E: So I hear. The bunnies are frolicking. The daffodils are .. being yellow.

M: The squirrels are screwing.

E: The teenagers are smoking hash.

M: The peacocks are barking.

E: The seagulls are eating chips.

M: I think we’re doing spring wrong, E.

E: You may be right.

M: You know what spring needs, E?

E: Castrating? A restraining order? An ASBO? To actually get motherfucking warm?

M: Maybe. Or: a bright lip.

E: Oooooh. A bright lip. The fashion singular.

M: A bright lip that says OOOOH LOOK AT ME, I AM DRUNK ON THE GOODNESS OF SUNSHINE!

E: Funnily enough, I have been and bought myself a bright lip, which as you know is TOTALLY out of character.

M: WHOA.

E: You know about my Lip Colour Phobia.

M: Yes. I know it well. I disapprove of it.

E: I fear lip colour. I only want .. nude. And beige.

M: Nude schmude. Beige schmeige.

E: Well, I had a rush of spring blood to the head and I allowed a saleslizard to convince me to buy a bright lipstick. It is Tom Ford’s Flamingo.

M: Tom Ford: the Rolls Royce of lipstick.

E: Of course Tom Ford has a Flamingo, and I bet it doesn’t shit over his parquet or keep him up with its raucous spring lovemaking.

M: Like the peacock in my garden. That is one randy bird.

E: Peacocks: creatures of high libido.

M: Flamingos: creatures of excellent pinkness.

E: True, dat. Here is my lipstick. It is pretty. And BRIGHT.

M: Nice. Cheerful. Not peacock shagging wild, just pink.

E: Tom? Flamingos aren’t actually that colour. They are more coral.

M: I think it’s supposed to be more like, essence of flamingo. Flamboyant. LOOK AT ME! I’M A PINK BIRD!

E: Somehow, pink is less of a psychological leap for me than red.

M: That’s weird, it’s harder for me. Red is easy, classic.

E: I think Mademoiselle was my gateway lipstick.

M: Dude, that’s practically brown.

E: PINKY brown. And now I am trying to push my lipstick boundaries back, like on one of those programmes about phobias.

“Describe your level of discomfort on a scale from one to ten”

Red would be a TEN. Pink is ooh, a seven, I suppose.

M: I see, like arachnophobia therapy. First you can look at pictures of a spider, then you can look at a spider, then you can wear a spider on your lips.

E: Erm, yes. So red lipstick is my spiderlips. I’m not there yet. I have to confess I am not even fully doing the pink thing.

M: What comfort level of lipstick are you wearing now?

E: Well. I am trying to use this Tom Ford Flamingo, but I am smudging it with some Lanolips Rhubarb. It’s really full on and matte if you put it straight from the tube.

M: Pretty! I do not agree that, in your words, you look like a “geriatric goth forced to wear a tutu”. Smudging is good. I always end up with lipstick on my teeth otherwise. Since you are experimenting with pink, E, let me show you MY pink lipstick.

E: WHOOOAAAA. THAT SHIT IS PINK.

M: YES! SO PINK. Even pinker in real life. Neon pink.

E: You look really hot actually. What is it?

M: Thanks E. It is Estee Lauder Portofino Coral, granny’s signature lipstick.

E: It’s ok, you don’t have the heavily powdered face necessary to do it granny style.

M: It’s very creamy, and super pigmented, but it goes all over the fucking place.

E: All over your granny shopping trolley and your zip up furry booties. No, I am joking, it’s really very pretty. It makes me want to push back my pink boundaries (that sounds like a terrible euphemism).

M: Ha. I love it with actual true love.

E: Pink lips: not just for Christmas. Indeed, not for Christmas at ALL.

M: What are your favourite pinks, Facegoopists? And what lipstick colours set your spider phobia scale tingling?

Tom Ford in Flamingo, £36

Estée Lauder Signature Hydra Lustre in Portofino Coral, £19

M: Well, E, we are playing Facegoop to the Rescue.

E: I LOVE that game! Please can I be Lassie this time? I’m sick of being Flipper.

M: No, E. We are going to help Reader Laura with this question she has sent in. Her question goes like this:

I’m begging you guys to help me please? My skin is in meltdown. I’ve had really bad acne since I was like 12 and I’ve been on Roaccutane twice, and a bunch of other crap…so all the zits went away, but now it looks like they’re coming back, and I’m not allowed Roaccutane again. So I am desperate, and decided to contact you guys and ask for any products/hints/ANYTHING that could help and keep my skin decent enough to have a social life…bearing in mind I’m still in school, my part-time work is minimum wage and I consider £40 a cream top-end? Anything would be appreciated muchly! And keep adding new reviews to Facegoop, I love it!! Thankyou

E: Poor Laura. The Angry Monkey Skin SUCKS. We both know.

