“I feel”, sang Bono, “That I’m slowly, slowly, slowly slipping under”.
Just wait till you get older. As you get slower, everything else gets faster. You slow down but you don’t slip under. Rather, all the things you managed to keep your neck above conspire. They rise up and drown you. And there’s no slowness about their malevolence.
Ageing is like climbing a hill. It’s slow, slow, slow and then fast. And we are at the fast bit. Days are whizzing by now. Even in these strange times there’s a quality of sameness to them. Perhaps more so than before, even. All the trappings of modern life have stopped and the days unspool indifferent. All blank and uncaring. As if they are a copy of a copy of a copy. Blurred at the edges, maybe. Unmovingly filled with static. (Fuck me that’s a good sentence, it’s a tragedy this blog is unread).
If I am made in God’s image he also is mine.
Indifferent, we blur through the badly copied days. Annoyed, we have to thank an indifferent God for another unwanted gift. One after another. There’s a stack of them lined up. He gives them gracelessly and we thank him bitterly.
We have solidified into acidic silence. Somewhere, deep down down is still a pulse, perhaps. But it’s coated in layer and layer of our sadness, of our memories, our woe.
And, in bitter silence, we walk down the cleaning aisle as we have a thousand times before and yet we spot something new.
Zoflora Lemon Zing.
And everything changes.
Even random memories betray you in the end.
We love lemons. Some indulgent, random memories of them:
-Feeding them to our toddler to see if they were going to grow up sociable or not.
-Getting off a flight from Manchester and landing on a small island in the hot hot sun. Getting off the ferry and walking up a lane seeing lemon trees. Picking one up from where it had fallen, feeling its waxy skin and then stomping on it to see it splatter against our business suit.
-Remembering the above and thinking it meaningful
-Trying to calculate how many baths we could fill with the total of all the G,T and a Slices we’d ever drunk.
-Wishing we’d had the courage to just neck them all at once
-Dancing to Lemon by U2 on E at a house party in London with-stop it stop it stop it – her
Now to that list we have this. Zoflora Lemon Zing. What a zing (thing) it is, too. We love, most of all, it’s understatedness.
Were some hotshot American to be appointed CEO of Reckitt Benckiser, he – and, let’s face it, that’s not sexist – would immediately have countenanced a $1bn advertising campaign for this bad boy (again, nope). Billboards would have been hung in civic places and mediocre sports teams sponsored.
And that $1bn would be recouped in absolute fucking spades. This stuff is incredible. It should be fetishised as much as the iPhone SE, or a face mask, or scandi baking. We’re not avid followers of cleaning, not anymore, but we’d not heard of this until we saw it. We know we should be but we’re not. We’re just too apathetic to give a fuck.
We suppose that’s another failure of ours, to add to the litany. We fucked this blog up like we fucked everything else up. Yet another incantation our brain recites to us when we can’t sleep.
But, you know what, right now we don’t care. We have something new in our life – a smell of memories – and it’s wonderful.
Yours is an essential journey if you head to Tesco to panic buy this stuff. Wait not for online delivery. Go now. Go. Another of our recitals.