Well, that was something else!
I've needed a treat of some sort after my health-hiccuping first half of 2013, so I've finally managed it.
No, I haven't been fondling human-weary dolphins, leaping ravines on a monocycle or hurling myself out of aeroplanes with wild abandon and only a few bits of fabric to aid and ease the landing.
A few weeks ago I came to the realisation that I could afford a new "toy".
More of an extravagant essential than that which I would normally consider a thing of joy, but I have to be reasonable.
Three times I attempted to buy one, and three times I failed, but each visit to the shop has brought me a little bit closer to fulfilling my quest.
The first time I touched the box, then something else came up and I had to reassign the money.
The second time I was determined to get one, and even decided on the model, but they were out of stock.
The third time I even got one into my shopping trolley, but then the reassignment thing happened again and I put it back.
Today I completed said quest, and managed to get one of my very own, into my house, and even with a price reduction....
Go me.
I'd bought one years before which is still faithfully working very well, but I'm quite aware that its retirement days are approaching and I really need one for each floor of my house.
This means I do know the huge price is worth it, even though my last model cost £100 more than my car at the time.
I'd initially begrudged the price, but have since learned that it was a good investment on boring essential household equipment [unlike buying a custom-built trike, which is much more exciting, but that's another story].
Without unpacking the other shopping I set about the preparations to operate my new machine, undoing the box [a mini quest in itself] and assembling the contents [the easiest part].
You could say I knew what to expect, with the younger, fresher machine, not forgetting all the researched upgrades for better performance.
Well, it's lighter than you'd expect, surprisingly quiet and the power cord reaches all around my house from the kitchen socket, but -
DAMN! That thing's lively!
Imagine, if you can, extra-hyperactive baby weasels, on a caffeine AND sugar overload, and who had just been told they were going to Weasel-Eurodisney.
This little Dyson vacuum cleaner is more excitable than that.
It almost pulled the next-door-neighbours' dust through the wall.
You could suck out eyeballs with that thing. Internal organs, probably.
I hoovered a tile off the floor, and it wasn't even one of the loose ones!
It's even "aware" of it's over-enthusiasm and has little handles to pull to make it more easily let go of wayward curtains, long-lost socks from under immovable furniture and curious-dog tails that wag too close to the "suck zone".
Like valves; but on my first "date" with this new Dyson I had given the operating instructions only a cursory sweep, of course, and hadn't committed all the little gadget-buttons to memory.
I'll appreciate it for years as I have its predecessor.
It's like hoovering up with a spaceship.
It's also like trying to control, by hand, a tornado!
Housework is mostly a repetitive evil, but this thing has been fun, and made it a lot easier.
Once I get to grips with all the labour-saving functions it should be a breeze.
I'm just glad I haven't got small children in my house. I could lose them forever and be left wondering where the tapping and those funny little muffled voices calling "let me out!" were coming from.
Yes, I ache all over now, because I shouldn't even be lifting more than "the weight of a half-filled kettle" for another three months according to the surgeon, but I couldn't possibly have waited any longer.
Ask me how I am tomorrow, haha; aches are always worse the next day.
Actually,I'll probably be hoovering again, and won't hear you because I'll be making laser-fire noises or chuckling at new mishaps.
And, no, you're not borrowing it.
About Me
- Rookwings
- Norfolk, England, United Kingdom
- Mother of four [started young], grandmother of seven [nine soon], happily single; mostly, these days, doing voluntary work - with wildlife. I'm taller than only a handful of people, including my mother, with low B.M.I. I like creating artistically [most media]; computers; machines [especially power tools that help me create things faster]; and I hate waste. There's only one thing that really annoys me, therefore I'm easily pleased. =)
Wednesday, 12 June 2013
Monday, 18 February 2013
Dilemma
Tesco in dereham has had a horrible "bad drainage" smell in the entrance area since before christmas 2012 [at least].
The staff deny any knowledge of its utter obnoxiousness, but will admit that they've had the same complaint from other customers.
Being a hardened cynic, I have formed the opinion that it is possibly a ploy to get people to buy more air fresheners/smelly candles.
But that's not my point...
I like "awkward moment" stories, but one I haven't come across yet goes like this:
You walk along one of the aisles in a supermarket and it is empty except for one girl who is stacking shelves.
As you get halfway along you notice the terrible smell.
Impersonating a really vile fart which had been trapped in a jar for years like an evil genie, fermenting, before being released to the public in full force.
Your mind races as you consider consulting the shelf stacking girl in case she hasn't smelled it.
There may be some "off" produce in the area - but, no. She might think it's you.
And what if it was her?
Would you truly want to embarrass the poor thing that much?
So you decide to run.
No again.
What if someone races around the aisle end, in a rush to grab some ingredient they forgot to buy earlier?
They might just get a good look at you, then smell that odourous vapour themselves.
They would definitely think it was you.
