A Blast From The Past
Posted: Wed Jan 10, 2018 6:28 pm
Here's a laugh for you - I have so many pots of cream stashed away I don't even remember that some of them existed. Like Little Jack Horner I went into the corner where the Drawers of Shame live and stuck in my thumb (along with some fingers), and pulled out a dark blue pot that said Charles Tyrwhitt, Lemon and Cedar Shaving Cream. I remember the Irish adventurer who decided to sell some shirts on Jermyn Street - I bought several, along with some boots and covert coats. I believe he even sends me a catalogue twice a year which goes straight into the bin. However, I don't remember this cream, buying it, or what it might smell like. How exciting!
It took the pair of us, some silicone pot handlers and a ratcheting lid opener to get the top off, and when we did, the remnants were a bit less well preserved than Mr DiCaprio in The Revenant. Hard, golden brown, with white spots. Rather like boiling cinder toffee before it is poured into the mold to make a Crunchie bar.
And the smell? Some of you may have been scarred for life by hard and shiny toilet paper made, nay, engineered and constructed for the sons of empire under the trade name of Izal. Perhaps we ought not to mention where you bear those scars, but let me say that I feel your pain. The same stuff that The Beatles refused to use at Abbey Road studios. Much as I hate to trigger you, that was the smell. Fake pine disinfectant.
Having a good deal of self-respect (yet, perhaps, in retrospect, not quite enough), I did the natural thing and pounced upon it with a shaving brush, making a tolerable lather as if it were meant all along to be a hard soap. Like anyone else who has survived at SMF, I can get a perfectly good shave with something as thin as, say, Himmler's tears, and this shave was perfectly good. I did have to do my best to ignore the Zalpine odours though, which seemed to belong a few feet to the left in my particular bathroom, where they usually do an admirable job at removing those stains. I shall now throw it out, unless there is an unusually inquisitive shaving archeologist out there who wants to study the remains.
Should I survive, I may dig deeper into those drawers.
C.
It took the pair of us, some silicone pot handlers and a ratcheting lid opener to get the top off, and when we did, the remnants were a bit less well preserved than Mr DiCaprio in The Revenant. Hard, golden brown, with white spots. Rather like boiling cinder toffee before it is poured into the mold to make a Crunchie bar.
And the smell? Some of you may have been scarred for life by hard and shiny toilet paper made, nay, engineered and constructed for the sons of empire under the trade name of Izal. Perhaps we ought not to mention where you bear those scars, but let me say that I feel your pain. The same stuff that The Beatles refused to use at Abbey Road studios. Much as I hate to trigger you, that was the smell. Fake pine disinfectant.
Having a good deal of self-respect (yet, perhaps, in retrospect, not quite enough), I did the natural thing and pounced upon it with a shaving brush, making a tolerable lather as if it were meant all along to be a hard soap. Like anyone else who has survived at SMF, I can get a perfectly good shave with something as thin as, say, Himmler's tears, and this shave was perfectly good. I did have to do my best to ignore the Zalpine odours though, which seemed to belong a few feet to the left in my particular bathroom, where they usually do an admirable job at removing those stains. I shall now throw it out, unless there is an unusually inquisitive shaving archeologist out there who wants to study the remains.
Should I survive, I may dig deeper into those drawers.
C.