M: Yes. I have considerable experience in this particular domain, what with my KAPOK BARK SKIN.

E: When I google ‘kapok bark’ I get a picture of a scary black bird with red eyes. Is that you, M?

M: You are laughing, E, but it’s no fun when even your mother keeps on complaining about your skin.

E: I don’t know what Kapok bark looks like, but I’m guessing it’s not a compliment.

M: It’s the bark behind that bird. Craggy. Uneven. Gross. Did you have Kapok bark skin?

E: Actually, mine is worse than ever now, cruelly. I am out kapoking kapok. Small children recoil from me in the streets. I had to cover my craggy grossness with powder today and my brush moulted so I look like a mexican wolf child, but the beard is a good distraction from the blemishes. Apart from a beard, what do you suggest for Laura?

M: Well, I have tried everything. And I mean EVERYTHING. I did Roaccutane too when I was at school. It just made me look dry and desiccated, like a mummy.

E: Always a good look, the Ramses-chic.

M: A mummy with a constant bleeding nose, because that’s what Roaccutane does to you. Frankly, I think it’s evil. EVIL, I tell you.

E: Legal Note: Roaccutane is not in league with the devil. Other satanists are available.

M: I also don’t believe in dermatologists. They either give you a crap ton of antibiotics, or cover your face in benzoid peroxide . Mum-Ra had nothing on me.

E: The only time I went to a derm, he put me on steroids for 2 years to no effect.

M: Were you surprisingly muscular though?

E: I was quite angry and moonfaced. Like a cute, squidgy Hulk.

M: Green, yet cuddly? I saw a couple of French dermatologists when I was at uni. The first one was actually quite helpful. Maybe because she worked in one of those state-sanctioned student health centres, so she obviously had some experience with acne. She made me use this Aderma Gel Moussant face & body wash, made from oats. That shit is good for you. Calms your face right down. Boots have it for £7.50.

E: Oats. People tell me good things about oats

M: Yeah. Horses eat them. They are soft and gentle, like a horse’s mane.
She also gave me a gel called Erythrogel which was quite good. More of an on-the-spot antibiotic sort of thing. My sister the actress slash moddle still uses it.

E: That there is a recommendation. SHE SNOGGED JEAN DUJARDIN IN A FILM AND EVERYTHING.

M: Then I went to see another dermato, in my 20s. Another recommendation from my sister. And do you know what she put me on?

E: Erm. I am frightened

M: You should be. A hormone treatment. You take the normal contraceptive pill, and then you take a quarter of this thing called “Androcur”. Which I believe is an androgen suppressant. I think it’s basically chemical castration. “It’s great”, she said, “You’ll have no hair on your legs, you’ll lose weight, your skin will be fantastic”.

E: Ok, scary French dermato lady, that doesn’t sound terrifying at ALL. Did it work?

M: It worked. My sex drive was also that of an obsese marmot eating a cracker. You know the one I mean.

E: I do. So what’s your actual advice, based on all this dermo-war?

M: Well. I think it’s really about a hormonal imbalance, isn’t it? And your skin being irritated and angry, like a tiny little nazi on your face.

E: Angry monkey nazi.

M: So my advice is really fucking boring I’m afraid. Take lots of Omegas, like evening primrose oil or flax seed oil. Lots of probiotics too. I once went to a crazy indian homeopathist who swore that problems in the gut had an effect on the skin. And he was, like 146 and his skin was as smooth as a baby’s, so.

E: Probiotics worked miracles with my son’s angry monkey back. Sorted that shit right out.

M: And then, GENTLENESS. I’ve noticed my skin has been much better behaved since I stopped using anything with SLS or parabens in it. I really like the Good Things cleanser, as you know, which is sweet smelling and cheap as chips.

E: Legal note: Good Things does not smell of chips. It is supposedly available at Boots, Superdrug and Sainsburys, although neither of us can actually FIND it there. Boots online has it in stock though.

M: I’ve also been using the FAB cleanser and FAB facial cream lately, and I would recommend both for their superior ability to not give me angry monkey face.

E: Another cheap product win, there.

M: There is one other thing, E, but it is very very very dear.

E: Is it ‘stealing the skin of a Russian oligarch’?

M: No, it’s the SKII facial treatment essence. A.k.a. “miracle water”. I have not a clue what is in it. By the smell of it, I would say vinegar and donkey sweat.

E: Sake, surely. And unicorn tears?