Unless you're pulling a really wry face. A look of utter disgust.
But the other shopper might have little or no sense of smell, in which case you'd just look incredibly daft.
your best bet [from experience] is to slowly abandon the offensive area and leave the aisle with as much grace as you can muster.
Better still, leave entirely and continue shopping somewhere else.
Similar dilemmas can happen in public toilets from the cubicle next door, but when it's busy you often hear the accompanying sound effects, and reactions of people waiting.
The staff deny any knowledge of its utter obnoxiousness, but will admit that they've had the same complaint from other customers.
Being a hardened cynic, I have formed the opinion that it is possibly a ploy to get people to buy more air fresheners/smelly candles.
But that's not my point...
I like "awkward moment" stories, but one I haven't come across yet goes like this:
You walk along one of the aisles in a supermarket and it is empty except for one girl who is stacking shelves.
As you get halfway along you notice the terrible smell.
Impersonating a really vile fart which had been trapped in a jar for years like an evil genie, fermenting, before being released to the public in full force.
Your mind races as you consider consulting the shelf stacking girl in case she hasn't smelled it.
There may be some "off" produce in the area - but, no. She might think it's you.
And what if it was her?
Would you truly want to embarrass the poor thing that much?
So you decide to run.
No again.
What if someone races around the aisle end, in a rush to grab some ingredient they forgot to buy earlier?
They might just get a good look at you, then smell that odourous vapour themselves.
They would definitely think it was you.
Unless you're pulling a really wry face. A look of utter disgust.
But the other shopper might have little or no sense of smell, in which case you'd just look incredibly daft.
your best bet [from experience] is to slowly abandon the offensive area and leave the aisle with as much grace as you can muster.
Better still, leave entirely and continue shopping somewhere else.
Similar dilemmas can happen in public toilets from the cubicle next door, but when it's busy you often hear the accompanying sound effects, and reactions of people waiting.
Wednesday, 13 February 2013
Sunday, 3 February 2013
A Smile for Sunday.
I'm not feeling my best at the moment, having had a chronic sinus infection since august 2012, which is probably compounded by the fact that most of my drains froze up and blocked during this recent harsh piece of winter.
Trouble is, they didn't magically unblock during the thaw, so I went on a scouting mission to see if there was anything in the supermarkets that might do the job.
I returned with two bottles.
One contained a sodium hypochlorite and sodium hydroxide mixture, and the other just the former.
Armed with the pair of products I migrated to the bathroom where I felt the first test should be performed.
Child-safety lids.
Don't you just love them?
You actually need a child to be able to unscrew them for you, and as I didn't have a two-year-old handy I make an assault on the bottles myself.
Plan A:
I did hint that I'm not in full health at the moment, and so the attempt was an utter failure - resulting in a metronome-like chorus of loud clicks, and with the lids not lifting a millimetre.
Plan B:
Not to be discouraged, I shut one bottle in the doorway and wrenched as hard as I could.
This resulted in a gobbet of the contents oozing out through the thread under the lid, all over my hand. Not a good thing. One should preferably keep one's corrosives under control.
Hard to rinse off when the drains are blocked, too.
Plan C:
I got a nice sharp knife and sliced off both the stubborn plastic lids in a satisfying, cheese-slice-type action and the stuff was finally liberated, over the bath and spreading like some giant amoeba, but heading for one of the blocked drains.
I really hope it works - time will tell.
I did have a plunger once, which got lent to family and never seen again, but I have another one "on order" from the borrower. Yeah, right. =)
The whole incident reminded me of a dangerous version of the Cheese-Toastie-Monster, only without the nice cooking smell.
Trouble is, they didn't magically unblock during the thaw, so I went on a scouting mission to see if there was anything in the supermarkets that might do the job.
I returned with two bottles.
One contained a sodium hypochlorite and sodium hydroxide mixture, and the other just the former.
Armed with the pair of products I migrated to the bathroom where I felt the first test should be performed.
Child-safety lids.
Don't you just love them?
You actually need a child to be able to unscrew them for you, and as I didn't have a two-year-old handy I make an assault on the bottles myself.
Plan A:
I did hint that I'm not in full health at the moment, and so the attempt was an utter failure - resulting in a metronome-like chorus of loud clicks, and with the lids not lifting a millimetre.
Plan B:
Not to be discouraged, I shut one bottle in the doorway and wrenched as hard as I could.
This resulted in a gobbet of the contents oozing out through the thread under the lid, all over my hand. Not a good thing. One should preferably keep one's corrosives under control.
Hard to rinse off when the drains are blocked, too.
Plan C:
I got a nice sharp knife and sliced off both the stubborn plastic lids in a satisfying, cheese-slice-type action and the stuff was finally liberated, over the bath and spreading like some giant amoeba, but heading for one of the blocked drains.
I really hope it works - time will tell.
