulky. But they’ll look fab!
I pick up a wicker shopping basket, load it up with the glass jars, head to a big container full of pulses, and fill up a jar. Then I check to see what I’m buying. Mung beans! I have no idea what to do with mung beans, but I can find a recipe.
I’m about to fill up a second jar, with barley, when I get a text from Luke: Can you buy some eggs? We’re out. I quickly text back, No problem, and head to the rustic, feathery eggs in their tray. I pick up two—then wonder what to do with them. They aren’t in boxes, so how do you carry them?
“Did you bring an egg box?” says the girl behind the till, who’s watching me. “We tell all our customers: If they want to buy eggs, please bring an old egg box. Otherwise you can buy a reusable bamboo one for a pound, but obviously we encourage recycling. Did you want to buy a bamboo one?”
I can read her snide expression exactly. She means, “Do you want to pollute the planet even further, you moron who couldn’t remember an egg box?”
“No, thanks,” I say, lifting my chin. “I have receptacles already.”
“You can’t carry eggs in jars,” she says as though I’m an idiot.
“Yes, I can,” I contradict her.
I gently put two eggs into a glass jar and put the lid on, then do the same with three more jars. I’ll just have to carry them carefully.
“Hi, Becky.” Jess’s voice greets me, and I whip round.
“Hi, Jess!” I give her a hug. “This place is amazing!”
“What are you doing?” She peers at my jars, looking puzzled.
“Buying eggs.” I manhandle my basket of glass jars to the counter, where the girl stares at it. “Hi,” I say in a nonchalant manner. “I’d like to pay for these, please.”
“Why didn’t you buy an egg box?” says Jess incredulously.
“Because I don’t want to ruin the planet with hollow consumption,” I reply, raising my eyes. As if she needs to ask.
“But half of your eggs are already broken,” says the girl, looking through the glass.
Drat.
“They’re for scrambled eggs,” I say briskly. “So it’s fine. How much is that?”