M: If unicorns cried diamonds, perhaps. I have no idea what it’s actually supposed to do, but it really did transform my skin. Calmed it right down, and rebalanced the mad sweaty oiliness I was suffering from. I’ve stopped using it now, and my face it still fine, so maybe some wealthy grandmother could bestow a bottle upon Laura instead of an inheritance, to help her through a rough patch.

E: May the force be with you Laura!

Love, your two old kapok bark aunties.

Any other suggestions for poor Laura? 

M: Good. HURRAH! Put some on, quick.

E: Yeah, see. There is a problem. And not just with HSBC. The problem is my nails. Are. FUCKED. The winter has killed them. They are split, cracked, weak and generally shit.

M: How fucked are we talking about here? Fucked as in ‘had a quick fumble on the sofa’?

E: No. Fucked like .. oh god. Don’t make me use pornographic analogies M, I’m waaaay too british for that. Fucked like … my garden after Satan has been for his morning stroll.

M: I see. Are your fingers aye-aye esque, E?

E: Worse, M. I can’t even use them to find grubs.

E: WHAT TO DO? Do you have any thoughts?

M: Yes, but you’re not going to like it, E.

E: Uh oh.

M: Yes. You know what’s coming. You need to…

E: NOOOOO

M: … EAT HEALTHILY

E: NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO. Please no.

M¨: Yes. Leafy green vegetables, shit with vitamin in it, calcium, that sort of thing.

E: Ok, I have an idea. How about I take those tablet things, what are they called? You know, the expensive skin ones that I bought and never used? Not Immodium. Something similar.

M¨: Imaaifhodiufaoidusiud. Beautiful skin, in a tablet.

E: Yeah, those.

M: I had some too.

E: Any good?

M: I lost them somewhere between Jakarta and Siem Reap. So WHO KNOWS.

E: I think mine are in my bedside table, but they might be expired shark cartilage.

M: Delicious, delicious shark cartilage. There’s another fabulous thing I want to recommend.

E: Oooh tell me. It better not be motherfucking rainbow chard, M.

M: Nope, no chard. It’s Sally Hansen Diamond Strength Instant Nail Hardener. It’s like coating your nails in ground up unicorn horn.

E: Oh, excellent. A product based solution: always the best.

M: That shit. Does not chip. And it turns your mails into fingerclaws. In a good way.

E: COOL. I long for claws.

M: So.

Step 1: eat healthily

E: BOOOO.

M: Step 2: switch to a gentle nail polish remover and the toughness of diamonds

E: Meh, ok, I suppose.

M: Step 3: feed them oil. Rosehip maybe? I clearly don’t know what I’m talking about.

E: Yeah, there must be some other unguent I can use. We should ask the Goopists. They might know. Please Goopists, is there anything you can save me from healthy eating and – sign of the cross – WATER? Help! I promise to try out and report back on whatever you recommend.

M: Goop morning E. Yes, we have, but a lot has happened since last we spoke. Things like: me moving back to the UK. Also: winter hitting me in the face.

E: Brrrrrr. You’d forgotten about that hadn’t you? The sleet, the icy puddles. The hail.

M: Yes. I was all “YAY! COLD!”

“I get to not have sweaty boobs any more”

“I get to see my breast mist in the cold morning air”

E: Breast mist? I think ur doin’ winter wrong.

M: Ssssssh. I mean breath.

E: If you say so. So: The Shock. He is Rude.

M: Yeah. My face. She is dry. And what did you suggest when I asked you for a moisturiser recommendation, mmmm, E?

E: I told you that I didn’t have a fucking clue, I believe. Is that right?

M: That is correct. You suggested FUCK ALL.

E: Yes, that sounds likely. I’ve been using some old chip pan fat and a dead seal, myself.

M: So I had to drag my sorry, shivering carcass to Boots. The winter wonderland of Boots.

E: Ah, sweet, sweet Boots and its five pound voucher off Ruby and Millie. I bet you missed Boots, eh?

M: Yeah, I did. Boots is marvellous. I kissed its shiny shiny floor. I kissed its balding security guards. I kissed its be-coated Clinique sales assistants. And when I had kissed everyone, I also got this moisturizer: FAB Daily Face Cream

M: FAB, I’m sorry to say, stands for “First Aid Beauty”

E: Hmm. It sounds like a 1970s ice lolly and it looks .. retro. And a little medical.

M: I can’t quite get over how lame the name is. I am tempted to go over the bottle with a black marker.

E: There is some seriously bad copy on that website. I don’t think “to scavenger” is a verb. In fact, I KNOW it isn’t.

M: No, no it isn’t. Do you know what free radicals are, E?

E: Hmmmmm I *think* they’re a bit like bad bacteria. The ones from Actimel adverts, chasing the glow off your face, like evil, tiny Mr Men.