I did have a plunger once, which got lent to family and never seen again, but I have another one "on order" from the borrower. Yeah, right. =)
The whole incident reminded me of a dangerous version of the Cheese-Toastie-Monster, only without the nice cooking smell.
Monday, 4 June 2012
Short story
Dedicated to Rik - because he asked to read it =D
Blessed are the Meek.
“I’ve only got a few hours left,” he said out loud. “I may as well enjoy them.” He finished calmly peeling his apple and popped a slice into his mouth. Then an angry frown gripped his brow and he crunched it viciously. A tear fell from his eye, smashing into droplets on the marble floor.
Sure enough, they were all gone within three days; every single living creature, and I was the only one left.
All the wild and corny stories that men had ever written, about the Last One on Earth had finally come true.
And it was me.
It was such a shame. They had just begun the final experimental stage of a treatment for the terrible sickness that was consuming the whole living world of creatures. I was among six others to whom they had administered the new drug, but they had all become too ill to watch our progress.
At first, my companions died, one by one, so, with no encouragement to keep working, the scientists gave up the fight and retired to small ailing groups to await their ultimate fate.
If only they had stayed to observe, but only one dying man came, probably out of morbid curiosity. Sadly, he was in the last stage of the disease, and the excitement of my recovery was too much for him. The sight of me, alive and thriving, drove him into a frenzy of joy, misery and panic. I had survived both the virus and the treatment, so suddenly he was obsessed with an insane effort to treat himself. Within moments of filling the tube with the drug he had collapsed and begun convulsing. I watched him die on the clean white floor. He lay there, his back arched and rigid, a look of sheer terror fixed on his face. His flailing arm had released the catch on my prison and I was freed.
I left the room and the building, grateful for my good fortune and ready to explore. I passed by bodies that had been maturing for days, lying lonely and neglected in the summer heat. The only sounds were from moving plants, abandoned washing and deserted mechanical systems that continued their faithful tasks, unaware of the pointlessness of their existence.
It was a rich and beautiful world. Everyone had been so contented and happy with their lives, until a strange new virus had arrived on incoming transport from space, survived all the eradicating techniques, infected the atmosphere and spread rapidly over this delicate and unaccustomed planet, destroying all animal life with unexpected speed and virility, and before we had actually noticed anything, it was already too late.
So now this gentle Earth was all mine.
I explored far and wide, stopping for rest at one point in what was once the Chief Administrator’s palace.
Odd-shaped robots went about their business as if nothing had happened, running out their programmes with blind devotion, and even attempting to feed the occasional fresh body until a medical check program reminded them that corpses do not need sustenance.
Shortly thereafter a disposal unit would arrive to remove the body and sanitate the immediate area.
The main hall had been decorated with fancy illumination according to the personal whim of the man who had been the chief. Tiny flickering lights swivelled sparkling colours, gently, round glittered walls, with a complementary main light source originating in the floor; a reflection on the wealth of the age.
The soft deep chairs were all empty. I settled into one of them.
This is all mine! I thought to myself. All the beauty and fortunes of the world were mine. All the food and drink, all the visual entertainment, servants . . . .
I quickly tired of the chair and the great hall, so I moved on into the City. The night life was waking, as it had done every dusk for a hundred years. The almost-silent clicks of flashing signs disturbed the air with their minute vibrations. As the sunset deepened, other sounds sprang out of the silence. Mechanical vendors and various shades of music, interrupted occasionally by the warm hiss of the empty monorail cars swishing high over the moving walkway, halting at the rooftop stations and opening their empty doors, only to draw smoothly away again, still empty. The absence of the hubbub of human activity screamed at me, and I shut my mind to the futile noises that persistantly ground on and on, as I drifted into thought, and a cool wind touched me from behind.
“This all belongs to you!” it whispered.
Yes, they’ve left it all to little me. If only they knew. I replied to the breeze. All the wealth and riches. All the fortunes, all the space, all the emptiness, all the solitude, all the wasted world.
This wonderful city, the tall and stately buildings, great leviathans towering their vacant magnificence above me, so small, on the stationary paved zone. Did they know they belonged to me, that I had become their master? The street led into beautiful gardens, created for the relaxation and pleasure of the people who had lived here; coloured lights on drooping willows and cascading waterfalls, but now the people had all gone. My only company was the spectre of memory, and the sad and crumpled bodies, huddled together for comfort in anticipation of death.
So beautiful.
So tragic.
Perhaps I should have felt guilt as I entered the dimly lit living quarters. Small, empty and frozen in the cold moonlight. Who knows how long the two dead people in the bed spent, exposed to the chilly summer nights? I could hear all the little apartments calling to me,
“We all belong to you!” Their blank stares of windows and open doors profoundly expressing their pointless existence. Great grey pillars of power in the distance, destined to function for centuries, giving light, sound and warmth to the empty land and the purposeless automatons.
