Katrina's Journal, 05 January 2022

The Cadbury's Dairy Milk Problem

Previous entry

[Why can’t I talk about spy stuff? Because you can’t. Why not talk about chocolate? Chocolate?! I suppose you want me to throw in some fluffy kittens too, eh? Hmm. Possibly. But it was a funny story. You what? How do you know about that…]

I caused something of a fracas in Sidney St. Sainsbury’s earlier today. The inciting incident was a bar of ‘Cadbury’s Dairy Milk’, what I’d purchased this morning on my way to Parkside, and meant to munch on the march back.

I put CDM in parentheses because, well, I’ll just narrate the damn saga and you’ll know what I’m talking about.

So, I stride into the store and march up to the customer service desk, and veritably slam-dunk the thing onto the counter. The CDM, I mean (I’d taken only one bite out of it after emerging from the changing rooms, then had to spit it out). Then I picked it up again and waved it around in the bloke’s face, then slammed it down again.

‘What the fuck is this?!” I storm.

Obviously, the guy – staff member, not store manager (at this stage) is somewhat perturbed by this, to put it mildly. He tries resorting to professional mode. “Can you put your mask on, please, Miss.”

“You what? I’ve got a fucking exemption. And you people need to stop being so scared of catching a cold. Besides, the masks don’t work. It’s about obedience, not protection. And you didn’t answer my question.” I wave the CDM in his face again. “What’s this?” Followed by another slam-down.

He glances down at it. “May I see your exemption, please?”

“Oh FFS,” I mutter, and call it up on my so-called smartphone, then thrust it in his face.

They generously provided me with a smartphone whilst I was in Paris, by the way. Obviously, as is always the case with spooks, it was something of an Indian gift. As I am sure you are aware, reader dear, thems is personal tracking devices. Also data and metadata collection devices. Address book, call list (sent and received), length and time of call, frequency of calling particular people leading to a list of my known associates, and so on. They probably thought their algorithm could collate and analyse my Internet browsing history too, but no such luck. I don’t use a smartphone for Internet stuff. The screen’s way too small. Still, from their point of view it was a very useful present for me. Naturally, it’s one of my conditions that I have to keep it with me all the time.

I do wonder whether they turned on the microphone and had a good old chuckle about the CDM incident. I shall have to ask next time I get summoned.

Anyway, to resume. He didn’t seem entirely sure about the exemption (it’s one of those QR code things that you have to scan – which he did), but he let it pass. “Well?” says I, replacing the phone back in my bag.

“Well, what?”

“What the fuck is this?!” pointing at the barely bitten CDM.

He glances down again. “It’s a Cadbury’s Dairy Milk.”

“No it’s not. It’s disgusting! It tastes like a fucking Hershey bar!”

This is the point where he motions over to the security guard on the door, who has noticed this little exchange. I peer back and roll my eyes. What do they think I’m going to do? Hold up the store?

FFS.

Staff guy declines to respond to me, clearly hoping security guy’s gonna do his usual security shit. No such luck, staff guy!

“Everything ok, Katrina?”

That got him. “You two know each other, then?”

“She’s said hi a few times, sure. Very pleasant young lady.” There was something of the Sun-reading masculine sex drive underlying his attitude towards me, I should add. Yes, reader dear, of course I cultivated that intentionally. Always sensible to get the security guys on your side. You never know.

“In lieu of my exemption, you know.”

Staff guy harrumphs (I like that word).

Did I tell you he’s a spotty ginger, by the way?

“This, Mick,” says I, turning to security guy, “is not a fucking Cadbury’s Dairy Milk. It’s disgusting.”

“Ah. That’ll be the palm oil.”

“You what?”

“Palm oil. I haven’t eaten one o’ them for years.”

Staff guy butts in. “Palm oil is a very sustainable crop.”

“You what?”

He’s about to open his gob again but I get my thrust in first. “One, I seriously doubt it’s sustainable. Two, did anyone ask the Orangutans what they thought about it? And three, it doesn’t matter if it’s the finest environmental substance known to humanity. It doesn’t fucking belong in a fucking Cadbury’s Dairy fucking Milk bar!”

“Please keep your voice down. You’re upsetting the other customers.”

I frown. But he does have a point. “Ok. Fair enough.”

“May I ask if you bought the item from this store, Miss?”

“Katrina. Her name’s Katrina,” Mick’s clearly on my side here. And enjoying himself too. And doing little to disguise the fact.

“Well, obviously I did. If I’d bought it somewhere else that’s where I’d be addressing my gripe.”

“Do you have a receipt?”

Fortunately, reader dear, being environmentally conscious, I always keep hold of my receipts in lieu of disposing of them in the correct recycling bin. I extracted it from my purse, waved it at him for effect, then slam-dunked the motherfucker next to the CDM.

He picked it up tentatively and earnestly studied it. He was clearly hoping he could catch me on that one. No such luck, boyo.

“I suppose you’d like a refund?”

“Obviously. But I’d also like to know to whom I should address my intention to sue on the Trade Descriptions Act. You, Sainsbury’s that is, or Cadbury’s?”

He smirked. “I’m afraid neither of those options are available to you, Miss Katrina.”

“You what?”

“We really can’t offer you a refund. You bought the item and you’ve clearly consumed some of it. So, no refund. As for Cadbury’s, palm oil is listed in the ingredients.” He picked it up and showed me the back of the wrapper. With a smile. “There. See?”

