Method and madness: unwanted aspirations

Yes. Had we a lovely time on holidays.  Thanks for asking. But who cares? There’s only one thing Mrs Gin does that’s more bloody annoying than talking about holidays, and that’s talking about dreams. Yuck.  So let’s move on.  Look at my Friday night:

Quite nice huh?  Some aspirational washing up liquid, water, and some pretentious lentils. Ignore the own brand Shreddies: that’s for Mrs Gin.  We eat Icelandic Natural Yogurt mixed with Taste The Difference Honey, although we can not – despite our very best efforts – actually taste the difference.

The washing up liquid is Method.  We looked at the Fairy and at the own brand and at the flavours they offered.  They were so banal, which normally we adore.  The difference between good and best is that the best has a touch of banality about it.  Not threatening.  But this time fancied a change.  Perhaps it is the effect of the holiday.  That awful jungle.  We don’t know.  But we went for Method in the  Clementine edition.

Method are everywhere on the supermarket aisle now.  We have resisted them, although we cannot find the evidence in our search results to prove this.  We recall sneeringly denouncing them as American hippy wankers.  Not something we want to Google.  Anyway, we bought this:

method_washing up_pump_clementine


Googling it now, we see that it costs £3.10, which – very arguably- we would not have paid had we not been overwhelmed by the endorphins we always feel in the cleaning aisle of a supermarket.  Such a wonderful place.

The shape of that bottle says to us  ‘aspiration’.  It says ‘clean house’, ‘good feng shui’ and ‘living alone so you can afford to spend £3.10 on washing up liquid, rather than on yet another bloody PE kit’

So, that was our Friday.

Now Look at our Saturday morning.  On oversleeping, missing Park Run (ha!) and staggering downstairs for hot black coffee, we found this:



(Excuse the quality, the photos were taken on our youngest’s cast off phone, ours having perished in the jungle).

Horrific.  So much for the aspirations that Method projects.  Sitting there sneering on the sill.  It taunted us, unwanted, as we scrubbed, swore, swept, added salt to the dishwasher, unloaded it, loaded it and put the bastard on.  All the while it stood there, aloof and clementine.
Finally, though, whilst Mrs Gin reposed in bed with cucumbers on her eyes, it was finished and we could sit in silence in our clean downstairs, and dream.  Dream the dreams of Method.


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