“But you know I have no use for you!” I cried out loud to the desolate grey shells that had once been homes, “I have everthing I need to live without all of you!” I shouted back at the cool wind, “It is such a waste, I don’t require any of this!” I stopped shouting.
The ideas had calmed me. I whispered to the two corpses in the bed, “I am laden with eggs, and there is plenty of food for thousands, no, millions of my children and their children for years to come.” The bad moment had passed and I remembered why I was here, and it pleased me.
I flew over to the larger of the bodies to deposit my precious burden, one by one, and with no fear of disturbance I had time to carefully place them in the eyes, nostrils and around the open mouth. The destiny of the world was left to me; I and mine had inherited the Earth, with all its useless trinkets. Little me. Who could have predicted that?
A little housefly.
Blessed are the Meek.
“I’ve only got a few hours left,” he said out loud. “I may as well enjoy them.” He finished calmly peeling his apple and popped a slice into his mouth. Then an angry frown gripped his brow and he crunched it viciously. A tear fell from his eye, smashing into droplets on the marble floor.
Sure enough, they were all gone within three days; every single living creature, and I was the only one left.
All the wild and corny stories that men had ever written, about the Last One on Earth had finally come true.
And it was me.
It was such a shame. They had just begun the final experimental stage of a treatment for the terrible sickness that was consuming the whole living world of creatures. I was among six others to whom they had administered the new drug, but they had all become too ill to watch our progress.
At first, my companions died, one by one, so, with no encouragement to keep working, the scientists gave up the fight and retired to small ailing groups to await their ultimate fate.
If only they had stayed to observe, but only one dying man came, probably out of morbid curiosity. Sadly, he was in the last stage of the disease, and the excitement of my recovery was too much for him. The sight of me, alive and thriving, drove him into a frenzy of joy, misery and panic. I had survived both the virus and the treatment, so suddenly he was obsessed with an insane effort to treat himself. Within moments of filling the tube with the drug he had collapsed and begun convulsing. I watched him die on the clean white floor. He lay there, his back arched and rigid, a look of sheer terror fixed on his face. His flailing arm had released the catch on my prison and I was freed.
I left the room and the building, grateful for my good fortune and ready to explore. I passed by bodies that had been maturing for days, lying lonely and neglected in the summer heat. The only sounds were from moving plants, abandoned washing and deserted mechanical systems that continued their faithful tasks, unaware of the pointlessness of their existence.
It was a rich and beautiful world. Everyone had been so contented and happy with their lives, until a strange new virus had arrived on incoming transport from space, survived all the eradicating techniques, infected the atmosphere and spread rapidly over this delicate and unaccustomed planet, destroying all animal life with unexpected speed and virility, and before we had actually noticed anything, it was already too late.
So now this gentle Earth was all mine.
I explored far and wide, stopping for rest at one point in what was once the Chief Administrator’s palace.
Odd-shaped robots went about their business as if nothing had happened, running out their programmes with blind devotion, and even attempting to feed the occasional fresh body until a medical check program reminded them that corpses do not need sustenance.
Shortly thereafter a disposal unit would arrive to remove the body and sanitate the immediate area.
The main hall had been decorated with fancy illumination according to the personal whim of the man who had been the chief. Tiny flickering lights swivelled sparkling colours, gently, round glittered walls, with a complementary main light source originating in the floor; a reflection on the wealth of the age.
The soft deep chairs were all empty. I settled into one of them.
This is all mine! I thought to myself. All the beauty and fortunes of the world were mine. All the food and drink, all the visual entertainment, servants . . . .
I quickly tired of the chair and the great hall, so I moved on into the City. The night life was waking, as it had done every dusk for a hundred years. The almost-silent clicks of flashing signs disturbed the air with their minute vibrations. As the sunset deepened, other sounds sprang out of the silence. Mechanical vendors and various shades of music, interrupted occasionally by the warm hiss of the empty monorail cars swishing high over the moving walkway, halting at the rooftop stations and opening their empty doors, only to draw smoothly away again, still empty. The absence of the hubbub of human activity screamed at me, and I shut my mind to the futile noises that persistantly ground on and on, as I drifted into thought, and a cool wind touched me from behind.
“This all belongs to you!” it whispered.
Yes, they’ve left it all to little me. If only they knew. I replied to the breeze. All the wealth and riches. All the fortunes, all the space, all the emptiness, all the solitude, all the wasted world.
This wonderful city, the tall and stately buildings, great leviathans towering their vacant magnificence above me, so small, on the stationary paved zone. Did they know they belonged to me, that I had become their master? The street led into beautiful gardens, created for the relaxation and pleasure of the people who had lived here; coloured lights on drooping willows and cascading waterfalls, but now the people had all gone. My only company was the spectre of memory, and the sad and crumpled bodies, huddled together for comfort in anticipation of death.
So beautiful.
So tragic.