M: Oh? To me they’re freegans who organise riots near the Sorbonne.

E: Ah. White dreads. Birkenstocks.

M: No. Repetto ballerinas.

E: Fucking French, stylish even in protest. I am tempted to assume ‘free radicals’ are bollocks, But whatevs. Your FAB can trap them if it likes.

M: It’s really a shame about the packaging and lame name and terrible copy, because FAB is, I hate to say it, fab.

E: Really? What is FAB about it?

M: It’s very moisturising, as tested against the harsh Scottish wind. It leaves my skin soft and firm, but not oily. It does not give me angry monkey face – no bumps, no redness, no spots, no nothing. In fact, I can honestly say my adult skin has NEVER looked this good. I keep on passing the mirror and marvelling at it.

E: This is astonishingly good for such a lame ass named product. If someone asks you why you look so good, say Botox, yeah? Not ‘FAB’.

M: Deal. It has all this stuff in it.

BARRIER PROTECTION: Ceramides
MOISTURIZE & PLUMP: Glycerin
SOFTEN & SMOOTHE: Squalane
COMBAT FREE RADICALS: FAB Antioxidant Booster
… FAB Antioxidant Booster. That sounds like an item on Batman’s belt.

E: Holy free radicals, Batman. “Smoothe” is not a word. Also, what in the name of Pokemon is Squalane, M?

M: Is it crushed whale? Well, maybe squeezed whale. Like, if you milked a whale (I have no idea).

E: (I guessed. Let’s ask Dr Wikipedia). Apparently it comes from “a variety of plant and animal sources”. It’s a component of human sebum, apparently. Wow, appealing.

M: I don’t care about the squalane sebum. Because I love this. It is witchcraft. And it is only £15.

E: Fine. It’s a win. It can’t speak English, but it’s a Facegoop FAB win.

M: *Cringe*

FAB First Aid Beauty Daily Face Cream, £15

M: Hmmm, maybe. But it’s the recession, you know, diamonds are dear.

E: That is very true. But what I have here is made of, hang on, let me check: rice.

M: Ooooh. Rice. That is an excellent exfoliant. Also, a great constipator. Tell me more.

E: Well, it also contains: oatmeal, papain (isn’t he a french footballler?) and salicylic acid. Oh, also, green tea and gingko for the HIPPIES. Are any of those great constipators? I need to know before I eat a handful.

M: Dude, this is sounding better by the minute. You know how excited I get about skincare. Oatmeal – that’s for horses, innit. Makes you soft like a baby foal. TRUE FACT.

E: True fact. Real talk.

M: Papain… err… that’s the weird fruit acid stuff? From papaya? possibly?

E: Or the distilled essence of Jean Pierre Papin.

M: Gingko. That’s not even a real nut. It just sounds like one of those spangly new baby names. “Oh yes, Little Gingko’s already at nursery, he can read in two languages you know”.

E: I love a mad baby name. Chard. Fenugreek. Colostrum.

M: OK, focus E. I don’t even know what we’re talking about. WHAT IS ITS NAME?

E: All in good time, M. Firstly, I should say, I do not “get on” with most exfoliants. The granular ones sit on my face, despite attempts to wash them off. I find granules behind my ears for weeks after I have used them.
And often, they make me shiny like a conker, and red. But this one? This is good. So good, I have not shoved it to the back of the cupboard after one try.

M: TELL ME WHAT IT IS CALLED. I NEED TO KNOW ITS NAME.

E: You are going to be disappointed.

M: Oh god. It’s St Ives, isn’t it. The great grandmother of scrubs.

E: Nope. None of Granny’s apricot kernels here.

M: It’s like exfoliating your face with a squirrel. Angry. Harsh. Bit nutty.

E: Health and safety announcement: do not exfoliate your face with a squirrel. Ok, anticlimax name the product moment… drumroll. …

it’s:

M: *holds breath*

E: “Dermalogica Daily Microfoliant”.

M: Ah ben bien sûr. BEN BIEN SUR. Pfffffffff.

E: Do you “do” Dermalogica, M?

M: I don’t, but I probably should. It looks good.

E: It looks … reassuring. Like it’s saying “with this boring grey and white packaging, we’re saying, we’re not here to look good, we’re here to make your SKIN look good”.

M: Medicinal. It reminds me of the sour faced dermatologist public servants I used to visit in my youth in France.

E: Yes, but it does not ask about your contraceptive routine, or tell you you are fat.

M: Or say “I’ve seen worse. I’ve seen better”. You do know St Lisa of Eldridge recommended this stuff, right?

