I've been on holiday. And the bad news is I returned at midnight on Wednesday which means I avoided the flightpath shutdown and am able to return to blogging in my lunch-hour.
Maybe it's the cynic in me but after the debacle with the Icelandic banks my first reaction to hearing that one of the country's volcanos had erupted was that it was done for the insurance money.
I have spent much of the last two weeks pondering the subject of toiletries - so relaxed was I in Turkey that this was the only thing which could tax my mind.
Just before departing this sceptered isle for our annual break I had cause to feel that manufacturing standards in soap had dropped.
In all the years I have used Imperial Leather soap I have always marvelled at the technical excellence which allows that little foil label in the centre to remain attached right to the death. The soap is actually smaller than the label by the time it is necessary to peel it off.
It is something of which the British should be rightly proud. At least that's what I thought until the morning of my departure from these shores when, scrubbing away 24 hours of grime from my corpulent flesh, I realised the little metallic foil label had slipped off my day-old bar of Imperial Leather.
If ever there was a microcosm of the effect of the economic downturn on the British manufacturing industry, surely this was it. Thirty-odd years of soapy awe was washed away in that instant, and subsequently disposed off in a handful of plughole hair and other washroom detritus.
Fur coat and no knickers - that's the state of the toiletries industry currently. Fresh on the (admittedly clean, soft and fragrant) heels of my anionic surfactant-based epiphany came a brush with my en-suite nemesis: shower gel.
I'm not a big fan of shower gel as it never seems to have all washed off. I'm always left with the feeling that I just need to rinse off one more time - making it seven or eight in total.
But for convenience I decided to take on holiday a brand of shower gel bought for me as a gift by my son. I shouldn't advertise so let's just say this particular brand is named after a big cat and apparently makes women go wild with desire - it didn't have that effect on the air stewardesses on the flight back, however, though the chief steward kept winking at me.
It contained - according to its particular 'flavour' - various exotic fruits from far-off lands. It smelt wonderful but it had a grainy texture which, if you weren't careful, could have unpleasant effects. There are, as a man, one or two areas into which grainy bits should not be allowed.
While on the face of it, the shower gel looked and smelt wonderful it did leave its mark as an irritant with its wholegrain mustard texture. There is no cause to have 'bits' in toiletries unless you really are including the bark of the paw-paw tree in the ingredients.
Labels sliding off my Imperial Leather and bits of pine nut in my shower gel? Whatever next? I might as well scrub myself down with a scouring pad but I suppose the current laissez-faire attitude towards the manufacture of British cleansing products would suggest that would have the longevity of a soggy Shredded Wheat...
Monday, April 19, 2010
Go west young man - and freeze to death
For the benefit of Mr Kite and others who don't take the Petersfield Post, here's my feature on the recent trip west with Petersfield Town Juniors under-15s...
It would not come as too much of a surprise to learn that scientists gather annually in a holiday park in Aberystwyth to unearth the reasons behind why it is unique on earth in having caravans colder on the inside than the atmosphere outside.
It may be of course that the caravan we stayed in over the Bank Holiday weekend contains an anomaly in the space-time continuum and that it contains, in some small parts, pieces of the planet Jupiter. Certainly, its use as a time-travelling vehicle would not come as a surprise to the seven of us forced to endure it. It dated from the 80s and probably hadn’t been cleaned since just after.
When Howard Carter broke through into Tutankhamun’s tomb there was less dust than there was in our toilet. And there were homeless winos in Aberystwyth shop doorways who could dribble with more velocity than our shower provided.
I wouldn’t blame you if you shrugged and said “Well it’s your fault for going to Aberystwyth…”
But we had little choice. That was where the Welsh International Football Festival was being played and Petersfield Town Juniors under-15s were flying the flag for England. Or so we thought. When we de-camped to the bar on the opening night we found that Purbrook Youth under-16s were also taking part. But the English were not there in force other than a few stragglers.
I believe we drew the short straw with the caravan. And not just because we had to share with Nurse Gladys (Andy, the team physio). To be fair to Gladys, he did superbly as chef, earning himself the nickname of Hiroshima, after the condition of the kitchen when he’d finished every day.
He even managed to work out how to light the gas fire, which entailed taking it apart and rebuilding it from scratch every time you wanted some heat.
Others, however, seemed reasonably happy with their accommodation.
Ours was more damp than an otter’s pocket. My brand new paperback had curled and crumpled after only a day in the bedroom. At least it was called a twin bedroom. What it actually contained was a set of parallel bars with some padding on them. Beds aren’t naturally that narrow. And neither am I. I’m sure in a previous occupancy they may have doubled as bookshelves.
