On my first and only trip to the US of A I was constantly frustrated by faucets.
Shops, hotels and restaurants seemed to be vying with each other in providing ‘facilities’ in their ‘rest rooms’ which defied ease of use. The conventional tap with its ergonomic lugs which fit the fingers so easily and give effortless leverage to produce water were discarded utterly in the dizzying pursuit of the cutting edge.
With one particularly recalcitrant tap I pushed it, pulled it, pressed it, squeezed it and tapped it in a meaningful gesture of impatience. When all that failed I waved my hands about in a vaguely prestidigitatorial sort of way in the hope that I would break a sensor beam somewhere and that I would be thought to be shaking water from my fingers if I was wrong. Nothing. It’s the sort of experience that could make grown men weep. And I was still developing.
I could, of course, have merely left. Without washing my hands. But if you had been brought up by a mother like mine, you would have no more thought of not washing your hands after going to the toilet than you would have been able to go to bed without brushing your teeth. Some things are simply unthinking and undoable.
I was eventually saved (from possible prosecution for lingering in a men’s restroom!) by a savvy gentleman using his foot to locate a discrete button located on the floor underneath the sinks. Face and purity saved I emerged with another battle honour to add to the ribbon rows denoting successful combats with exotic bathroom ware.
This incident came back to mind as I struggled with the latest fiendish three dimensional puzzle designed as a carton of milk. It was of a fairly conventional tetra pack design (as I think it is called and which made someone or other a billionaire) with what looked like a simple screw top. It wasn’t.
As far as I could tell, the screw top was linked to a membrane which protected the surface of the milk and by opening the top, tiny internal plastic ‘blades’ cut through the membrane and allowed the hapless purchaser to get at the precious, protected liquid. The amount of force that you needed to cut through by screwing was considerable. And much more than I found comfortable with a thumb newly sensitized by the accidental insertion of a sharp edge under the nail! Even without the added pain of a self inflicted injury the force was not inconsiderable.
And then I thought of the old and the incapacitated.
Modern life is becoming more and more ‘user friendly’ – no more use for an old fashioned can opener; cans are now self opening (with a little help from the user.)
It used to be that only some tins of salmon, some oddly shaped cooked hams and all tins of sardines were provided with a metal key to unlock the delicacies inside.
I still have the scar on my right thumb from a brush with the razor sharp side of a half opened tin of salmon. As the can bit into my flesh I jerked my hand away and a trail of blood travelled up my mother (who happened to be standing on my left) and across the ceiling as my injured hand described a quick arc.
Four stitches later, and my mother’s sobbing hysterics having subsided, I was able to watch my sufferings on television. This was because my laceration coincided with a cold snap and my treatment in the Royal Infirmary was much delayed by the number of broken limbs having to be set after their owners succumbed to the slippery lure of ice. So many broken limbs indeed that a television camera was dispatched to film us all waiting, where my slowly dripping thumb was an unexpected splash of colour among fractured bones hidden in flesh.
The ability to open a tin of ham without the key snapping or the roll of metal twisting on itself and breaking was a skill few ever learned with any degree of conviction.
Sardine tins would open a fraction before eagerness caused the metal to sheer, leaving the fish tantalizingly open to view, but virtually impossible to extract. If the young and lusty were constantly stymied how did the elderly ever eat?
Today, in this throw away age, more and more packaging is self opening. Except of course, it isn’t. It still needs you. And a great deal of skill.
Tins now are ring pull, with the ring pull flush to the top of the tin. The insertion of a nail to raise the metal leaves the metal un-raised: except for the thickness of a nail - which remains behind!
When eventually prised up and opened, the metal disc now attached to a finger becomes, Ninja-like, a deadly weapon. Any vicious criminal armed with eight fingers’ worth of ring pulls would give Edward Scissor Hands a run for his money!