Perhaps I should have felt guilt as I entered the dimly lit living quarters. Small, empty and frozen in the cold moonlight. Who knows how long the two dead people in the bed spent, exposed to the chilly summer nights? I could hear all the little apartments calling to me,
“We all belong to you!” Their blank stares of windows and open doors profoundly expressing their pointless existence. Great grey pillars of power in the distance, destined to function for centuries, giving light, sound and warmth to the empty land and the purposeless automatons.
“But you know I have no use for you!” I cried out loud to the desolate grey shells that had once been homes, “I have everthing I need to live without all of you!” I shouted back at the cool wind, “It is such a waste, I don’t require any of this!” I stopped shouting.
The ideas had calmed me. I whispered to the two corpses in the bed, “I am laden with eggs, and there is plenty of food for thousands, no, millions of my children and their children for years to come.” The bad moment had passed and I remembered why I was here, and it pleased me.
I flew over to the larger of the bodies to deposit my precious burden, one by one, and with no fear of disturbance I had time to carefully place them in the eyes, nostrils and around the open mouth. The destiny of the world was left to me; I and mine had inherited the Earth, with all its useless trinkets. Little me. Who could have predicted that?
A little housefly.
Wednesday, 2 May 2012
Fashion versus the olfactory nerve.
There are very few perfumes which I actively like, and only two which I would wear.
One is L'aimant by Coty [which has unfortunately become associated with old ladies exclusively] or Estée, by Estée Lauder, which I cannot afford. [My sister bought me a bar of Estée soap once, which I treasured, but my son used it all up because the box and bar were blue and he'd discovered where I'd stashed it.
I didn't even know until I opened the empty box when I was about to treat myself to an Estée bath.]
Camay soap. Oh, dear Katie Boyle, where and why did that soap go? It was beautiful. I have one precious bar left.
I possess a very acute sense of smell which is rarely a great gift, and I'm glad I smoke, because think how much worse it could be....?
Smell memory is important, and I've seen many people stopped in their tracks by a smell that reminded them of something from when they were very young.
So. When companies want to attract me to a product, why do they seem to think that changing the scent of it to something never smelled before will do them any good?
There was a perfume which hit the market some time ago called "Poison".
Well, they got the name spot on for me.
If I smell anyone wearing it my throat feels as though someone has emptied a tub of exquisitely vile talcum powder down and it literally makes me gag. I have to quickly get away, usually choking and coughing and with my eyes watering.
Since other perfumes have sprung into existence trying to imitate the stink of that perfume I find myself being made uncomfortable more frequently now.
Certain checkouts in shops are no-go areas for me for that simple reason alone.
I do try not to make it obvious that I'm reacting to the poor woman or man who has spent good money on the terrible stuff.
There is a nasty, powdery, underlying smell which a lot of modern perfumes seem to be based on.
Old ones never were.
I can't be the only one?
Take Glade, for example.
They make many household squirty and stinky things to - ahem - "freshen" your house. When they first introduced "Shake-and-Vac" I actually really liked the "floral bouquet" one, so when I heard they were changing the smell I bought quite a few reduced tubs of it from a "discontinued item" bargain bin to keep me going.
I only used it because I liked the smell, otherwise why would I want to throw dust all over my floors?
I've never bought "Shake-and-Vac" since because they all smell dreadful, often with that underlying powdery nastiness.
At least you can get a whiff of the stuff before you decide not to buy it because it's hideous.
I will never waste money on their air fresheners because I can't sample before I buy. Why would I?
I have always had to rely on discovering a nice smell in someone else's house and then asking them about it.
Quite frankly, I haven't liked any air fresheners - anywhere.
Ambi Pur have a better idea, although they tend to charge a small fortune for their scents, by having scratch-and-sniff patches on their boxes.
They used to do one of their wall-socket-pluggy-device things which I liked. It was supposed to be anti-tobacco, and smelled really posh and lovely, but they stopped doing it.
Why?
Why-why-why?
Again, I've never liked any other smell by them since.
Vanilla candles? NOOO! Vanilla should be in pantries and special sugar bowls and cakes, not on fire in the living room. And I hate the smell of burning vanilla and wax anyway.
I never ever buy bleach.
Guess why.
=)
Vaseline intensive care lotion.
I bought that because I loved the smell. It reminded me of my dear sweet grandmother, who died when I was seven.
Vaseline, in their wisdom, have changed it completely and now you have to buy a whole array of gaudy-coloured bottles to fail to do what the original lotion did.
And they all smell horrible.
And what is it with cleaning fluids?
What bright little whizz kid decided that everything should smell of fruit?
From kitchen cleaning stuff, shampoos and conditioners, soaps, fabric softeners, body lotions - you name it, they all smell of FRUIT?
I want my hair to smell of clean, nice hair, not a bloody fruit salad!!!
Why would I want my kitchen to smell of mandarins?
I associate the smell of fruit with being horribly sticky and therefore dirty, so leave it out, Procter and Gamble!
