Soap

I can’t read the title of this blog without humming, “der der der de de der der de der,” and clicking my fingers to see if I can achieve invisibility. It’s weird, I know. Somehow, an American comedy sitcom from the early eighties has stuck with me so that any time anyone mentions the fatty stuff used to wash hands I’m instantly transported back to my teenage self, watching what I think was probably the best thing on TV. I haven’t watched it since, so maybe the four series wouldn’t stand the test of time but that would make me very sad.

I was actually going to write about soap. Real soap; long chain fatty acid salts, with a hydrophilic head and a hydrophobic tail. Since this new virus hit, we have been encouraged to wash our hands properly and so soap has been hard to get. At first, it was difficult to find anti-bacterial hand-wash and good, old fashioned solid soap bars, that leave a ring around your basin were still in the shops and then the deputy chief medical officer explained that viruses didn’t care if your hand gel was antibacterial because they weren’t bacteria. She said that soap is an emulsifier and so breaks up viruses and that a hard bar of soap used properly was even better. Then the soap flew off the shelves.  It became difficult to get the brand you like.

I’m sure it’s all the same stuff and does the same job but I’m fussy about soap.

 My favourite bar of soap was always Imperial Leather. I like the smell: It’s robust, like an expensive men’s cologne. The bar also comes with a handy little label that acts as a stand to protect your soap dish from scum. Unfortunately, the Long Suffering Husband was never that keen. Eventually, we compromised on Palmolive. Not the green bar because it smells of Lily of the Valley and reminds me of my Nan and Grandad in their sheltered accommodation flat but the white bar. All soaps are probably made with palm oil but it was impossible to keep using Palmolive without thinking about the poor orangutans so we switched to  the Dove Moisture Bar. It worked on many levels. It was white (goes with a grey bathroom), it didn’t leave hands dry and cracked because of the moisturiser and had a light clean smell.

The LSH came back from the supermarket with a hangdog expression. He had found the whole experience rather depressing. Normally, he loves the supermarket and will ‘pop’ there, sometimes twice in a day. “I’m just popping to Tesco,” is my secret middle name for him. To have to save that trip for such a long time and then be confronted by rules and people in masks and gloves was upsetting. And then the pressure to get everything on the list because it would be at least a week before it was seemly to pop in again was the final straw.

“There’s still not much soap,” he said handing me four bars of Pears.
“Ooh! Pears! expensive!” I said.
My mum used to get different soaps on her weekly shop and would sometimes treat us to an expensive brand. Pears was one of those that we didn’t get very often. I remembered it a shimmering clear amber bar that smelt of grass and fresh laundry.
He cheered up a bit.
Temporarily.
“What has happened to Pears soap?” I said, emerging from the bathroom sniffing my hands in disgust. “It used to smell like a summer day and now it’s like the boys toilets at primary school. Why have they made it smell like carbolic soap?”
The LSH disagreed. He thought it had always smelled like that.
“I like it,” he said defiantly.

Looks like we are stuck with it for a while but as there are more people in the house who are all washing more often it probably won’t be long before we can try the next bar that is left in the supermarket.

I had been writing about routines and was thinking that ‘Soaps’ are probably part of everyone’s routine that have taken on a surreal quality. Because they are recorded such a long time in advance they can’t reflect what is happening at the moment and a topical insert just isn’t going to cut it.
The two Soaps that I like are Holby City and The Archers. Holby City is, and always has been, the hospital I’m going to if I’m sick. They diagnose and treat you in the same day and now we discover that they have proper working ventilators https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-52250706 which they can donate to the Nightingale Hospital because they don’t have a single case of Coronavirus. It’s such a shame that Bernie Wolfe died because she she would have had that new field hospital running like clockwork.

The Archers is part of my Sunday morning routine. The omnibus is slightly shorter than normal, as they try to eek out their recorded episodes and it is all a bit grim at the moment, with Lynda in hospital, wishing she has died and the lovely Kirsty having another awful man in her life. But if you fancy it you can meet me in The Bull at 10 for a pint of Shires and a bag of dry roasted. I will have washed my hands.