The only real use for a ring pull is to slice open the cellophane wrapping on CDs which seem to be attached to their host with a combination of vacuum pack, heat shrink and static electricity. The little cellophane ‘tapes’ which give ‘easy access’ are merely the cynical joke of a packaging sadist who likes to see people suffering my believing that there is an ‘easy way’ into CD packaging before the inevitable stabbing which accompanies any attempted opening by knife.
Even CD packaging appears to be ‘fall apart easy’ when compared with ‘blister’ packaging. This form of torture is often the preferred from of Tantalus-like punishment which accompanies the purchase electrical accessories. The sealed edges make side access impossible. Without scalpels the plastic blister is impervious. It is the perfect cocoon.
Scissors (that you are usually too lazy to go and get from the other room) are the surest way in, but they are dangerous. Not in themselves, oh no, but in what the scissors produce. You know from previous experience that cutting a small part of the edge and then tearing does nothing. Cutting off one edge creates an opening, but one not large enough to get the contents out. You have to cut more. Being lazy you cut all around the perimeter of the plastic casing only to be cut to pieces by the blade-like trimmings that slash at your hand as your twist the packaging around.
It is a wonder that we do not hear of many more unexplained deaths of the elderly, sitting at tables clutching unopened cans in well stocked houses, with cartons of congealed milk and unused electrical appliances.
Just don’t get me started on polystyrene! A friend wrote to me recently telling me that she asked a physicist friend of hers what use was her knowledge of how to solve a quadratic equation
( x equals minus b plus or minus the square root of b squared minus 4 ac ALL OVER 2a – never let it be said that I learned nothing in Cardiff High School for Boys!) The friend replied that if she had a sheet of cardboard she would be able to make a box of the maximum volume. I think that that sort of knowledge is used in packaging. If what you have purchased is encased in a three dimensional puzzle of hollowed out polystyrene then getting it out of the box is an almost impossible trick to pull off. It is usually such a tight fit that tearing is the only way out – thus dislodging the heavy duty staples which inevitably find their way into your flesh.
Now for the Belén.
Shops, hotels and restaurants seemed to be vying with each other in providing ‘facilities’ in their ‘rest rooms’ which defied ease of use. The conventional tap with its ergonomic lugs which fit the fingers so easily and give effortless leverage to produce water were discarded utterly in the dizzying pursuit of the cutting edge.
With one particularly recalcitrant tap I pushed it, pulled it, pressed it, squeezed it and tapped it in a meaningful gesture of impatience. When all that failed I waved my hands about in a vaguely prestidigitatorial sort of way in the hope that I would break a sensor beam somewhere and that I would be thought to be shaking water from my fingers if I was wrong. Nothing. It’s the sort of experience that could make grown men weep. And I was still developing.
I could, of course, have merely left. Without washing my hands. But if you had been brought up by a mother like mine, you would have no more thought of not washing your hands after going to the toilet than you would have been able to go to bed without brushing your teeth. Some things are simply unthinking and undoable.
I was eventually saved (from possible prosecution for lingering in a men’s restroom!) by a savvy gentleman using his foot to locate a discrete button located on the floor underneath the sinks. Face and purity saved I emerged with another battle honour to add to the ribbon rows denoting successful combats with exotic bathroom ware.
This incident came back to mind as I struggled with the latest fiendish three dimensional puzzle designed as a carton of milk. It was of a fairly conventional tetra pack design (as I think it is called and which made someone or other a billionaire) with what looked like a simple screw top. It wasn’t.
As far as I could tell, the screw top was linked to a membrane which protected the surface of the milk and by opening the top, tiny internal plastic ‘blades’ cut through the membrane and allowed the hapless purchaser to get at the precious, protected liquid. The amount of force that you needed to cut through by screwing was considerable. And much more than I found comfortable with a thumb newly sensitized by the accidental insertion of a sharp edge under the nail! Even without the added pain of a self inflicted injury the force was not inconsiderable.
And then I thought of the old and the incapacitated.
