Free Making the Cat Laugh by Lynne Truss Page A

free-range eggs.
    The reason I’m going into all this is that I recently had a bit of a shock in the bin-liner department. There I was, feeling safe inside my routine, repeating to myself, ‘Cat-food – yes; hummus – yes; bin-liners …’ and scooping an armful of boxes into my trolley, when I noticed a little yellow ‘flash’ had appeared on the side of the box. ‘ NEW ,’ it said: ‘ MULTI-PURPOSE .’ In my confusion I dropped the lot. Staggering slightly, I reached out for support, and knocked some roasting-bags and double-length cling-film onto the floor as well. I tried to calm down by humming
Lillibullero
and sucking a tranquillizer, but it did no good. Should I climb up on top of the fitment and signal for assistance? What did it mean, ‘Multi-Purpose’? What possible other purpose can there be for a bin-liner than to line bins? Had Sainsbury’s brought out a ‘Josceline Dimbleby Book of Bin-Liner Cookery’?
    I don’t like it; I don’t like it at all. I always thought I knew where I was, knew what I was getting. Of course, I have
used
some of these so-called multi-purpose bin-liners. And of course they work just as well as the old Uni-Purpose kind ever did. But a sense of certainty has been lost now, that can neverbe restored. I daren’t go back, not now. What if they’ve printed ‘Not for external use’ on the hummus, or ‘Non-drip’ on the Whiskas?

    It’s official. It was in the paper on Saturday. The reason women make good spooks (or employees of the secret service) is that they can deflect awkward personal questions, especially over dinner. ‘So what do you do?’ they are asked, routinely. And instead of excitedly blurting out the latest list of arms-deal catastrophes, they cleverly feign a suppressed yawn and say, ‘Me? Oh, nothing. I have a boring desk job at the Ministry of Defence. Paperclips, that kind of thing. Dust, Turkish carpet, Cup-a-Soups, nine to five, calligraphy, tea-trolley, cheese rolls, Argos catalogue, Club biscuits.’ These MI5 women are masterly at it, obviously. I imagine them left out of the general conversation, eating, listening. And whenever the talk threatens to veer back in their direction, they just mutter ‘paperclips’ again, and it’s gone.
    Men, on the other hand, tend to give the game away. Asked the same question, a man will evidently suck his teeth thoughtfully, smile into the middle distance, and then hoarsely whisper, ‘Ooh, sorry, I’d love to, but classified, careless talk, Brixton, Circus, say no more’ – at which everyone promptly stops talking or eating, and someone drops a fork. In the ensuing silence, he pretends to change the subject. ‘Did you say you’d been to Prague for a holiday? Funny, I was once shot in the leg in Pr—.’ He stops, looks around. ‘Whoops, ha ha,’ he jokes, ‘No, but really let’s talk about you and your allotment, I’m sure it’s
much more interesting
.’
    On Saturday, when this intriguing gender fact was first revealed, I have to admit I was confused. I always thought it was the other way around – that women talked openly (inmy own case, compulsively) about their jobs, and that men did not. Well-mannered men, in particular, often refuse so obstinately to divulge their occupations – either they consider it impolite to boast, or they think you should know without asking – that you can sit next to a chap for hours, wildly demonstrating the special effects in
Jurassic Park
(complete with roars, thumps, tussles and realistic squirts of ketchup), before finally discovering that he’s controller of Radio 3, or married to the Princess Royal. Sometimes you don’t find out until it’s too late to apologize. ‘That was the Primate of All England,’ someone will say to you at a party, nodding at your new friend as he wanders off, scratching his head. Numbly, you sink to the floor with your fingers in your mouth. You just asked him to take you dancing.
    But what impresses me most is the thought of