I never even liked and have never bought "fresh lemon-scented" cleaning stuff either, except by accident.
I actually buy real lemons or cooking lemon juice [which doesn't reek the house out] for descaling and shining, but artificial scents themselves are ALWAYS WRONG!
I wouldn't dream of ever washing my windows with strawberries, and I never want half a banana to fall from my hair while I'm gently flicking it around to show off my fresh, shiny and full-of-body tresses to my admiring public.
Would you clean your cooker with lemon curd, then expect your toad-in-the-hole or roast potatoes to come out smelling delicious?
Mango chutney, maybe, but NOT blackberry jam, or water melons, or passion fruit.
If only one company would have the idea that retro could be the way to go, I might have a chance, but until then, I wash my hair in the herbal Fairy Liquid [purple one, rosemary I think, which isn't gorgeous, but the most acceptible to me].
That reminds me. Dove Silk conditioner is no longer produced, and nothing else smells as nice as that did now.
Dear old Fairy. The only other product left that doesn't stink everyone out with that horrible powdery smell or fruit.
The only product true and faithful to its own scent is Nivea.
Nivea cream still has the original smell, when I last bought some, anyway. My grandmother used to use that, too.
There's only one scented cleaning product that I like at the moment. Bold Infusions washing machine cushion thingies. The creamy-white one.
I suppose they'll be changing it soon. I won't buy it any more if they do because it is incredibly expensive for simple clothes washing.
Excuse me, now. I've got to go out and buy some star fruit and lychees because
I need to clean my car...... ;)
One is L'aimant by Coty [which has unfortunately become associated with old ladies exclusively] or Estée, by Estée Lauder, which I cannot afford. [My sister bought me a bar of Estée soap once, which I treasured, but my son used it all up because the box and bar were blue and he'd discovered where I'd stashed it.
I didn't even know until I opened the empty box when I was about to treat myself to an Estée bath.]
Camay soap. Oh, dear Katie Boyle, where and why did that soap go? It was beautiful. I have one precious bar left.
I possess a very acute sense of smell which is rarely a great gift, and I'm glad I smoke, because think how much worse it could be....?
Smell memory is important, and I've seen many people stopped in their tracks by a smell that reminded them of something from when they were very young.
So. When companies want to attract me to a product, why do they seem to think that changing the scent of it to something never smelled before will do them any good?
There was a perfume which hit the market some time ago called "Poison".
Well, they got the name spot on for me.
If I smell anyone wearing it my throat feels as though someone has emptied a tub of exquisitely vile talcum powder down and it literally makes me gag. I have to quickly get away, usually choking and coughing and with my eyes watering.
Since other perfumes have sprung into existence trying to imitate the stink of that perfume I find myself being made uncomfortable more frequently now.
Certain checkouts in shops are no-go areas for me for that simple reason alone.
I do try not to make it obvious that I'm reacting to the poor woman or man who has spent good money on the terrible stuff.
There is a nasty, powdery, underlying smell which a lot of modern perfumes seem to be based on.
Old ones never were.
I can't be the only one?
Take Glade, for example.
They make many household squirty and stinky things to - ahem - "freshen" your house. When they first introduced "Shake-and-Vac" I actually really liked the "floral bouquet" one, so when I heard they were changing the smell I bought quite a few reduced tubs of it from a "discontinued item" bargain bin to keep me going.
I only used it because I liked the smell, otherwise why would I want to throw dust all over my floors?
I've never bought "Shake-and-Vac" since because they all smell dreadful, often with that underlying powdery nastiness.
At least you can get a whiff of the stuff before you decide not to buy it because it's hideous.
I will never waste money on their air fresheners because I can't sample before I buy. Why would I?
I have always had to rely on discovering a nice smell in someone else's house and then asking them about it.
Quite frankly, I haven't liked any air fresheners - anywhere.
Ambi Pur have a better idea, although they tend to charge a small fortune for their scents, by having scratch-and-sniff patches on their boxes.
They used to do one of their wall-socket-pluggy-device things which I liked. It was supposed to be anti-tobacco, and smelled really posh and lovely, but they stopped doing it.
Why?
Why-why-why?
Again, I've never liked any other smell by them since.
Vanilla candles? NOOO! Vanilla should be in pantries and special sugar bowls and cakes, not on fire in the living room. And I hate the smell of burning vanilla and wax anyway.
I never ever buy bleach.
Guess why.
=)
Vaseline intensive care lotion.
I bought that because I loved the smell. It reminded me of my dear sweet grandmother, who died when I was seven.
Vaseline, in their wisdom, have changed it completely and now you have to buy a whole array of gaudy-coloured bottles to fail to do what the original lotion did.
And they all smell horrible.
And what is it with cleaning fluids?
What bright little whizz kid decided that everything should smell of fruit?
From kitchen cleaning stuff, shampoos and conditioners, soaps, fabric softeners, body lotions - you name it, they all smell of FRUIT?
