I’m not a big fan of shampoo commercials. They try to make out that their products are full of special chemicals that, whilst being entirely safe, can actually change the molecular structure of your hair to make it shinier, straighter, or curlier, (depending on the current fashion). Rather cleverly, I think – if it were true, the chemicals also undo all the damage done by the other straightening, curling and colouring products the same people try to sell you. When all’s said and done, shampoo is just over-priced detergent. It’s washing up liquid with a bit of scent and the silky looking stuff you find in those squishy rubber eyeball things, available from the dubious toys counter at your local newsagent. You’ve only got to look at the shower-gel most hotels insist on providing, instead of decent, honest soap; the claims printed on the average shower-gel bottle usually suggest that its contents are optimised for your hair, face, under-arms and even your nether regions; one dreads to think what effect the anti-wrinkling agent may have down there.
The manufacturers try to justify their outrageously inflated detergent prices by inventing scientific sounding names for PH neutral surfactant, with a bit of colouring and some harmless additive with a made up name – curlystraightium, or something similar. Perhaps the additional cost arises from the necessity for ethical animal testing?
“Is everything OK under the dryer Mrs Flopsy? Would you like a magazine and another carrot? Have you been on holiday?”
So, it’s Sunday morning and I’m in my dressing gown. Why is it called a ‘dressing gown’? I don’t wear it when I’m getting dressed; I take it off first. Perhaps it’s a contraction of something like ‘addressing gown’.
“I addressed the large and unruly crowd, my un-amplified voice carrying to the back, thanks to the excellent acoustic qualities of the House of Lords’ principal lavatory. My ultimate authority was assured by my choice of blue paisley silk ‘dressing gown. The mass acquiesced and the day was saved.”
Eventually something will hit it. Be ready for that eventuality. A skateboard helmet is light, but surprisingly sturdy. Being of open-face design, it doesn’t get in the way of eating, drinking, licking postage stamps etc. and can be decorated with small herbs; I favour the chive.
I’m sure there are spiders living behind my noticeboard. I can hear them whispering to each other and giggling at each other’s arachnid quips. I wonder if they post their own notices on the back of the board, which they consider to be the front? If so, perhaps they have discussions about the human they suspect lives on the back of their noticeboard, commenting on the fact that they’re sure they can hear the occasional, unmistakable sound of a chive falling from his skateboard helmet.
Well, it had to happen. The stitching has looked dodgy for a while now and this afternoon it finally came loose. I’m not sure I can be bothered to fix it, plus I’ve a feeling I’ve run out of that coloured thread. Still, perhaps it gives it a bit bit of a grungy look, if that’s not too passé.
I’m contemplating going out with a painted on red vest this evening. I have a picture in my mind of me, resplendent in said vest, holding court in a nearby hostelry, not needing to strain the grey cells too much, thanks to the thrall in which my painted on red vest will hold people.