M: I bought a new lipstick today. It’s called Papaya Wind or something.
E: Sounds corally. A coral wind, blowing across the eastern hemisphere. I need to start taking my tablets again don’t I?
M: Yes. Yes you do. Oh, it’s called “Papaya Milk”. Do papayas have udders?
E: They are pretty weirdly shaped, they might have udders. I’m not big on .. nature.
M: Or fruit. Actually, papayas are teat-shaped.
E: Well. Have you ever tried to milk one? Maybe you should.
M: I’m having a really disturbing mental picture of a lipstick coming out of a papaya. That is some gross shit, dude. The stuff of nightmares.
E:What in the name of holy fuck, M? WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT? I didn’t think it was possible to make a lipstick blush, but that one’s blushing. I think we’ve finally gone too far. Why are we talking about milking tropical fruit again?
M: LIPSTICK. That’s why. It’s good, this lactose papaya. It’s bright, and creamy, and easy to apply.
E: Who makes this lactose papaya?
M: Maybelline.
E: Nice. Cheap.
M: Yup. Shame the case feels like it’s made of plastic. The cheap kind.
E: What colour would you call it, the lactose papaya?
M: Erm, papaya coloured? That’s not going to cut it with our eagle eyed readers, is it.
E: They’ll just be so astonished we’re posting again, they’ll forgive you.
M: Or did you mean the case? YOU ARE CONFUSING ME. FIRST YOU MAKE ME MILK A PAPAYA, NOW THIS.
E: I am sorry. We are out of practice. The case is muddy red, then and the lipstick is .. papaya coloured?
M: Yes. Sob. Can we take ourselves out of our misery, please?
E: Of course. I will hit you with this unripe papaya until you lose consciousness, would that work?
M: You might as well try.
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M: Let us start then, E, by saying that I hate your guts.
E: Oh come now, M. You know I am basically, Single White Female but without the ginger bob. So when you told me recently about how much you were obsessing about special hungarian black mud cleanser, I went STRAIGHT OUT AND BOUGHT IT. Bwhahahahahaha. At school, that would have been the end of our friendship, wouldn’t it? You would have dumped my textbooks down the toilets and told everyone I had syphilis.
M: At school?!??! dude. you stole my life. Worse than that, you stole my CLEANSER.
E: I did. It was evil.
M: I am going to tell the world you have a tiny cockstump. Residual, mind you.
E: Well, M. I might have a tiny cockstump, but I also have Oroisurkfmgjrsljtmseriz or whatever it’s called SPECIAL BLACK CLEANSER. Hang on, I’m going to get the pot, to torment you.
M: Oh, sacred Hungarian mud! blessed be thy cleansing powers!
E: So. “Omorovicza Thermal Cleansing Balm”, it’s called. “The best cleanser you will ever use!” says the website, which is not scared of hyperbole, apparently. But firstly, I’d like to say, it’s not actually black at all, as you promised me. It’s more of a charcoal grey.
M: On s’en fout. It’s elegant, classic, charcoal grey.
E: Next, it smells …. expensive. That’s the word, expensive.
M: How expensive?
E: Stupidly expensive, M. Forty six of your English pounds. Oh, I’ve looked it up, apparently that’s the “surprising whiff of orange blossom”. Whiffy orange blossom doesn’t come cheap. It has the texture of, I dunno, what’s greasy and expensive? Sturgeon?
M: Yup. Or foie gras. Or a fat oligarch’s wife.
E: Yeah! It has the texture of a fat oligarch’s wife who has gorged on foie gras, and the scent of a limited edition Diptyque candle. It comes with a little spoon, like caviar.
(disclaimer: I have never bought caviar)
(but I hear it comes with a spoon)
And if you are really really rich – stroke – stupid, you can also buy an entirely plain white flannel with Osueitryiutyeskjthselet written on it to wash your face with for ten quid. You’d have to be REALLY stupid to do that *hides flannel*.
M: That’s all very well, dear, but tell me. TELL ME. Does it work?
E: Hmm. Define “work”
M: Does it hoover out all the bad shit and make your skin all glowy and baby soft and smooth?
E: Well, firstly it is fabulously easy and I like that. Tiny spoonful, smear it quickly all over your face including eye area. Warm flannel (need not be Oxwzrwjczajaja branded). Et voilà, even gets crusty old eyeliner off first time. Now, for the first few days I had a shitload of blemishes, which might suggest the special volcanic goodness is doing its thing. Then again, it might have been my diet of Marks & Spencer caramel bunnies and hot dogs.
M: But are the blemishes staying?
E: No, all gone. My skin is clear and soft. It’s not drying, it’s not harsh. But is it the holy grail? I dunno.
M: Hmmmm. HMMMM, I tell you.
E: Maybe we should give it more time?
M: “We”? “WE”???
E: Me and the homemade mannequin of you I keep in my wardrobe.
M: Aaaaaaaargh, is it like my skin, but stuffed with old tights?
E: That’s exactly what it’s like M. Now come here while I put this stiletto through your eye.
M: By “stiletto”, I hope you mean “thermal cleansing balm”, and by “through your eye”, I hope you mean “gentle facial”. Punk.
Omorovicza thermal cleansing balm
, £45
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E: So, M. You know I am always on the look out for any kind of bathing product that comes close to the majesty of Elemis Supersoak?
M: Ahahahhahah fat chance.
E: That ideally also trims 2 inches off my thighs?
M: Right. You are looking for a fairy godmother? In bubble bath form?
E: Yes, basically. I like a challenge. So I was in Heathrow and I saw this stuff.
“Thalgo Micronised Marine Algae”
M: Is it dead sea salts? It’s always Dead Sea salts. The Dead Sea must be a sodium free zone by now.
E: NO. This is different. It looked …. medical and magical and it had the word “minceur” on the packet, so I got it.
M: Right. Did the ingredients list “Powdered unicorn?”
E: I think it’s actually “powdered corpse of rotting cormorant”, because holy mother of pokemon this stuff STINKS. It’s like bathing in seagull sick. it’s like bathing in guano. Bathing in the decomposing corpses of seabirds.
M: Ha. I’m pretty sure “rotting cormorant” is a Pokemon. Mmm, appealing.
E: It doesn’t smell pleasantly marine, M. Also, you will see from the photos how beautiful it looks when added to water. Is it not lovely?
M: Is that a giant shit covered aniseed in the bath?
E: I believe that is a globule of micronised algae.
M: Oh, no, it’s a dragon. This is the worst bath product I have ever experienced. It’s making me hallucinate.
E: Yes. And I don’t mind a bit of bath masochism and I love a bit of hardcore thalasso freakery. But seriously? When you’re lying in two inches of watery shit, you do question your life choices.
M: It looks like something that escaped from the Lush Laboratories, the nefarious place where they do all their R&D. And when it goes wrong, what do they do? Sell it in Heathrow.
E: Yes. That is definitely what happened. WHERE DID I GO WRONG???
M: Well, you were unfaithful to the Elemis, for starters.
E: I am never going to do that again.
M: Bubble bath hath no fury like an Elemis scorned.
E: I am sorry, Elemis. Don’t make me swim in seal poo again.
M: Secondly, it’s a well known fact that the only thing one should buy in an airport is Duty Free Chanel. Anything else is a mistake you will bitterly regret.
E: Do you agree Facegoopers? What are your favorite airport buys and have you ever ended up swimming in seal poo?
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