I want my hair to smell of clean, nice hair, not a bloody fruit salad!!!
Why would I want my kitchen to smell of mandarins?
I associate the smell of fruit with being horribly sticky and therefore dirty, so leave it out, Procter and Gamble!
I never even liked and have never bought "fresh lemon-scented" cleaning stuff either, except by accident.
I actually buy real lemons or cooking lemon juice [which doesn't reek the house out] for descaling and shining, but artificial scents themselves are ALWAYS WRONG!
I wouldn't dream of ever washing my windows with strawberries, and I never want half a banana to fall from my hair while I'm gently flicking it around to show off my fresh, shiny and full-of-body tresses to my admiring public.
Would you clean your cooker with lemon curd, then expect your toad-in-the-hole or roast potatoes to come out smelling delicious?
Mango chutney, maybe, but NOT blackberry jam, or water melons, or passion fruit.
If only one company would have the idea that retro could be the way to go, I might have a chance, but until then, I wash my hair in the herbal Fairy Liquid [purple one, rosemary I think, which isn't gorgeous, but the most acceptible to me].
That reminds me. Dove Silk conditioner is no longer produced, and nothing else smells as nice as that did now.
Dear old Fairy. The only other product left that doesn't stink everyone out with that horrible powdery smell or fruit.
The only product true and faithful to its own scent is Nivea.
Nivea cream still has the original smell, when I last bought some, anyway. My grandmother used to use that, too.
There's only one scented cleaning product that I like at the moment. Bold Infusions washing machine cushion thingies. The creamy-white one.
I suppose they'll be changing it soon. I won't buy it any more if they do because it is incredibly expensive for simple clothes washing.
Excuse me, now. I've got to go out and buy some star fruit and lychees because
I need to clean my car...... ;)
Monday, 2 April 2012
Resurfacing
My personal puzzle for today has me foxed.
Last week the road where my house is was "resurfaced".
Not like my definition of the word "resurfaced", you understand, but something else entirely.
There are quite a few dents, bulges and potholes reappearing since last year when they did exactly the same thing.
The work:
Basically, a small gang of guys in yellow high-visibility gear and safety helmets wanders around with spades, sprinkling little piles of powdered tarmac grit over the blemishes.
WHAT IS THAT?
Now, I'm no pessimist, but I wasn't surprised when this disappeared again over the following few weeks after they were here last year.
When the sun glinted on it, you could see the bald road surface gleaming brightly where the new loose grit had sandpapered off what was left of the previous resurfacing job, several years before that.
At least that was level, though.
This year's effort was left in little mountains and spade-action swathes and looked something like a Jackson Pollack in monochrome.
This time the grit quickly collected into settling points, mostly along the gutter, and helped on its way there by drivers ignoring the temporary speed limit triangles [20mph] and skiing along at well over the legal 30 limit, sending high-speed pieces of gravelly shrapnel over gardens, into glass window panes and pedestrians' eyes. [I'm exaggerating now, but it doesn't feel safe out there =D]
Of course, a lot of this stuff is collecting in the roadside drains which were emptied and cleared only last month.
I'm sure there's a perfectly good reason for this, but it seems a horrible waste of tax-payers' money and I'm certain we didn't vote for it.
Imagine my surprise when, today, the thunderous drone of a road sweeper threatened in the distance, gradually gaining decibels as it approached.
With the infra-sound vibrating my house and my lungs I watched, incredulous, as it sucked up most of the loose grit from the gutters and roadsides.
Never mind my wonder at how the hell all that stone dust, with the weight of it, would FIT into that machine [especially with a panic-induced fuel shortage hitting us already, a week before this alleged tanker-drivers' strike is supposed to begin; Tuesday, the 3rd of April, I was told, which is tomorrow], I'm at a massive loss as to what special new idea some fresh little genius in the Department of Transport [whatever it's called now] has come up with.
I looked at the road in the wake of the gobbling road sweeper and saw that, sure enough, most of the grit which was applied with reckless abandon last week has gone.
Really. Am I missing something?
But perhaps my questions have been answered already.
A short while later a new rumbling hit the air outside.
I looked out again and discovered that little gaggle of surfacers are back [still with their high-visibility gear on] with their spades, but one of them has a bucket.
In this bucket is a hellish-looking black liquid - probably bitumen - which he is pouring over small areas of more severe damage on our road. The others are, more carefully, spreading that same grey grit dust over these patches.
It a least looks a bit more stable than the job they did last week, but as soon as the hot weather comes [I can hope ;) ] it will be slid off again and redistributed by our vehicle wheels.
One year, in the centre of Swaffham, where they had done a job very similar to this on a heavy-use road, the layer of black "glue" was a lot thicker.
It was hilarious for a while, seeing traffic, including heavy goods vehicles, stopped for the traffic lights and other junctions, creeping along extremely slowly with melted tarmac peeling off the road onto their wheels like pastry around a rolling pin. =D
The road was a complete mess.
