When the Penny Drops

I had a penny-dropping moment once and it was blinding. A moment when you felt compelled to look around and check that no one else saw the obvious creep up and slap you. I was in a cafe, staring up at one of those ridiculously high counters. Why did I have to stand on tippy toes to pay for my coffee? Up there, three plastic containers were stacked on top of each other. Small, medium, large; plastic, environmentally catastrophic. They were filled with rice, with the prices handwritten on the lids in thick black texta.

I’d seen similar containers filled with lentils on a counter in an organic café before and I'd wondered then  why anyone would bother buying uncooked grains from a café when the supermarket around the corner sold them cheaper. As the nice lady jammed the soggy rice salad, or was it the pesto spaghetti, into one of those containers, the penny was loud when it dropped. I realised $4.50 for the small container meant “we fill this container with whatever salad you want for $4.50, not, "Yum, a container of chook food.”

Of course those containers needed weighing down. I felt stupid and hoped my stupidity wasn't immediately obvious. Nearby, customers moved in their orbits, oblivious. I was an idiot, but thankfully, one without an audience. I felt grateful for the privacy to be stupid, and relieved too, because another piece of life’s cryptic jigsaw had fallen into place before my very eyes.

Then there was the time we braved Saturday traffic and headed to an ugly stretch of urban wasteland full of warehouses. We drove into the car park beside metres of orange plastic tape and saw a huge red sign. “HAZCHEM!”

“Wonder what they spilt?” said grumpy life partner. We’d gone there to purchase a 50 kilo garden loveseat in a cardboard flatpack and it was likely that on that sweltering afternoon, when he competed for a place in the car, he could be searching for a taxi. I stared at him and felt the familiar plop.

I’d always thought Hazchem was the name of a ubiquitous but very important person, possibly Jewish by birth, with an impressive ego and especially designated parking spots all over town.

I’m not alone when it comes to moments like these. One of the offspring had a moment of clarity in the local sushi train recently. There we were, stuffing ourselves, when the discussion turned to the little signs propped between the travelling plates. The laminated mouthwatering photographs circled like colourful spinnakers, advertising dishes on the menu.

“They always have pictures of the least popular items,” noted one of the offspring. “To make more people order it.”

“As if,” said the next one.

Then he stopped eating.

“Actually I thought those signs were there to pick up and wave at the guys making the sushi. I thought if they didn’t speak English, that’s how you get them to make the food you want.”

"Confessing ignorance is good," I said. "It fosters humility."

Later that day the third offspring ironed the serviettes (so broke that three paid hours of ironing never looked so good). We chatted about those obvious matters that pass us by, matters that have us travelling solo in little bubbles of ignorance.

I told her about the plastic containers and she said, "Mum, that’s just plain stupid.”

Then she said, “But actually, I never knew Bondi Junction was actually the junction of Bondi. In fact, I don’t think I knew what a junction was until last year.”

Vindication is sweet.