Smug motherfucker.

“It doesn’t matter. It’s still not a Cadbury’s Dairy Milk. Mick, back me up here.”

“I agree,” Mick smiles. “Too greasy for a Dairy Milk. Not like when I were a kid, anyways.” (He’s got a bit of a northern thing going on, by the way; of which I’m fully in favour).

“Yeah, quite. People have an innate understanding of what a Cadbury’s Dairy Milk is supposed to taste like. From their childhood. So, if they then pick up something that says it’s a CDM but tastes like a fucking greasy American Hershey bar, then that’s Trade Descriptions, that is. So, if you can’t answer the question, why don’t you fetch your manager, eh?”

He clearly thinks that’s a great idea. As it happens, he didn’t need to wait very long because the balding middle-aged wife-probably-having-an-affair store manager must’ve gotten wind of the situation somehow (that’s store managers for you – they probably have some kind of psychologically transferred interoception when it comes to their business premises), and sidles up with a ‘what seems to be the problem, Madam?”

I point at the CDM. “That’s not a Cadbury’s Dairy Milk. It says it’s a Cadbury’s Dairy Milk, but it’s not. Ask Mick.”

He glances over at Mick and raises his bushy eyebrows annoyingly at him.

“Trade Descriptions, she says. And a refund.”

He laughs. Now that’s not my idea of customer service.

“I apologise, Miss, but we can’t provide you with a refund. We do have other chocolate bars, however.”

“You know,” says I, switching to stern mode, “this wouldn’t ever happen in Sainsbury’s in my parallel world. In that world, I own a significant percentage of shares in the company and my production company makes all their adverts. Offbeat funny and cool if I say so myself. Especially the one with the nun and the fresh courgette. But if they ever threatened to stock something that said Cadbury’s Dairy Milk bar on the wrapper but clearly wasn’t a Cadbury’s Dairy Milk bar then if they didn’t immediately reverse that dumbass business decision then I’d threaten to make a big public show of withdrawing all my support for the company.”

They exchanged odd glances and then burst out laughing.

I’m not surprised, if I’m honest. But I wasn’t in the mood to care.

“Parallel world, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“And do you own any shares in Sainsbury’s in this particular world?”

I frown and shake my head.

“And you’re not responsible for any of our advertising?”

See previous gesture.

“Then I’m afraid we really can’t help you.”

“Hmm. Ok. Fair enough. But you must’ve seen your purchase price increase, though, eh? I mean palm oil is an extra, and totally unnecessary ingredient. So that’s higher costs of production which, naturally, gets passed on to the consumer.” I look across at Mick. “Price has gone up, right?”

“Yeah. Especially over the last two years. What with the pandemic and everything.”

My turn to roll the eyes. “Viruses don’t put prices up. People put prices up. It’s what they call inflation.” I turn back to Store Manager. “You’re a Cadbury’s customer too, as are your own customers. So neither you, nor they, benefit. See, I do understand business.”

“But you don’t have a production company?”

“Not yet, no. But if you give me a refund, when I do I’ll make some super cool adverts for you. How’s that for a deal?”

They all had smirks on their faces of course, but this entire vignette was clearly amusing them. My tactics were working, too. They were warming to me.

Humans have multifarious methods of dealing with cognitive dissonance. Just rolling with it is one of them.

On the other paw, of course, anything to brighten up their days in this day and age is something at which they would eagerly clutch.

And if all that fails, there’s always the eyelash flutter.

Did I tell you I’m a damn fine actress? Sure I did.

“Well,” Store Manager finally says, “given that we value your custom, perhaps we could offer you a different chocolate bar to the same, or lower, value. That’s about the best I can do. And please allow me to apologise for your negative customer experience. We do hope you’ll continue shopping with us.”

“Very diplomatically put, Sir,” says I, with an equally diplomatic/sarcastic return smile. “Do you have Milka?”

“Erm, I believe so. It would be in the confectionary aisle.”

Well of course it would be in the fucking confectionary isle! FFS.

Obviously I didn’t say that bit out loud.

So, I wander off to the confectionary isle and lo, there is a plain milk chocolate Milka bar. Full of Alpine milky goodness with a picture of a cow and idyllic Alpine scene on the front. Same happy lilacky colour too as in my own world. Maybe this will be my taste of home!

I turn towards the checkouts.

But then, well. Better check, eh.

I turn it over and read the ingredients.

No palm oil! Yes! Thank you!!

Oh, hold on a minute. It’s made by Mondelez! MONDELEZ ARE EVIL!! LIKE NESTLE!! I CAN’T FUCKING BUY THAT!!!

WHAT THE FUCK’S WRONG WITH YOUR WORLD!!!

WHY DO YOU PUT UP WITH IT!!!

FUCK MONDELEZ! FUCK NESTLE! AND FUCK NEOLIBERALISM!!!

Bollocks.

And you can keep the damn receipt.

Cadbury’s Dairy Milk my arse…

#

Update (a few days later): I have discovered a proper chocolate shop in Cambridge which religiously prohibits palm oil or evil multinational corporations from coming anywhere near their beloved chocolate.

So that’s where I’m going from now on.

Maybe I’ll keep bigging them up and get them to sponsor me.

There’s no way, after all, I’m going to make the national swim team without chocolate.

Let alone the Commonwealth Games…

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