The Unknown History of the Majestic Pan Scourer

Limping up the road, the man looked at the cherry blossom. The man looked at the cherry blossom and worried.{<2>} The cherry blossom hung fat in the heavy morning air and the man worried that the tree did not know what it was doing, that it had blossomed too soon. This northern climate was indifferent to its unkindness and the man worried that the tree had blossomed according to its own, wrong timetable.

Glad for the chance to rest, the man paused. The tree looked old. Once, some times ago, the man would have said 40 was old. But now the man considered anything to be old to be at least 100 years old. Anything younger than that, anything much younger, more than half younger than that, could not be old, at all. Could it?


The Man was relieved. This tree was a symbol of something, stretching far behind him. Its blossom may hang fat but the tree had been here a hundred years, at least and would survive.


Then the man saw the light. The light was streaming through the beech tree on the other side of the road. It looked dusty. The man knew all about how fast light travels. He thought he understood speed, he’d thought he’d understood it right up until the limp had started. The man looked at the old tree and the new light and he could see the smallest things, all of a sudden he could see the dust and the blossom and every single thing in between.


He saw, but he did not understand, and, the more he saw it seemed the less he understood. For example the pan scourer.

The scourer is, undisputedly, one of the greatest man made objects ever to have existed. Everything about it was the opposite of the tree and of the light; false and man made, and the man loved that. The sponge, so soft it looks edible in either cheerful yellow or a green the man always found slightly sinister. He preferred the green, the sinisterism of it reminded him of how hospitals were painted. And, mistakenly for sure, he mistook hospitals to be a synonym for cleanliness.

Atop the sponge, the raw harshnhess of the scourer material. So unobtusively brutal. The joy of taking a new one and seeing the improvement over the soft old one. The illicit thrill of using a new one on a non stick frying pan. The man had never had an affair, the thought appalled him. Using a new scourer to clean an old non stick frying pan, (despite being told over and over and over again not to do so) was an illicit a thrill as he enjoyed. But what a thrill.

The scourer is, undisputedly, one of the greatest man made objects ever to have existed. Yet who could you name who was involved in it’s design?

Who invented the pan scourer


Not one soul. Where is the monument to the genius who, silently and without fuss, increased the joy in living in such a egalitarian manner? Where are the webpages and streets named after this man who, unbeknownst to all, incremented human development so fundamentally but so quietly so as to be overlooked? We do not move forward in leaps and bounds. We inch forwards, crawl over obstacles moving so slowly that the scale of the obstacles we overcome is lost. As we reach the peak and then descend, the route behind looks flat. But it is not. It is not indeed. The cherry tree, with its too early blossom, would understand, with it’s shade. But the light. The light would not.


A sudden memory of an ache, forgotten. A smile within a dream.


The man wondered. And then he went up the road to buy some more scourers.


I realised I keep saying man, might have been a woman. you never know.

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