Lush smells great, is full of young, friendly customer servants, and is totes cruelty-free as well as environmentally conscious. What’s not to like? Their bath bombs, that’s what.
The point of a bath: relaxing, scented, relaxing, bubbly, relaxing, warm, relaxing.
The point of a bath for Lush: special effects.
Lush bath bombs sizzle and release a rainbow of colours and smell nice. It’s all fun and I might even overlook the obvious lack of bubbles (although I’d much prefer bubbles, because it’s a bath) if it weren’t for one thing: Lush bath bombs are chock-full of colouring agents and glitter. When you step out of the bathtub, you’re colouring-agent-and-glitter infested and need to shower far more thoroughly than after a fragrant bubble bath. Worse, your bathtub is now colouring-agent-and-glitter infested.
You know what I do not find relaxing? Scrubbing the bathtub. You know what I have to do after using a Lush bath bomb? Scrub the bathtub.
Fans of a solo artist on solo artist’s live concert when the band are introduced:
Guitarist: Oh guitarists are like rock stars, aren’t they? Right there in front of the stage! Great stuff! *fervent applause*
Pianist: Oh I know what a piano sounds like! Great! *applause applause*
Bass player: Well, they’re quite close to the guitarist, so that’s something to consider. *polite applause*
Drummer: Ok so you’re on stage too *clap*
As we know, women are to wear stockings or tights to a formal do. Said legware is to match one’s skin tone and be whispery sheer so that it gives the illusion of bare legs.
Let us assume you manage to locate a pair that actually does match your skin tone in its whispery sheerness. You must now try and put them on and wear them for several hours without running the tiniest tear.
Things that can tear your illusion include but are certainly not limited to:
- taking the pair out of their box
- rolling the pair out to their full length
- gathering the leg of the stocking to the toe
- slipping your toes into the stocking
- pulling the stocking up
- adjusting the up-pulled stocking
- having feet covered in skin instead of porcelain
- having hand covered in skin instead of porcelain
- having toenails
- having fingernails
- walking without shoes
- wearing shoes
- any and all jewellery within a two-feet radius
and of course
- coming into contact with a cat at any point of the stocking handling and wearing process
Running even the tiniest tear would ruin the illusion of bare legs and be all in all scandalous and embarrassing, so you must always purchase at least one spare pair to keep in your purse, along with silk gloves, a pumice stone, and foot lotion.
You know what also look remarkably like bare legs? Actual bare legs. Just saying.
(True Colours Brut cava. I like the concept, I like the bottle, I like the wine.)
Hear ye, hear ye. As this matter is still, inexplicably, a cause of much conflict and confusion, I will now solve it for yous.
Everyone lifts whatever they need to lift before doing their business.Everyone puts down everything put-downable before flushing, and leaves it down. There. Sorted.
Not changing underwear – I have no gripes about that – but Change underwear. As in the brand name.
Now that we have that sorted out, let’s take a sip of Steininger Riesling (my very lasting love, it appears) and gripe. Firstly. Change. Your vanity sizing. Stop.
Change have this thing where if you are, say, a 80C (about 80cm below-boob, average-ishly boobed), you’d use a 70E Change bra. The reasoning is that the band should be very snug when you buy the bra, and as the band size goes down, cup size, of course, needs to increase. And right they are. They are! But because bra sizes are one of those sensible sizing systems that depend on something real – your actual measurements – how about you simply produce the bra in “70E” and slap a 80C label on it, because that’s the generally agreed upon size of the person who should be buying it. It would make much more sense. Plus, it’s nothing short of ridiculous that I, who am not particularly boobilicous, own E and F cup bras. Seriously, my VLSO snorted when I told him. Snorted, Change.
Ditto for your knickers size chart, Change. My Change knickers are 2-3 sizes smaller than in any other brand. Oh the vanity.
But, back to bras – and this is a big gripe. Change bras are fantastically noisy. The underwires creak, squeak, screech, and grind as I move. It might be related to the super-snug sizing: the poor thing is groaning under pressure. Whatever the reason, you have to get that shit under control, Change. While I’m not bothered about someone seeing a bra strap, they should definitely not need to hear my underwear.
I’m having Kahurangi Estate riesling, and essentially feel I might as well be drinking lime juice. Puckery, this wine is. The good news is that while lime juice is virgin, this riesling has alcohol, so that’s a good thing.
Why do I go and see Bond movies? Why? The last time I saw one, I griped about it; I finally saw Spectre, and I shall now gripe about it, too.