E: No! I did not! Now I feel all vindicated in liking it! It is really very good, I must say. It is a powder. You add water to a bit of the powder to make a paste (like pre-school craft, basically), then you slap it around your face a bit.

M: Do you tell yourself off while you are doing it?

E: You can. That’s optional.

M: And the result?

E: It makes my face soft as a wobbly-limbed newborn foal. Really, tangibly softer. My face feels so delicious afterwards that I stroke it like I am on ecstasy. So sooooft. I don’t know how much it costs though, because I got given it by a nice lady who looked like an angel.

M: Were you on drugs at the time?

E: I don’t think so. Maybe a little Prosecco. I remember the nice lady shone a very bright light on my face though.

M: Erm. E? Were you… abducted by aliens? Is this ALIEN TECHNOLOGY?

E: I didn’t think so, but I have just seen on the bottle that it is “researched and developed by The International Dermal Institute”, which sounds a bit alien. Imagine working there.

“Hello, International Dermal Institute, how can I help you?”

“I HAVE A SKIN EMERGENCY”

M: Intense sobbing. Hyperventilating.

E: People pressing the Dermal Code Black button. This ‘International Dermal Institute’ thing has got me worried. It’s definitely aliens, isn’t it?

M: Maybe you are currently in an alien pod, and they are actually exfoliating your spinal fluid.

E: Ewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww. I bet that makes a good face mask, actually, spinal fluid.

Dermalogica Daily Microfoliant, £38

M: That’s going to do wonders for your complexion. And by “wonders”, I mean “bugger all”.

E: Yup. All I need to do is attach my face to an exhaust pipe to complete the look.

M: “The look” being, um, what?

E: Erm, wrinkly cadaver. What, you may ask, am I doing to counter my poor lifestyle choices?

M: Drinking more fluids? Eating three wholesome meals a day?

E: Pfffff. Fuck off. Who do you think I am, Gwynnie? Wrong Goop, dude.

M: Are you embracing a vegan upbringing in a teepee?

E: Ewwwwwwww gross. White dreads and Seitan. No.

M: Seitan is for Satan.

E: I am throwing MONEY at the problem. More specifically I have hired Jean Michel Jarre to sort out my face. With the power of LASERS.

M: Mmmm. Mr Jarre and his bucket full of synthesisers.

E: Except, hang on, let me check the small print on this here packet. “Es ist kein Laser” it says. Oh.

M: Es ist kein miracle cure.

E: Genau.

M: Let’s back track a little. What the hell is this? It looks… blandly un-laser like.

E: Yes. It is in fact, and disappointingly, Clinique’s Repairwear Laser Focus.

Est ist kein Laser.

Ceci n’est pas un laser

It’s not a laser.

The folk at Clinique are quite keen to make that clear. Thanks, Clinique. I had totally mixed it up with, you know, a magical death ray.

M: Yeah, thanks, Clinique lawyers. Are the lawyers formulating cosmetics now?

E: They might as well be. ANYWAY. It’s not a laser, and, like all serums, it looks like sperm. Apart from that, it’s pretty good, actually.

M: What does it do?

E: Despite my weeks of bad food and no sleep my skin looks even and smooth. I do not look like Ramses II. I have had no breakouts.

M: Would you say your skin is plump? and dewy?

E: Plump, yes. Dewy, hmmm. It’s only been two weeks, so let’s give it a bit longer.

M: I’m impressed. I tend to think of Clinique as the boring middle sister of the cosmetic world.

E: Yeah. It’s so … boring. But see, occasionally, they harness the power of French 80s electropop.

M: If I knew some Jean-Michel jarre, I would quote him right now.

E: I don’t think there are words, just beeps.

M: But for now, activate the lasers.

E: Beep beep

M: Beep beep beep

Facegoop would like to remind you that Clinique Laserwear is NOT AN ACTUAL LASER.

Clinique Repairwear laser focus, £38

E: Lucky me. I suppose it’s better than your bowels. Is this punishment for the perfume talk? It is, isn’t it.

M: My pits. They are problematic.

E: I’m not surprised. I keep hearing how armpits are the new focus of body SHAME.

M: I can believe it.

E: You can? I don’t get it. I cannot fathom it at all. If mine disappeared entirely I wouldn’t notice. Well, I suppose I would if my arms dropped off.

M: Shut up about your armpits, we are talking about MY armpits. First of all, I have, how shall I say, more armpit than strictly necessary. Fat Armpit Syndrome. FAS. So, they are a bit lumpy. Which means it’s a bit difficult to, errr, shave.

E: Right. Got it.

M: They are also prone to ingrown hairs.

E: Ok. More Goop oversharing, right here.

