A soap opera

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...