Modern life is becoming more and more ‘user friendly’ – no more use for an old fashioned can opener; cans are now self opening (with a little help from the user.)
It used to be that only some tins of salmon, some oddly shaped cooked hams and all tins of sardines were provided with a metal key to unlock the delicacies inside.
I still have the scar on my right thumb from a brush with the razor sharp side of a half opened tin of salmon. As the can bit into my flesh I jerked my hand away and a trail of blood travelled up my mother (who happened to be standing on my left) and across the ceiling as my injured hand described a quick arc.
Four stitches later, and my mother’s sobbing hysterics having subsided, I was able to watch my sufferings on television. This was because my laceration coincided with a cold snap and my treatment in the Royal Infirmary was much delayed by the number of broken limbs having to be set after their owners succumbed to the slippery lure of ice. So many broken limbs indeed that a television camera was dispatched to film us all waiting, where my slowly dripping thumb was an unexpected splash of colour among fractured bones hidden in flesh.
The ability to open a tin of ham without the key snapping or the roll of metal twisting on itself and breaking was a skill few ever learned with any degree of conviction.
Sardine tins would open a fraction before eagerness caused the metal to sheer, leaving the fish tantalizingly open to view, but virtually impossible to extract. If the young and lusty were constantly stymied how did the elderly ever eat?Today, in this throw away age, more and more packaging is self opening. Except of course, it isn’t. It still needs you. And a great deal of skill.
Tins now are ring pull, with the ring pull flush to the top of the tin. The insertion of a nail to raise the metal leaves the metal un-raised: except for the thickness of a nail - which remains behind!
When eventually prised up and opened, the metal disc now attached to a finger becomes, Ninja-like, a deadly weapon. Any vicious criminal armed with eight fingers’ worth of ring pulls would give Edward Scissor Hands a run for his money!
The only real use for a ring pull is to slice open the cellophane wrapping on CDs which seem to be attached to their host with a combination of vacuum pack, heat shrink and static electricity. The little cellophane ‘tapes’ which give ‘easy access’ are merely the cynical joke of a packaging sadist who likes to see people suffering my believing that there is an ‘easy way’ into CD packaging before the inevitable stabbing which accompanies any attempted opening by knife.
Even CD packaging appears to be ‘fall apart easy’ when compared with ‘blister’ packaging. This form of torture is often the preferred from of Tantalus-like punishment which accompanies the purchase electrical accessories. The sealed edges make side access impossible. Without scalpels the plastic blister is impervious. It is the perfect cocoon.
Scissors (that you are usually too lazy to go and get from the other room) are the surest way in, but they are dangerous. Not in themselves, oh no, but in what the scissors produce. You know from previous experience that cutting a small part of the edge and then tearing does nothing. Cutting off one edge creates an opening, but one not large enough to get the contents out. You have to cut more. Being lazy you cut all around the perimeter of the plastic casing only to be cut to pieces by the blade-like trimmings that slash at your hand as your twist the packaging around.
It is a wonder that we do not hear of many more unexplained deaths of the elderly, sitting at tables clutching unopened cans in well stocked houses, with cartons of congealed milk and unused electrical appliances.
Just don’t get me started on polystyrene! A friend wrote to me recently telling me that she asked a physicist friend of hers what use was her knowledge of how to solve a quadratic equation
( x equals minus b plus or minus the square root of b squared minus 4 ac ALL OVER 2a – never let it be said that I learned nothing in Cardiff High School for Boys!) The friend replied that if she had a sheet of cardboard she would be able to make a box of the maximum volume. I think that that sort of knowledge is used in packaging. If what you have purchased is encased in a three dimensional puzzle of hollowed out polystyrene then getting it out of the box is an almost impossible trick to pull off. It is usually such a tight fit that tearing is the only way out – thus dislodging the heavy duty staples which inevitably find their way into your flesh.Now for the Belén.
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