M: So, if you could imagine, plump unevenly hairy pits with little lumps. That’s the situation right here. And here. *Points at armpit*

E: Ok. I’m conjuring it up. I’m not saying I’m loving it, but I’m doing my best to conjure it up.

M: But on top of that! They are also grey. I do not know why.

E: The skin, or the hairs??

M: The skin.

E: Whoa. That’s fucked up, M.

M: I know. I can scrub and exfoliate until my fingers bleed, but they remain grey. Why are my pits grey, E? WHY?

E: A complication of FAS? Or elephant poisoning. Is there any cure?

M: Yes, there is DOVE. Dove whitening “original” deodorant. I don’t know what’s original about it.

E: Whitening? As in SKIN whitening? Armpit whitening?

M: Yes, you know how in Asia everything is whitening this and whitening that.

E: I can’t cope with beauty these days. In my day, it was all fields round here.

M: Fields?

E: Yes. beauty fields. Golden, ripe, waving fields of Nars pencils and Chanel lipsticks.

M: Don’t worry E. It doesn’t really MEAN whitening. Just sort of softens excess pigmentation or something. Also, it claims to “restore underarm’s natural skintone”. What is, I ask you, underarm’s natural skintone?

E: Erm. Something other than grey, hopefully?

M: Indeed. Though yours must be cadaver blue, I suspect.

E: Let me check. I have “never look at underarm” syndrome. NLUS. Yup. Blueish. Like a supermarket chicken thigh.

M: This would sort you right out. I now have perfectly normal underarm colour. Just as nature intended. The end.

E: WHOA. That’s witchcraft. How does it work? What does it do? How many goats did you have to sacrifice?

M: I don’t know. The grey is gone, that’s all I know. Let’s check the hilarious teeny tiny copy on the back label

“now you can get softer, smoother, and lighter underarm skin in just 2 weeks”

“it’s the only deodorant with 1/4 moisturising cream proven to lighten darkened underarm skin caused by underarm hair removal”

M: WHAT THE… Now we know why your pits aren’t grey.

E: No HAIR.

M: You have NO HAIR!

E: Hmmm. Do you think if I painted it over my whole body I would no longer be Anglo-Scottish blue-grey though?

M: You’d need a hell of a lot of deodorant for that. So there you have it: Dove Whitening Original. Actually does what it says. It’s just a shame I don’t really use deodorant anymore, what with the constantly being covered in head to toe sweat.

E: It’s what humanity has been waiting for, right enough.

M: I have Narta-style pits. Remember the Narta ads?

E: Oh yes. Does that stuff still exist?

M: Don’t know. NARTA! clap clap

E: You’re just flaunting your armpits now. Put them away.

M: Don’t you want to do a happy armpit dance with me?

E: Does it look like I want to do a happy armpit dance with you? I just want to lie here with my face on this keyboard until you stop talking about deodorant.

M: Sounds like you’re in the pits. He he he.

Dove Whitening deodorant. Apparently not available in the UK. Sorry, you grey-pitted freaks.

M: Sunscreen. It’s crap, innit.

E: Are you having a laugh? How the fuck would I know. I went to Le Touquet for my summer holidays

M: Le Touquet. That sounds tropical. Like a toucan.

E: When in fact, it’s a drizzly northern beach resort made of wind-beaten concrete and despair. It literally rained every second we were there. I thought my children would dissolve. I quite wished they would, actually. I was told French Children Don’t Throw Food, but actually, that’s only because they are busy throwing each other down concrete stairs.

M: Mmmmmmm. That sounds actually properly lovely. Not the children, the rain. I could do with a bit of drizzly miserable weather goodness.

E: Yeah, all that sun and sand and hammocks and so on must be awful. Whatever floats your boat, punk. ANYWAY.

M: Yes, ANYWAY. Sunscreen. It’s either like mime makeup, or exceedingly expensive. And I need it, because it is fucking hot here. And sunny. And sweaty. Which as you can imagine, does wonders for your skin. I’m uncomfortably aware of the necessity to protect my face lest it burn right off.

E: Angry monkey face has nothing on ‘Cambodian Sunburn Face’. And what are you using to protect your angry monkey, sorry, soft, delicate skin?

M: Muji UV Protect Milk. It doesn’t know grammar, but it’s good.

E: It has no time for grammar, it’s too busy protecting milk

M: It seems to also be called “UV Milk lotion sensitiv skin”. Apparently, it’s not very good at spelling either.

E: Hmmm. I hope it’s good at sun protection, because it sucks at most other stuff. I mean, can it make a decent cup of tea?

M: Difficult to tell, E. I would love to tell you all about its mysterious, highly scientific Japanese properties, but unfortunately the packaging is in Japanese so I don’t know what it really says. Probably something like “yesterday we meadow picnic oh how happy the sun shine!”