That Bond-aged-Bond-girl Bellucci thing?! What a let down! Monica Bellucci is freaking gorgeous, and her role in the film was entirely pointless. There was zero reason for her character to be in it really, and the whole thing with Bond talking to her for 30 seconds at the funeral and then proceeding to have sex with her because, you know, she was there, was creepy. She was in mourning! She feared for her life! Fairly certain you were taking advantage of her fragile state of mind, Bond!! *eyes Bond with suspicion*
Anywho, in a minute Bond of course fell madly in lust with a skinny blonde a quarter of his age and saved the world. For when things go haywire, even Bond might fuck women his own age: normalcy can return when he has a young ‘un on his arm. Fairly certain it was all a big metaphor.
Not too keen on the theme song either.
So. Bassett’s have improved their winegums by changing the recipe. I realise this happened quite a while ago, but I (will admit that I) typically only buy Bassett’s when travelling, and then get an absolute boatload of them at the duty free shop and overdose seriously. This is only because they can be hard to find locally.
Bassett’s winegums have been the only fruit sweets I’ve ever cared for. I think fruit sweets are boring. If they’re sour, they’re ok; if they’re Bassett’s winegums, they’re freaking amazing. ALAS, NO MORE.
Bassett’s winegums used to be a bit tart (throat tickled ever so slightly) and quite tough. In other words, they were winey and gummy, as you would expect as per their name. With the new recipe, they are no longer neither winey nor gummy. They are straightforward sweet fruit jelly sweets. They may make new, enthusiastic friends, but I no longer have any use for them whatsoever. Goodbye old friend. I’ll miss you. Also eff you, Bassett’s.
Gardening makes no sense. It’s entirely based on the idea that whatever grows naturally and profusely is a weed and whatever does not want to stay alive regardless of what you try to do is something you want in your garden.
One of the reasons why a plant does not want to stay alive in your garden is, apparently, distance from its fellow plants. Flower seed packets will tell you how far apart the plants should be planted: for example, leave 10 cm between plants in a row; 20 cm between rows. Because a plant will be more likely to tolerate a pal next to it rather than behind or in front of it, as you well know.
On the cover of the seed packet, you will also be treated to a beautiful picture of a fully-grown plant in full bloom. Typically this will also be a close-up of the pretty flowers, with the boring leaves carefully cropped out. Lovely. Only this does not help one bit when I’m trying to figure out which one of the seedlings sprouting from the ground are the ones I planted, and which are the dreaded weeds. Because honestly, as seedlings all plants look more or less the same. As young plants they do look different, but will anyone tell you what kind of a young plant you should be looking for if you’ve planted, say, sweet alyssum plants? Will they ‘eck. I now have four different kinds of plants growing in the area where I scattered sweet alyssum seeds. And, because nature is pretty clever, all four plants are now beginning to produce small, dainty flowers in bunches. But they’re all slightly different. I will have no way of telling which are the sweet alyssums until they’re all in full bloom.
Gardening sucks, really. Gardeners suck more, because they obviously have no idea of the kind of help non-gardeners need in their gardening pursuits. Grr.
In honour of all this green talk, my drink of choice is a light vinho verde, Casal Garcia. I think I will now top my glass and go and stare at my plants.
Ok, so there is a considerable number of women who say that calling someone a cunt is hugely misogynistic. As someone who identifies as a feminist, I would like to ask why? Honest question. It could well be that as a non-native user of English there are factors at play that I cannot grasp, but… We call unbearable idiots dicks too – why not cunts?
Also – and this, for me, is a far more interesting question – why do we call people we can’t stand dicks or cunts in the first place? As far as I’ve understood, most people really enjoy dicks and/or cunts.
An observation, rather than a gripe. A typical exchange with a new person in the “casual questions” part of the conversation:
Person: So do you have any pets?
Me: Yes, we have cats.
Person: Oh, how many?
Person: (raises eyebrows) Oh wow!
During my life, I have owned (ok, been owned by) one, two, and four cats at a time. Summary of reactions: If you have a cat, it’s a normal occurrence and people will ask if it’s a pedigree cat and/or what its name is. If you have two, it’s a normal occurrence (for people categorised as “cat people”) and people will ask if they’re pedigree cats and/or what their names are. If you have four, people will raise their eyebrows, say “oh wow!” and cannot think of anything to ask.
I have theorised that the thinking goes:
one cat: a normal person
two cats: definitely a “cat person”
three cats: okay, very much a “cat person”
four cats: a cat person who has simply lost control of an obsession and can no longer be considered a fully-functional adult with any self-discipline