Pedestrians were getting stuck in it like ants in honey.
Hilarious, that was, until you got indoors somewhere and discovered that your car, and your shoes, were coated in the stuff.
Only petrol would clean it off, out of my own car, of course, but not until after A LOT of transfer, haha.
It made me understand how Midas must have felt, except I didn't get any gold =D.
So why did they put the dust down, then sweep it up?
Was it some sort of obscure "preparation" technique to "sandpaper" the surface a bit flatter?
Was it a very expensive April Fool joke?
I rather suspect it was a huge mistake by someone trying to cut corners and save budgets.
The latter is the most likely explanation as my local council have got previous for those.
The error-maker won't lose his/her job, though.
Our local government seems to be a tad "family"-oriented. Once you're "in", you're there for life.
Oh, I've just heard that road sweeper again.
What fun!
It's on its way back =D
Last week the road where my house is was "resurfaced".
Not like my definition of the word "resurfaced", you understand, but something else entirely.
There are quite a few dents, bulges and potholes reappearing since last year when they did exactly the same thing.
The work:
Basically, a small gang of guys in yellow high-visibility gear and safety helmets wanders around with spades, sprinkling little piles of powdered tarmac grit over the blemishes.
WHAT IS THAT?
Now, I'm no pessimist, but I wasn't surprised when this disappeared again over the following few weeks after they were here last year.
When the sun glinted on it, you could see the bald road surface gleaming brightly where the new loose grit had sandpapered off what was left of the previous resurfacing job, several years before that.
At least that was level, though.
This year's effort was left in little mountains and spade-action swathes and looked something like a Jackson Pollack in monochrome.
This time the grit quickly collected into settling points, mostly along the gutter, and helped on its way there by drivers ignoring the temporary speed limit triangles [20mph] and skiing along at well over the legal 30 limit, sending high-speed pieces of gravelly shrapnel over gardens, into glass window panes and pedestrians' eyes. [I'm exaggerating now, but it doesn't feel safe out there =D]
Of course, a lot of this stuff is collecting in the roadside drains which were emptied and cleared only last month.
I'm sure there's a perfectly good reason for this, but it seems a horrible waste of tax-payers' money and I'm certain we didn't vote for it.
Imagine my surprise when, today, the thunderous drone of a road sweeper threatened in the distance, gradually gaining decibels as it approached.
With the infra-sound vibrating my house and my lungs I watched, incredulous, as it sucked up most of the loose grit from the gutters and roadsides.
Never mind my wonder at how the hell all that stone dust, with the weight of it, would FIT into that machine [especially with a panic-induced fuel shortage hitting us already, a week before this alleged tanker-drivers' strike is supposed to begin; Tuesday, the 3rd of April, I was told, which is tomorrow], I'm at a massive loss as to what special new idea some fresh little genius in the Department of Transport [whatever it's called now] has come up with.
I looked at the road in the wake of the gobbling road sweeper and saw that, sure enough, most of the grit which was applied with reckless abandon last week has gone.
Really. Am I missing something?
But perhaps my questions have been answered already.
A short while later a new rumbling hit the air outside.
I looked out again and discovered that little gaggle of surfacers are back [still with their high-visibility gear on] with their spades, but one of them has a bucket.
In this bucket is a hellish-looking black liquid - probably bitumen - which he is pouring over small areas of more severe damage on our road. The others are, more carefully, spreading that same grey grit dust over these patches.
It a least looks a bit more stable than the job they did last week, but as soon as the hot weather comes [I can hope ;) ] it will be slid off again and redistributed by our vehicle wheels.
One year, in the centre of Swaffham, where they had done a job very similar to this on a heavy-use road, the layer of black "glue" was a lot thicker.
It was hilarious for a while, seeing traffic, including heavy goods vehicles, stopped for the traffic lights and other junctions, creeping along extremely slowly with melted tarmac peeling off the road onto their wheels like pastry around a rolling pin. =D
The road was a complete mess.
Pedestrians were getting stuck in it like ants in honey.
Hilarious, that was, until you got indoors somewhere and discovered that your car, and your shoes, were coated in the stuff.
Only petrol would clean it off, out of my own car, of course, but not until after A LOT of transfer, haha.
It made me understand how Midas must have felt, except I didn't get any gold =D.
So why did they put the dust down, then sweep it up?
Was it some sort of obscure "preparation" technique to "sandpaper" the surface a bit flatter?
Was it a very expensive April Fool joke?
I rather suspect it was a huge mistake by someone trying to cut corners and save budgets.
The latter is the most likely explanation as my local council have got previous for those.
The error-maker won't lose his/her job, though.
Our local government seems to be a tad "family"-oriented. Once you're "in", you're there for life.
Oh, I've just heard that road sweeper again.
What fun!
It's on its way back =D
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