E: And what SPFs does this magic kawaii sun cream have, M?

M: It says SPF 27 PA++, which I think is Japanese for “Provides excellent protection against UVA and UVB rays, a main cause of skin ageing”

E: You speak fluent Muji, M. I am impressed. Does it say “sits on your skin like mime make up”? or “greasy as KFC?”

M: Honestly, it’s more like a moisturiser. It sinks in nicely, no mime mask, and my skin feels hydrated but not french fry greasy. It’s a total win.

E: And being Muji, presumably it’s as cheap as rice?

M: It’s about £10.

E: Bargain. Now I just need to locate the sun.

M: Good luck with that.

Muji UV Protect Milk, SGD 19.90.

M: Lies. You don’t have shops in Belgiana.

E: We do actually have a few rough shacks with earth floors. Actually, since the shop wasn’t actually finished, it was a bit like that. ANYWAY, they gave me the best goodie bag ever. EVER. It was quite literally the best thing that happened in summer 2011.

M: Oh, nice. Was there chocolate in it? A golden status of a cow? False idols to worship?

E: Are you mistaking Belgians with Incas? Or Aztecs? I think you are.

M: Possibly. They both like chocolate, I think. ANYWAY. What was in the bag, E?

E: Well. There were many things, and we will talk about them over the coming weeks, but today, I want to tell you about the perfume.

M: Oh god.

E: Yes, yes, I know you hate perfume talk.

E: Don’t make that face. I can see you in the OTHER HEMISPHERE rolling your eyes

M: Why. WHY MUST YOU DO THIS NOW. AND WHY IS THERE AN OWL? I still use a bottle of Crabtree and Evelyn body spray I got when I was 16.

E: Because. It. Is. Interesting. So you can just lump it, and listen to My Summer of Scent

M: Interesting? To fellow smell pervs enthusiasts, perhaps. I think it’s a small victory when I don’t spend the day smelling of buffalo.

E: Ssssssh.

M: pffffff

E: I got this vast quantity of fragrance samples, and I spent the whole summer using a different teeny tiny sample each day. There were some good ones and some spectacularly AWFUL ones. There was even one that was based on Tiger Balm.

There were days when my family recoiled from me in disgust and days when no one would sit next to me on the bus.

M: So, like any other day then. But more tigery.

E: Yes, but there were days when pervy old men chased me down the street and once, the woman in the post office told me I smelled “clean”.

So. Here are my amazing new scent discoveries. First, Ormonde Jayne Osmanthus.

M: Who is she? I am already slumped over on my keyboard, sobbing, by the way.

E: Ssssh. nearly over. Ormonde Jayne – and yes, it’s a terrible name – do this bespoke scent test on you where they ask you how you feel about goats, and cinnamon, and wire wool smells, which they waft under your nose in tiny test tubes. Then, based on your reaction to pencil shavings, overripe bananas and hoof oil, they suggest a scent. Osmanthus was mine.

M: Did it work?

E: Oddly enough, it sort of did. It’s softer and gentler than what I’d usually wear, and I can’t really describe it satisfactorily. It’s like a big, cosy, floral marshmallow hug. That sounds horrible and stifling. It smells like … uh …. nice things. Like Friday afternoon.

M Friday afternoon when you skive off work to stuff your face at Ladurée?

E: Yes! And then you hug your St Honoré aux Framboises to your chest, slightly crushing it. It smells like that.

E: The other winner in the summer of scent were Heeley scents.

M: Heeley sounds like a sporting event. A posh one. Involving canoes and possibly horses.

E: Ha, yes! It is made by James Heeley, a pretty, fey man who looks like he has escaped from Brideshead revisited.

Definitely horses and canoes. Anyway, he makes these exquisite, weird fragrances, including the tiger balm one (very tiger balmy), a sort of sea salt one , and a really grassy verveine one that smells like your granny’s tisane.

M: Couldn’t you just give yourself a rub down with some crushed leaves or some tapenade?

E: So practical always, M. Yes. I suppose you could. It’s like that, but less… sappy and exfoliating. More importantly, he writes the most florid, bonkers copy about his scent I have ever read. Each one comes with a suggestion of what it should evoke.

So: “Cardinal” gets “an immaculate young priest”.

Cuir Pleine Fleure is “An equestrian abounding in natural grace. Faye Dunaway in Roman Polanski’s ‘Chinatown”

Figuier:  ”Fashion girls out to lunch. Roquette salad and spring water”.

M: I am beginning to think you only brought this whole perfume thing up because you are angling for a gig as a pervy scent copywriter.

