Astringent

For the last couple of days my hands have been really greasy and it's annoying the hell out of me.

Ever since I was a little kid sticky, dirty or greasy (or any combination of the three) hands have pissed me of and I just have to wash them. But since the middle of the week, no matter how much I scrub the buggers, my hands are just horribly greasy. I might as well just have stuck them in a chip pan or used a block of lard like play-do.

I normally buy cheap soap in large tranches, you know the stuff - 99p for a ton and probably made of boiled horses. Last weekend I realised just as it was too late to go to the shops, that I was down to a tiny sliver and that my hoard was depleted, so I went round the corner shop and bought some zest to tidy me over until I can get a supply of horse-glue soap.

Now this zest soap is OK, it's smells fresh and is lemion scented - lucky it's winter or I'd have insects trying to pollinate me, but it's pansy stuff compared to my usual non-brand. It occurs to me that this is the problem. Maybe I haven't got greasy hands at all; they are probably supposed to be like this but I'm so used to washing with industrial strength astringents that my skin is normally like tracing paper.

I must go and get some of my usual stuff; this is annoying me intensely. I am fed up with leaving finger prints everywhere that you can see without forensic powder.

Astringent

For the last couple of days my hands have been really greasy and it's annoying the hell out of me.

Ever since I was a little kid sticky, dirty or greasy (or any combination of the three) hands have pissed me of and I just have to wash them. But since the middle of the week, no matter how much I scrub the buggers, my hands are just horribly greasy. I might as well just have stuck them in a chip pan or used a block of lard like play-do.

I normally buy cheap soap in large tranches, you know the stuff - 99p for a ton and probably made of boiled horses. Last weekend I realised just as it was too late to go to the shops, that I was down to a tiny sliver and that my hoard was depleted, so I went round the corner shop and bought some zest to tidy me over until I can get a supply of horse-glue soap.

Now this zest soap is OK, it's smells fresh and is lemion scented - lucky it's winter or I'd have insects trying to pollinate me, but it's pansy stuff compared to my usual non-brand. It occurs to me that this is the problem. Maybe I haven't got greasy hands at all; they are probably supposed to be like this but I'm so used to washing with industrial strength astringents that my skin is normally like tracing paper.

I must go and get some of my usual stuff; this is annoying me intensely. I am fed up with leaving finger prints everywhere that you can see without forensic powder.

(no subject)

I went up the West End this afternoon .

Stupid, really. London's main shopping centre on the second Saturday before Christmas. I bought a couple of CDs (for me, still no pressies bought) and beat a hasty retreat.

Of course, waiting for the bus on Charing Cross Road, I found myself standing outside an Ann Summers shop. Ahem. Now, because Bryan's brain clearly works in mysterious ways, the sight of the mannequin wearing scanties in the window set off a chain of thought that I am about to pin to this page and then go out and obliterate with alcohol.

You see, the mannequin, amongst (few) other things, was dressed in a frilly thong. Now, being a bloke, I would be lying if I said I hadn't noticed the trend for Young Ladies to have these things poking out of the top of their jeans over the summer. But it didn't occur to me just how unsexy the buggers actually are, despite the fashion.

You see, it occurred to me while having a smoke and waiting for the bus that after day's shopping, walking around town, or an evening's dancing in a club, or whatever, the bloody things would be buffed like a drill-sergeant's laces. And that was when I decided that they couldn't possibly be sexy.

And with that thought, I'm off to the pub.

(no subject)

I went up the West End this afternoon .

Stupid, really. London's main shopping centre on the second Saturday before Christmas. I bought a couple of CDs (for me, still no pressies bought) and beat a hasty retreat.

Of course, waiting for the bus on Charing Cross Road, I found myself standing outside an Ann Summers shop. Ahem. Now, because Bryan's brain clearly works in mysterious ways, the sight of the mannequin wearing scanties in the window set off a chain of thought that I am about to pin to this page and then go out and obliterate with alcohol.

You see, the mannequin, amongst (few) other things, was dressed in a frilly thong. Now, being a bloke, I would be lying if I said I hadn't noticed the trend for Young Ladies to have these things poking out of the top of their jeans over the summer. But it didn't occur to me just how unsexy the buggers actually are, despite the fashion.

You see, it occurred to me while having a smoke and waiting for the bus that after day's shopping, walking around town, or an evening's dancing in a club, or whatever, the bloody things would be buffed like a drill-sergeant's laces. And that was when I decided that they couldn't possibly be sexy.

And with that thought, I'm off to the pub.