Wrapper rage/What is it? Hang on a sec, can't type: just injured a nail on one of those little pots of jam with lids you'd need the upper-arm strength of Madonna to open. In packaging terms milk cartons are even worse, with more white stuff ending up on the floor than in the jug. Mr T. Pak should be done for crimes against your sanity. And don't get us started on the big plastic milk bottles.
It's murder trying to cut through that plastic wraparound bit, and when you do it always ends up in the bottle or in your cup of tea. Why oh why is it that every piece of packaging you encounter these days is a puzzle? The more cutting-edge packaging technology that is introduced, the harder it seems to get. Free sachets of beauty products should cheer you up, except you spend half an hour trying to open them with your teeth only to end up with a mouthful of body lotion. You'd clean your teeth, but you can't get the brush out of the packet. You get the idea.
The symptoms? Everything is a struggle, from invidually wrapped chicken fillets via CDs and batteries to a packet of your favourite ground coffee or a state-of-the-art cereal box. You spend too long in the supermarket trying to find products with wrappers that look easy. You decide it makes sense to stock up on all those so-called resealable goods. Now your cupboards are full of leaking packets of rice and pasta, along with bread that's gone stale, because it turns out that resealable is more of a concept than a reality to the people who invented these newfangled wrappers.
The cure? Invest in a pair of sharp kitchen scissors and keep them on your person at all times. (NB: You will need a spare pair of scissors to get them out of the packet.)
Series concluded
What makes you mad?
What is it with today's young woman that she feels she must be accompanied by her man as they examine lacy underthings in lingerie departments? Is it to do with power, a sign of her control that she can have her mate beside her, checking out bra sizes and low-rise panties?
Surely this is a step too far, a man holding hands with his woman while they discuss the merits of Lycra and adjustable straps. What red-blooded male wants to sashay through aisles of silk and satin camisoles? (All right, I see your point.) But what independent-minded woman requires his presence when choosing her knickers?
Life was simpler when our mothers bought our floral flannelette nighties and double-gusset unmentionables in Clerys with nary a male in sight. Next the new man will be measuring us for bras in M&S.
Next time you visit La Senza or BT's basement, girls, do us a favour and send himself to do manly things among the socks and shirts, leaving the lingerie department a man-free zone.
... Vivienne Flanagan, Dublin
Last week Fiona Barrett wrote in about cyclists on pavements. The problem is not the cyclists but the motorists. The idea that cyclists should stick to cycle lanes is laughable. They are almost non-existent in central Dublin.
The ones that do exist, along the quays, are token efforts that meander for a few feet before disappearing and throwing cyclists back into the traffic. The cycle lane is separated from the other lanes only by a painted line. Cars, motorbikes, vans and lorries frequently stray into the cycle lanes - in Ranelagh village the things are allowed to park in them. Surely a kerb between lane and main road would be far more effective than a painted white line.
The final insult is that Dublin City Council considers bus lanes to be cycle lanes also. What a joke: the most vulnerable users of the roads are expected to share space with the heaviest and least manoeuvrable of vehicles.
Using pavements is a necessary evil for cyclists. As for pedestrians walking on cycle paths, that's another story. Phoenix Park strollers take note.
... - John D, Co Dublin
