Feckwittery

The word “Maguffin” isn’t used in daily life as much as I would like it to be. There are several words I’d like to use more. “Widget” is one. “Oompa Lumpa” is another.

I often get Oompa Lumpas mixed up with Munchkins – which is not, to be fair, something I worry about a lot. It’s hardly something which strikes me, lightening style, in the middle of a meeting where I’m more used to interspersing conversation with obscure three letter acronyms. “We need to deliver more DPDs in the LDF but we have to ensure the RSS has gone through the EiP, ensuring it’s compliant with all the PPGs and PPSs, whilst agreeing policies with the RDAs, RAs ensuring they’re properly actioned by the LPAs and the munchkins, sorry, Oompa Lumpas who work for them.”

I digress – but only slightly. The definition of Maguffin seems to have changed over the years in quite a fundamental way. Alfred Hitchcock and Francois Truffaut both originally described it as a plot device in a film – central and common to most plots, but not that important. It was something to drive a story forward, such as a necklace in a heist movie.

There’s a second definition, however. One where your Maguffin is the driving force in your movie, the device everyone wants, and the thing people would kill for.

On Friday, my Maguffin was a pair of chocolate shoes. And I would have mown down a bingo hall of pensioners without mercy for them.

There’s a little known bylaw in Brighton which requires all visitors to the city to gaze in awe at the Temple of Choccywoccydoodah. Normally I’d be quietly asked to close my mouth and exit the store in as dignified manner as possible. But not on Friday, I was on a mission. My colleague Katie was leaving my team. She liked shoes. She liked chocolate. There was only one possible present.

A pair of Stiletto Healed Chocolate Shoes. Perfect.

There were rumours of a shop in London. Well, online rumours. Ok, the website. Somewhere on the Edgeware Road. I hopped on a bus, Google Map clasped in my hand, my Flexitime running out by the second. I passed Marble Arch. I passed electronic shops. I passed food stores which sold things I’d never seen before. I passed shops which displayed cut down products on neon cardboard cut into stars. Chocolate art this was not. Finally, after wandering for some time around the back of half a dozen wheelie bins I found it. It had started to rain. I was happy. Feckwittery had played no part in my day so far. Things were going well.

I was Indiana Jones when he sees the incan idol in Raiders. I was Gordon Ramsey after presenting my ’simplified menu’. The Shoe was in reach. The Maguffin was mine. But something was wrong.

There was a sign in the window.

My friends, if you had any doubt of the evidence of Feckwittery in the world ten words would confirm it for you. “Choccywoccydoodah will be leaving these premises on June 15th”

That would be last week then.

It was still raining.

I phoned up the number on the small sign in the window.

“Hi, I’m standing outside what used to be your shop in London.”

“Ah, right. Yes, we’re not there any more.”

“No kidding. Your website…”

“Yes, we’re going to get that updated….”

“Riiiiight. It says you’re in Liberty.”

“Selfridges. We’re in Selfridges now.”

“Even your chocolate shoes? I’m in desperate need of chocolate shoes.” This has to be one of the gayest things I have ever said.

“Especially our chocolate shoes. They’ve had a delivery this morning.” Hurrah! I’d clawed my way back from the brink of Feckwittery and hopPed on a bus to Selfridges. I knew when I was there because it was one of those buses which told you. I entered the Food Hall. The smells of cake, sushi and olive oil strangely mixed together in a way you wouldn’t think would work. But this was Selfridges. Everything worked.

And there, on a table, was a mountain of chocolate cake and edible artistry the like I had never seen. It was magic. Or it would have been, had the table not been shoeless. Where were my Oompa Loompas? Where were the Munchkins, who, it is said, even have a reputation for keeping shoes, albeit under crushed houses? I asked the woman by the fairy cakes.

“Shoes, No dear, no shoes. Mind you we’ve had a lot of people asking for them.”

“I wonder why?”

This was it then. My search for my own personal Maguffin had ended in failure. The woman would get gift vouchers from M&S and that was it. She’d be happy. We’d ply her with drink. She’d have to be happy. I’d ply myself with drink. It’d keep me happy at least.

But hey, what was this. In the corner. By the truffles and the Jelly Belly things. The label said it was given out at the premiere of the Sex and The City movie. Perfect. It was red. It was pointy. It was (almost) a work of art. It was a chocolate high heel. And it was mine. For a while at least.

On the way out of the shop, shoe in hand, I noticed the choccywoccy shoes hidden behind a pillar. But they were tiny. Not the proper ones. Not the ones in my head. Not the ones from The Temple in Brighton.

Later that evening I handed over a silver wrapped parcel, whilst sitting on deck of a boat which had been converted into a bar. Not the ideal environment for high heels. But did they work? Was my Quest, which Frodo-like had taken me across London and back?

I think so, yes.

CAMERA OBSCURA

Now, on the right of this blog you’ll see a link to my friend Sean’s blog. He’s a freelance photographer – brilliant chap and I must see more of him. His blog gives tips and tricks on how to take good photos. You can tell I don’t see much of him any more. As you can see from this post I went the whole day without realising my camera was set on ‘cool’ mode. Sorry ’bout that. Must do Better.

TODAY’S FEATURED FECKWITTERY

Apart from all the above, you mean? Today’s evidence of Feckwittery in the world:

• “I don’t care if you go to a posh school, wear nice grey blazers and have an ‘Annual Service’ at Westminster Abbey. Get out of my way. You don’t own the pavement. And I am not a tourist!”