E: Or, I think my favourite description, of the St Clements: “Mirte Maas drinking ice lemon tea on the Italian Riviera”.

It’s hard to choose though, I promise they’re all golden.

M: Bored now.

E: Just one last thing. My absolute favourite Heeley scent was called Menthe Fraiche and is the most un-scenty scent ever. It smells JUST like good fresh mint tea.

M: And what does he say about that one.

E: Tragically, M, he says “Patrick Bateman in American Psycho”.

M: HA. How much does this shit cost?

E: I believe it costs in the region of 80 of your British pounds, because James has striped blazers to buy. And croquet sets.

M: And tiny scones.

E: And powerful hallucinatory drugs to buy to write his website copy. But I swear you’d like it, honest.

M: Hmph.

E: There. That wasn’t so bad, was it?

M: It was FUCKING AWFUL. I hated every minute of it and we’re never. DOING IT. AGAIN.

E: But I haven’t even told you about my new imaginary boyfriend Frédéric Malle yet!

M: Go away now.

M: Look at that smug little bastard.. What the fuck is that all about? I tried some on. It was chalky.

E: Chalky is the least of its problems. What, exactly, the fuck, Paul & Joe? Imagine, if you will, the brainstorming session.

“What do women want?” “This research suggests they want wage parity, innovative solutions to work life balance, less objectification of the female form in public discourse, and .. kittens”.

“Kittens! Yes, that’s it! I’m getting an idea!”

M: I do not want to rub a cat all over my lips. Cats would totally scratch your lips. And now there’s a blusher too?!?

E: No right-thinking person wants to rub a cat over their lips. Maybe mad people who buy their cats organic chicken Marks & Spencer mini-fillets. I had a neighbour who did that. She also claimed that her cat, Bambi, “could tell the difference between Tesco and Harrods milk”. I mean, at least make PONY lipstick. Or dugong lipstick.

M: Dugong shaped might be a little, how shall I put it, phallic.

E: God, this lipstick talk reminds me that I heard a discussion on Belgian radio last week about those irritant lip plumpers and I SWEAR to you I did not dream this but the man suggested you could use loft insulation as a cheap alternative.

M: OH MY GOD The fibre glass shit?

E: Yup. I think Belgium has been drinking heavily.

M: Welcome to Belgium, where we nurture a blatant disregard for health and safety. This reminds me how I was assaulted by the Paul & Joe assistant. God, she was pushy. I asked her for something bright and she gave me this thing that was pastel orange. I’m pretty sure I had to back away from her slowly.

E: Where was this? Was this during the extended dream sequence that was your life last year?

M: She had dead eyes. Like a SHARK.

E: See, I really like some of their stuff.

M: Oh? But it’s so flimsy and plasticky!

E: Mainly the makeup bags. I have a great P&J one.

M: I don’t understand your fascination with makeup bags. It’s a bag. You put makeup in it. It gets dirty. The end.

E: But it’s not dirty on the outside. And it might have a pretty pattern!

M: zzzzzzzzzzzz

E: Ok fine, forget I said anything. But mine had swallows or some such shit on. It was GOOD.

M: I am googling Paul and Joe makeup bag. AHEM

VRAIMENT? VRAIMENT???

E: NO NO NO NO. I am going to have to take a pic of it, aren’t I? To PROVE to you that it was not a kitten-topia.

M: I’m going to send you some hello kitty cosmetics, because you’re obviously in denial.

E: It is yellow. with blue birds. They do not have cute faces. They are not in a basket.

M: By birds, do you mean “pussy cats”?

E: No. Big, macho birds with CLAWS. (ok, maybe not claws)

M: Right. Eagles, then.

E: Yeah (no).

M: I am googling “eagle make up bag”. HA:

It’s like the frog purse all over again.

E: HA. Yeah, see, that’s a proper make up bag. It says “mess with my make up, bitch, and I will fuck you up. With my talons”.

M: This is pretty good as well:

E: Ha. I DARE you to touch that gloss.

M: Oh look! You can get a round one too.

“Makeup bag of eurasian eagle owl”. A must have for 2012.

E: Yes. It’s on my wishlist. Anyway, mine was even butcher. I think it had laser eyes.

M: You mean like THIS?

E: “Mascara?” you won’t be needing that with NO EYES”

M: It’s genius. From kittens to bald eagles.

E: It’s the circle of life, in makeup bags. That eagle would take the paul & joe cats in top hats, eviscerate them and line his nest with the shredded hats.

M: And little kitty faces.

E: So soft. So. Despite my love of my kitten, sorry, raptor make up bag, can we consign Paul & Joe to the Facegoop dustbin?

M: I think so, E.