For Want of a Nail

So tell me, does that or does it not look as if the Basilopoulos supermarket empire has included some buckshee hardware with my Portokali marmalada in the form of a hefty nail?

I found the receipt and went down to see the manager before he could accuse me of scoffing ¾ and then slipping a bit of rust in.

I like the manager and he likes me, probably because he sees me chauffeuring maman back and forth, trogging behind with the trolley as she tosses in the caviare and bubbly.

So I show him the jar and other staff crane over my shoulder to look and I don my tolerant writ-won't-melt man-of-the-world expression in readiness for his panick-stricken expression.

He turns it in his hand and nods knowingly before looking at me with a smile: "You make much work in your garden, yes? I see you buy tools for make house better. This good nail; see, is no bend. When you finish eat, you can make good hammer with this." Beeg smile.

Never let it be said that Johnny Greek lacks a sense of humour, and I swear there was a twinkle in his eye.

But hey, if this was Bainbridge Island, I'd butter myself another slice, slather on the Safeway's marmaladiest and - "What the-!! M-my throat ... something ... can't breathe ..." and saunter over to learnèd counsel to discuss precise terms of the mega settlement. As it is, I *do* have a heavy-duty "hose holder" to put up on the poolside wall and, as the man said, it does look a good strong nail.

Life in Hellas!