The discomfort of my first night balancing precariously on this ‘bed’ - though I prefer to think of it as a razor blade - was exacerbated by having a sleeping bag that was a) broken; and b) a child’s version.
My step-son Ben was apparently aware of both these facts when he helped me pack it into the car but didn’t deem it worth passing on the information.
And the bar didn’t sell pear cider. So I was not in the best of moods when the football started on Saturday. It was cold and windy. Naturally, it was Wales. But at least it wasn’t raining - no wonder the principality’s residents aren’t too concerned about global warming.
“Poor old Dave,” said trip organiser Maria. “You don’t look very pleased to be here.” A very shrewd woman is Maria.
On the plus side, my third and final night in our temporary gulag could be spent on a double bed as the previous night’s occupants planned to travel home a day early, on Sunday evening, after the cessation of footballing hostilities.
But wouldn’t you know it - never trust teenage boys - they only went and won the thing. Everybody was so delighted that we planned to spend the evening celebrating, so the early departure plans were scrapped.
It meant Ben and I had to return to the parallel bars for one more night. Belatedly I discovered that a night celebrating - albeit without pear cider - is a panacea for bed problems.
Not such good news for Ben though, who complained next morning that I snored like a burglar alarm in a fog-horn factory and that he’d got very little sleep.
Serves him right. If he hadn’t scored in the final I might have been spread out on a double bed.
It would not come as too much of a surprise to learn that scientists gather annually in a holiday park in Aberystwyth to unearth the reasons behind why it is unique on earth in having caravans colder on the inside than the atmosphere outside.
It may be of course that the caravan we stayed in over the Bank Holiday weekend contains an anomaly in the space-time continuum and that it contains, in some small parts, pieces of the planet Jupiter. Certainly, its use as a time-travelling vehicle would not come as a surprise to the seven of us forced to endure it. It dated from the 80s and probably hadn’t been cleaned since just after.
When Howard Carter broke through into Tutankhamun’s tomb there was less dust than there was in our toilet. And there were homeless winos in Aberystwyth shop doorways who could dribble with more velocity than our shower provided.
I wouldn’t blame you if you shrugged and said “Well it’s your fault for going to Aberystwyth…”
But we had little choice. That was where the Welsh International Football Festival was being played and Petersfield Town Juniors under-15s were flying the flag for England. Or so we thought. When we de-camped to the bar on the opening night we found that Purbrook Youth under-16s were also taking part. But the English were not there in force other than a few stragglers.
I believe we drew the short straw with the caravan. And not just because we had to share with Nurse Gladys (Andy, the team physio). To be fair to Gladys, he did superbly as chef, earning himself the nickname of Hiroshima, after the condition of the kitchen when he’d finished every day.
He even managed to work out how to light the gas fire, which entailed taking it apart and rebuilding it from scratch every time you wanted some heat.
Others, however, seemed reasonably happy with their accommodation.
Ours was more damp than an otter’s pocket. My brand new paperback had curled and crumpled after only a day in the bedroom. At least it was called a twin bedroom. What it actually contained was a set of parallel bars with some padding on them. Beds aren’t naturally that narrow. And neither am I. I’m sure in a previous occupancy they may have doubled as bookshelves.
The discomfort of my first night balancing precariously on this ‘bed’ - though I prefer to think of it as a razor blade - was exacerbated by having a sleeping bag that was a) broken; and b) a child’s version.
My step-son Ben was apparently aware of both these facts when he helped me pack it into the car but didn’t deem it worth passing on the information.
And the bar didn’t sell pear cider. So I was not in the best of moods when the football started on Saturday. It was cold and windy. Naturally, it was Wales. But at least it wasn’t raining - no wonder the principality’s residents aren’t too concerned about global warming.
“Poor old Dave,” said trip organiser Maria. “You don’t look very pleased to be here.” A very shrewd woman is Maria.
On the plus side, my third and final night in our temporary gulag could be spent on a double bed as the previous night’s occupants planned to travel home a day early, on Sunday evening, after the cessation of footballing hostilities.
But wouldn’t you know it - never trust teenage boys - they only went and won the thing. Everybody was so delighted that we planned to spend the evening celebrating, so the early departure plans were scrapped.
It meant Ben and I had to return to the parallel bars for one more night. Belatedly I discovered that a night celebrating - albeit without pear cider - is a panacea for bed problems.
Not such good news for Ben though, who complained next morning that I snored like a burglar alarm in a fog-horn factory and that he’d got very little sleep.
Serves him right. If he hadn’t scored in the final I might have been spread out on a double bed.
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