Do you know where those eggs come from”? I thought it might be a trick question,  like the one about babies.

The owner of the voice was a plump-lipped, winter’s eyed blonde at the eggs section of Woolworths Supermarket. “Actually, yes I do,” I said. I could have told her I didn’t care, that I hunted cane toads in my backyard at night, I could have done the smart thing and moved on, ignoring a conversation I knew was coming and for which I had no appetite.

But she seemed determined to pursue this moral conversation. “People shouldn’t buy caged eggs. There are so many alternatives around now and I think companies should be supported for their ethical stand.” The blonde said this with the certainty that comes with all conversions in life, that all people would see the moral light if ONLY they would recognise the righteousness of her position. And that’s the problem.

Well I said, you look like a reader of Choice – probably while you sip your latte in an overpriced cafe and nibble your Eastern European biscuit with the unpronounceable name – but if you had, then you would know that you are probably paying a lot more for really nice packaging, colourful printing and a feel-good factor wrapped in free-range marketing. Apparently, according to Choice, you are being ripped off. I don’t mind if you get ripped off, really I don’t, but I am not in the slightest bit interested in subsidising your moral superiority.

I should have left it there, moved on – but I couldn’t, didn’t. Some self-destructive streak would not let me move, turning my feet to lumps of lead. I lent over her trolley. ” I see you’ve got veal – a lovely bit of meat.

You know that comes from doe-eyed calves separated from their mother after a few days. They cry a lot just before they are slaughtered; and a slab of bottled water. I assume you know it takes seven litres of water and one litre of oil to produce one litre of bottled water and while we are about it I bet you are one of those four-wheel drivers whose idea of off the road Is turning into your driveway. Now I know that four wheel drives are a necessity in the way out west where the rain don’t fall country, or the cape – or any of those interesting and sometimes wild places. But in the city they are driven by people who, if they have been adventurous, have walked on uneven footpaths. Mostly you  don’t seem to realise  they come equipped with power steering- as well as the groovy Bluetooth and places – other than the obvious one – for the beloved Smartphone/music etc. That means you can actually do tight three point turns and not take ten minutes and need the area of a football field.

The other point to understand for those who drive four wheel drives, is that it is not physically possible to wear a very, very, short skirt and slide out of a four wheel drive with your dignity intact.  I struggle to understand the need for these petrol guzzling, road hogging machines in the urban environment That was the step too far…You, she said contorting those plump lips and firing up the wintery eyes, are rude (insert noun for female bits here); and you know, she might have a point. These are my stories. Some might even be true.

This was originally posted in August 2015. Since then it’s crankyness has been revised.